I’ve been time travelling in my own head in recent weeks. Why is it so important to do the right thing for me? This follows a busy month with a number of conference presentations which led to a roller-coaster of emotions. The highs of being with like-minded individuals and being accepted by my new tribe. The lows of being iced by some members of my old tribe. A time to reflect on my experience of being ‘the other’. Children do not choose where they are born or to which family they belong to. They have no choice in the matter. The process of conception is close to miraculous, two tiny collections of DNA are joined together and become an unique recipe for a potential human being. Nine months of incubation later and the accident of birth occurs.
I am a child of immigrants and I grew up in a small city in New Zealand. I looked different to everyone else, at home I spoke a different language and ate different food compared to my classmates. Because of these differences, I always felt I was not as Kiwi as they were. We learned exactly the same things at school but our home lives were dissimilar.
When I was seven years old I had heard from my classmates about the tooth fairy. They told me that if your tooth comes out put it in an envelope and place it under your bed. The tooth fairy will take your tooth away and exchange it for money. I thought it would be a good swap as I didn’t need the tooth any more. I popped the tooth into the envelope, and addressed it, “To the Tooth Fairy.” I placed the little package under my bed, stirring up lots of dust which made me sneeze. For the next week, I checked on the little package every day after school. I opened it up expecting to find some cash, but all I could see each time was the same old tooth. After seven times and many sneezy afternoons with itchy eyes, I gave up on the tooth fairy. She was added to my list of fakes along with Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny.
Each afternoon when I arrived home I would have to take my shoes off and put on indoor slippers. I was expected to speak to my parents and brother in Mandarin Chinese. We would always have rice for dinner and it would be Chinese food. My parents had lived in New Zealand for a while by this time but they still did not like the local food. Back in those days if they wanted to eat things like steamed buns they would have to make them from scratch. They learned how to make their own egg noodles and wonton wrappers. Once a year we would all go on a road trip to one of the bigger cities to buy Chinese groceries that were not available in my home town. Pantry staples such as soya sauce, peanut oil, short-grained rice and canned foods. My parents seemed to have different ideas and values compared to my classmates’ parents. They often talked about how different it was for them when they were children. Despite my best efforts I could never be as Chinese as my parents were. I often found myself having to be a bridge between the two worlds.
I ended up growing up in between the local Kiwi culture and my parents’ more traditional Chinese culture. I was constantly reminded about how incompletely I fit into neither culture. At times I felt different and misunderstood by everyone. In between two worlds and searching for a world of my own. Maybe this influenced my career choice. Palliative care operates in the space between the usual healthcare world of saving lives and death. I find myself being the bridge between two healthcare cultures, not fully feeling like I belong in either camp. What’s new?
Things were changing on an almost daily basis. Worsening fatigue led to less activity and more sleep. His appetite was dwindling away as his pains continued to grow. He told us he wanted to go to where he came from. Back to his ancestral homelands. He wanted to revisit where he had grown up. He wanted to see his extended family again. His window of opportunity was closing. If he didn’t go soon he would not be able to. The clock continued to tick away. Time was running out.
No-one knew how the trip up North would go but he was so keen to try. One last road-trip with all of his children. It would be the first time his youngest had ever been away from home. He wanted to introduce his new baby to the rest of the family. To show her where he came from. She probably wouldn’t remember much as she was too young, but everyone else would. “That photo was taken when Dad took you home for the first time.”
We wished him luck as he gathered himself and left the hospice for the weekend.
We knew he would die soon and we asked him if he wanted us to contact anyone. He told us he would like his son to know, but he didn’t have his phone number. By this time he was too unwell and needed help with communication via social media. Our nurses helped him to send a message via his accounts. He died before he received any replies.
As per his wishes, we had arranged for a funeral director to uplift his body as he had wanted a simple cremation. He had limited savings and arrangements had been made with social welfare for a funeral grant to pay for his cremation. Our nurses again checked his social media accounts and found a reply from his son, including a phone number. A phone call was made overseas and was answered by the young man’s foster mother. She was told of our patient’s death, and said that his son wanted to come over to see him, and would arrive in town in three days’ time.
palliverse.com 