My mother-in-law, Angie, checked into the hospital for her first round of chemo a little over a week before we arrived in early September. When I heard the news, I found myself in a state of despair. We were going to Taiwan to spend time with her, namely for our kids to spend time with her – to store up time and memories should this battle with cancer end in her death. James and I so wanted to simply do life with her and Baba. To cook, eat, and talk together, be quiet together, tell stories and laugh together. When she went into the hospital before we even arrived to begin treatment, we weren’t even sure she would get out at all during our two-month stay in Taiwan. And children were not allowed to visit the cancer unit. It seemed hopeless.
We arrived on Friday, September 10th. The very next day James and I went to the hospital to see Angie. She was at her lowest. I have never seen her so miserable, not wanting to be touched, or even talked to. Her eyes were yellowed and streaked with red vessels. When I held out my arms to her as I leaned over the railing she instead offered to touch my palm with her right index finger, she hurt too badly to even be touched. I could see that she had gone inward, so great was the pain and despair of the treatment at that moment. We stayed only a few minutes and when we left I felt my heart shrivel and die within my chest. And here we were for two months in Taiwan. Two months to come and be so close – yet still be so far away. “Ok, God. This is ridiculous. Why am I even here?” I thought. “We came all this way…for what?” I imagined the whole two months to be this way.
Tim, James’ brother arrived on the 15th, the following Wednesday, and his sister Lois, her husband Frank and their new baby Grace (four and a half months at the time) arrived the following Saturday night. We began to settle in for a two-week reunion that I have come, over the past ten years of being a Cheng, to call “ChengFest” anytime it occurs. This time ChengFest was on location in a foreign country and the guest of honor was still a half hour away and not even able to be hugged.
Every day we saw her after that first Saturday, Angie got a little bit better. Her hair had begun to slowly fall out, but each day she was able to eat a little bit more. When I went for a second visit a week after my first one, she was able to get out of bed unassisted to sit and talk. She was more herself – and my spirits lifted a bit. A few days later she was able to come home to the apartment, welcomed by an anxiously waiting, houseful of Chengs – and ChengFest kicked into high gear – for the Mama of the house had arrived! It seemed miraculous! And indeed it was.
She walked in the door Friday afternoon, September 24th. My two smaller kids were napping, so we had time to sit on the couch and talk. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Here she was, in the apartment I was afraid she would not return to the whole time we were here to see her. Two weeks after we arrived, she sat next to my daughter on the couch and told us a story with a smile on her soft face. It is a story I will keep telling my children, long after she is gone, whether it be sooner or later. It is a love story, a tale of the love of a Father for even the smallest concerns of the heart of His daughter. The story of how He held the moon for her in her window to show her His love.
The Mid-Autumn festival has been celebrated for generations in Chinese culture. It takes place on the 15th day of the eighth moon every year, usually falling sometime between mid September and mid October. It is a harvest festival, celebrating the bounty of the earth: fruits, vegetables and grains. I guess it is sort of akin to our Thanksgiving – minus the Turkey. Two things have become sort of quintessential to the celebration of the full moon: an abundance of pomelos – a soft green, pear shaped, mildly-sweet grapefruity kind of thing, and a sort of little fruit filled cake called moon cakes.
Angie shared that she has always preferred the treat of pomelo to the little cakes. She would choose a tray for fresh fruit over a box of pastries any day. But being in the hospital for treatment for leukemia meant that fresh fruit was not an option this New Moon festival. Moon cakes were in abundance, but the fruit was off limits.
After being in the hospital over a month, she felt more than a little despair as the festival approached and she suffered from a few days of low-grade fever. To a healthy person, this type of fever would not be anything to fret over, but to a leukemia patient, any fever at all can result in serious complications and more than a little pain and discomfort. There was even a moment she lifted her hands in surrender to God and hoped for the misery to end, to be taken home, so great was her suffering. The new moon arrived and her despair deepened. For years as a girl she enjoyed eating her fill of the sweet citrusy pomelo fruit, but this year, the first she had been back in her homeland for over 35 years, she would not enjoy the festival in the way she fondly remembered. Nothing was ‘right’ as it should be. Everything seemed upside down and out of place. She felt a deep sadness and loss. Despair. It was too much.
Early in the afternoon on the 22nd she fell asleep after a round of antibiotics chased by Benadryl to ease the allergic reaction she’d been experiencing. She fell into a deep sleep and slept all through the afternoon and deep into the night. In the darkest part of the night, she awoke suddenly, completly calm and fever free, fully rested and full of peace. Everything seemed to be set right, and she slowly opened her eyes.
There it was. The full moon. She described it as being “like a perfect picture taken for a calendar, even more beautiful than you can imagine. My Father had hung it right in my window, just for me to enjoy.” It was there waiting for her, the full moon on the night of the festival. She might not be able to celebrate with fresh pomelos, but there in the dark of Chang Gung Memorial Hospital in Taipei Taiwan, she felt very special, very much seen and cherished by God, her Father. He had delivered the moon to her and woken her up in the darkness of night to enjoy it with her. She felt rested and full – just like the moon. Her faith renewed, she sat it in the silence of the dark hospital room and watched it rise and descend from one corner of her window to the opposite one. As the last sliver of the big alabaster moon disappeared from view she settled back into a peaceful sleep and woke up to a new day. A festival day. She had been bathed in the bright glow of her Father’s care and she was peaceful and hopeful again. And there she was, four days later, sitting on the couch, and telling me with a brightly lit face of the moon, hung for her that night, that gave her hope and left no doubt in her mind that she was indeed seen, loved, and cared for by God.
Yesterday, after one full month of living here at home with us, Angie went back into the hospital. One month of waking up knowing she was upstairs, and spending most days watching her watch my children. A month of hearing her laugh at the antics of my kids, seeing her snicker into her sleeve in silent admiration of their willful disobedience and marvel at their quirky individuality. A month of enjoying her cooking – the way she has always shown love – and sitting near her on the couch. I have been her SheeFu for a decade now, but in this time we have had together here in Taipei, I think we have truly become friends. We have laughed at the similarities of our husbands, father and son, and enjoyed knowing we share common struggles, a generation apart, yet the same day-to-day issues. I know her more. I love her more. We have had four weeks of simple living: sleeping, cooking, eating, laundry and cleaning. But all those simple things have been done under the same roof. It has been a gift.
Each day we woke up wondering if it would be the last she had at home with us. It turns out that yesterday was the last one from which I would wake up with her upstairs. When she received the phone call from the hospital, her forehead wrinkled with concern because the bed that had come open was one in a three-person room – the only thing she had hoped would not happen. We had prayed for a private room or at most a two-person room, but the three-person room seemed too much to bear during the next round of treatment. As the morning went on I saw her tension mount and a few phone calls were made to see if anything could be re-arranged. Nothing could change the assignment and it was either go in that day or lose her spot and go to the bottom of the list. I saw her submit as we did the lunch dishes together. “Besides,” she said as she rinsed a dish, “If God hung the moon for me in my hospital room window, how can I doubt His care for me?” Her tension melted as the soap washed down the drain and it was settled. She was going in. Submitting herself again into the trust of a Father whose eyes had never left her, she packed up and went in for the next round of treatment.
After all, He had held the moon.
