From his eyes, I could detect the signs of his dilemma, whether or not to talk about his illness. I hoped that he might feel my respect and concern for him and let go of the anxiety and fear deeply buried at the bottom of his heart.

At the prime of his life, when his business was successful, his children had grown up and he was relieved of the burden of raising his family, he happened to find a lump below his left ear. A biopsy showed that he had contracted nasopharyngeal cancer.

More than one year's follow-up treatment did not control the spread of cancer cells. An ultrasonic scan of his abdomen showed that cancer cells had spread to his liver. For several months after the discovery, he was never seen in the waiting room of the clinic. He no longer came to see the doctor, but attempted to use some "secret prescription" to control his illness at home.

"I Want to Live"

Before I entered the ward that day, I scanned the patients' roster as usual and I found his name on the list. Perhaps it was professional sensitivity after years of service which made me feel that his coming to the hospital was a bad omen. I quickened my steps and entered the ward.

What I saw before my eyes was a man with a brown face and white hair sitting on a bed. His head was lowered and his hands caressed his fluid-swollen abdomen. I looked carefully and saw that it was indeed he.

"Miss Lin, is it very serious this time?" he asked, stroking his belly with his hands while his eyes dropped to his feet, swollen with dropsy. "Look at these swollen feet and swollen belly. I can't eat anything. Maybe I'm going to..."

I was taken aback for a few seconds. Was he about to say that he was going to die? This sentence flickered through my mind for a moment, but I didn't say it. The symptoms of jaundice, ascites, dropsy in the lower limbs and loss of appetite all indicated the retrogression of his liver functions.

When I saw him continuing to rub his abdomen, I really didn't know how to answer his question. Experience told me that silence might help me think and at the same time assess his emotional state. I pulled a chair up, sat at his bedside and asked softly, "What did you mean just now?"

He tried to get up, smiling, "Maybe I'll feel better if I take a walk." Barefoot, he walked limply back and forth through the long hall of the ward with both hands pressing his swollen abdomen, as if he were saying to himself." Press a little and see whether the belly might get softer. Press a little and see if the fluid goes away."

Don't Let Eating Be a Burden

Every day, he massaged his swollen feet and abdomen, hoping the fluid might subside. Every day when I stepped into the ward, the first thing he would do was ask me to check whether it had decreased a little.

There were no signs of subsiding and the swollen belly made him lose appetite. Every time I asked him how his appetite was, he would knit his brows and shake his head forcibly. Even a few mouthfuls of soup would make him feel like the soup was stuck in his throat and wouldn't go down to his stomach.

I told him to eat less at each meal, but to eat more often. I told him to freeze fruit juice into ice cubes and hold them in his mouth so as to alleviate the dryness and bitterness in his mouth. His son and I would sit by his bed-side and work out his menu. I tried my best to make him eat a little more. Even if he couldn't eat more, at least eating didn't have to be a burden for him.

Three days' steady contact gradually made him lower his defenses against me. He didn't put on a forced smile to greet me. With cancer cells nibbling at him, his smile changed to a frown. "What will I do if I can't eat?" he sighed. "Such a big belly is not a good sign. Maybe the cancer cells are spreading." His knitted brows revealed his fear and worry. "I may not get well again." "Can I be discharged from the hospital again?" These words revealed his despair and helplessness.

He often asked what the doctor had told his wife the day before. In this way, he hoped to find out his current condition. He needed to be informed about his sickness. Yet he never mentioned the words "cancer" or "death." Between us, we simply referred to "that."

He gradually stopped talking about his illness, but from his eyes I could detect the signs of his dilemma of whether or not to talk about what was really worrying him. I tried to look for a good opportunity to establish trust and a good therapeutic relationship with him. I earnestly tried to build an atmosphere that would not threaten him. I hoped that through this open, personal access, he might feel my respect and concern for him and reduce his anxiety.

Revealing What's Worrying Him

What we talked about were the tidbits of his life or the lives of his family members. I listened to his stories carefully, trying to understand the inner world of his conflict at that time and provide the necessary nursing he needed. Because I clearly knew that his days were numbered, I tentatively asked him what he wanted to do most.

With his hands pressing the comforter, he moved his mouth slightly and said that his son had grown up and could take care of his mother. Then he poured out to me what was buried deep in his heart. He talked about what he would tell his son to do. He said he wanted to go home and go to the familiar spots he used to frequent. He said he would like to live the way he used to live. He began to recall the bits and pieces of his past life.

At this time, I sat by his bedside and listened as he told his life's little stories. I nodded my head to show that I understood what he said. I tried to grasp every notable event he told me and help him to find the meaning of his life.

Essence of Life

He passed away on the morning before his son took his college entrance examinations.

I never answered the question he asked when we first met, "Am I going to...?" Yet, by being with him, listening to him and even teaching him how to eat, I helped him to find an answer that was acceptable to him.

Before his death, he said weakly, "I told my wife that a person would be happy only if he were content with what he had. Now I'm bedridden. Even if I had money, I have nowhere to spend it. What's the use of it?" He finally opened himself up to his family members. This personal view of his also served as the key that unlocked the puzzle buried deep in his heart. Maybe this was what kept him alive without resentment or regret during his last days.