Holding Hands
We once held each other's hands, and the fears melted away
This essay was originally edited and published by Sari Botton in her Oldster Magazine on May 12th. This is a revision of that essay with a video added at the end— a compilation of both of our playing of Chopin’s Impromptu No. 3, Op. 51.
This weekend, we remember Mom on the second anniversary of her passing.
Mom, I miss you!
I could hear Mom’s breathing in the cramped room, shallow and raspy; she was recovering from the short walk between the waiting area and the exam room. It hadn’t been a good day for her. There was a time when she could tend the garden and play piano for a couple of hours. Not today. Good days were few and far between now.
A soft knock on the door and a petite young woman in a white coat entered.
“Hello! I am Dr. Kou.” Her voice was soft. “Nǐ jīntiān hǎo ma?” (How are you doing today?)
I expected Dr. Kou to be taller and older, someone projecting more authority and experience.
Mom was diagnosed with Mitral Valve Stenosis 10 years ago when she was 80, and the only effective treatment to repair the defective valve would be open-heart surgery. Mom refused surgery. “I don’t want to be opened up and die on the table!” she insisted. She was adamant about no invasive treatment, no “cutting my chest open,” a decision she later came to regret, especially in recent years, when her heart condition had been steadily deteriorating, taking her quality of life with it.
A few weeks earlier we’d moved Mom to be closer to my son Howie, her only grandson. Today was Mom’s first visit with Dr. Kou. Although she didn’t state it explicitly, I knew Mom was hoping a new doctor might offer a new treatment option for her worsening condition — something her previous doctors hadn’t been able to offer.
“Nǐ hǎo! (Hello!)” Mom was surprised to hear the Chinese greeting; her eyes brightened. Without looking to me for help, as she usually would, she started listing her usual complaints in Chinese: lack of energy, poor appetite, and loss of taste. There was still exhaustion in her voice, but the familiar language seemed to have encouraged her.
Dr. Kou turned to me, her eyes seeking my help. That greeting seemed to be the extent of Chinese she could manage; I proceeded with the translation.
“Okay, let’s have a listen to your heart.” Dr. Kou put on her stethoscope.
Mom took several deep breaths, quietly obeying the doctor’s instructions.
I noticed a pink heart-shaped button clipped to Dr. Kou's stethoscope. In a flash, that image called to mind a different stethoscope, one with a grey fuzzy elephant.
🩶 🩶
That was Dr. Bleicher’s stethoscope. We were in a spacious exam room, its wallpaper printed with animals and glittering stars. Baby Howie lay on the examination table wearing only his diaper.
Mom sat next to me, shifting in her seat. “Why does this doctor have to take off all the clothes?” she whispered to me in Chinese. “He’s going to catch a cold!”
I ignored Mom’s question and concentrated on what was about to happen. The main reason we were here was to get the baby’s first vaccines. Howie was oblivious to what was about to happen, his hand reaching towards the elephant on the stethoscope.
“You are such a sweet and happy baby!” Dr. Bleicher cooed while arranging multiple tiny syringes with tiny needles. Holding down the baby’s legs, Dr. Bleicher delivered a quick jab. Howie’s hand stopped in the air for a second before grabbing the tiny elephant.
“Good job! You have quick and strong hands!” Dr. Bleicher cheered before administering the second shot. Mom and Howie were both startled.
“Look at you, what a brave boy!” Dr. Bleicher tickled Howie’s bare chest, and there went a third shot. It immediately elicited a loud wail. “We are almost done! Just one more.” She delivered the fourth shot before finishing the sentence. Mom jumped off her seat. At that moment, I wasn’t sure who was more upset — Howie or Mom.
“Are you planning on sending Howie to a daycare?” Dr. Bleicher didn’t seem to sense Mom’s disapproval; she smiled at us while applying four Snoopy bandages on Howie’s plump legs.
The wailing continued. Mom picked Howie up without asking, and held his small hands in hers. Cooing softly, she started to put clothes back on him. She was done with this visit, whether the doctor agreed or not.
“Eh, no, my mom is going to take care of him while I finish school,” I explained, returning the smile, hoping to make up for my mom’s apparent dissatisfaction.
Minutes later, as I trailed after Mom in the parking lot, she couldn’t wait to enter the car to announce her opinion. “I don’t like this doctor, and I don’t like how baby care is done here!” Her voice grew louder, “How could she administer so many vaccines to such a small baby in one session?!”
“Shh!” I looked around and made sure no one was paying attention to her outburst. “That’s how things are done here; it’s perfectly normal!”
“Well, it’s barbaric!” she said, putting on her seatbelt after helping me buckle in the car seat. She turned her face to look out of the window, too upset to continue this conversation.
🩶 🩶
“Do you have a care plan in place for your mom?” Dr. Kou’s voice startled me.
“Yes, we do. We have caregivers visiting every day to help with all the chores she can’t do herself.”
“Have you discussed end-of-life care?”
The words hung in the air. Mom’s labored breathing suddenly seemed louder in the small room. I shot her a quick look. She was pressing her fingers on her knee as if to flatten the invisible wrinkles on her trousers. Was she following this conversation? I shifted in my seat, the vinyl floor squeaking under my chair.
“Of course, not now, but for later,” Dr. Kou added, briefly pausing her typing on the computer, and softening her voice.
“She has signed a DNR, if that’s what you mean.” The words came out clipped. I was done for this visit.
Walking out of the small exam room, I was thankful that the doctor’s Chinese vocabulary ended at Nǐ hǎo.
🩶 🩶
We were waiting for the elevator, and I reminded Mom that she still needed to get her blood drawn for her regular anticoagulant blood test before we could go home.
“Again? No, I don’t want to!” she protested, almost pleading. “Last time the nurse had to poke several times before she could find the vein. Look, the bruise is still here!” She pulled up her sleeve, and sure enough, her arm was littered with different sizes and shades of bruises.
I searched for comforting words in vain. “Okay, maybe we will get a more skilled nurse today,” I coaxed.
Hearing my own voice, I suddenly heard Mom saying these words to me, in a crowded urgent care room in Shanghai.
I was not much older than 3 or 4 years. A case of food poisoning from potato sprouts sent our entire family to the emergency room. Mom and I shared the same hospital bed, and the doctor had ordered IV fluids for all of us.
But the veins on my arms were too tiny. After several failed attempts, the nurse was frantically searching for the veins in my leg.
With one of her hands hooked to an IV, Mom held mine with her other hand, and assured me softly, “It’s going to be alright; this nice lady is going to get it done so that your tummy won’t hurt anymore!”
Her body against mine, I watched the nurse finish with the needle — no tears, no wailing.
Five decades had passed, and I was looking at Mom’s frail figure and pleading eyes. Fuck the test! I guided Mom to a bench at the building’s entrance. “We won’t do the blood test today. You rest here; I will get the car.”
On the drive home, Mom’s spirits lifted. She commented about the flowers on the trees and how she wanted to learn my way of steaming eggs. Her breathing was smooth, and her voice was louder. I watched her from the corner of my eye, remembering her confidence when her babies were hurting. I wondered where my opinionated mother had gone.
I returned her chatter with a smile.
🩶 🩶
That was Mom’s last doctor visit.
Six months later, I stood in my Washington study, the San Jose paramedics on the phone.
“There is no pulse, Ma’am,” one of them said.
I told them about the DNR form taped to the refrigerator, right next to the steamed egg recipe I had written for her.
That night, the scene in the car from her last trip to the doctor’s office kept playing back in my mind. Again and again, I wanted to reach out and hold her hand.
Mom, it’s all going to be alright!
When I visited Mom in May of 2024, I was able to make a few short clips of her playing, which was the last time she felt well enough to play her beloved music on her beloved piano.
Mom and I both love the music of Chopin, but this one I had never played before. I learned it to make this video, so that we can play together.
Chopin: Impromptu No. 3 in G Flat Major, Op. 51. (Edited with CapCut.)
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Beautiful, Yi. Thank you!
"I told them about the DNR form taped to the refrigerator, right next to the steamed egg recipe I had written for her." Such a telling detail, with its tension between continuity and finality. A beautiful essay, Yi.