Mama loves to shop. What used to annoy me now brings me joy, as I’ve learned to nurture our relationship by appreciating what lights her up. Our closeness was forged in the volatile years when my cancer dominated our lives — years that taught us both to drop our armour and revealed the gift of holding each other in our vulnerability.
I finally feel that the gap between us is nearly closed — the gap that perhaps began the day I was cut out of her belly and taken away. The gap that widened during the three long days it took to return to the familiar sound of her heartbeat.
I used to yearn for her to hold me in a way that made me feel loved — not through the gifts she showered on me, but through presence. For a long time, love felt disguised in things. But now I know better. I understand that her love was always there, potent in its truth no matter how it was given.
I was happy to be on an outing in the next town over, where we planned to have lunch and visit Canadian Tire — a store that would satiate most of her shopping needs. Knowing her particular taste for good food, I chose a Thai restaurant that I knew would meet her high standards, hoping to nourish her well before setting her free in the aisles of that giant store.
She hadn’t had an episode of her debilitating stomach issue in months — the kind of attack that would double her over in pain and cold sweat. They were frightening to witness. Every time Da and I tried to convince her to get it checked out, she recovered soon after and brushed it off. Deep down, I knew something serious was going on. But I also knew I couldn’t force her to look inside — not when I was well aware of the scanxiety that comes with medical screenings.
I convinced myself the homemade probiotic yogurt I’d been making for her had healed her. Every week, I’d buy organic half-and-half, carefully heat it to pasteurize, then combine Lactobacillus reuteri and Lactobacillus casei Shirota — probiotic strains known for supporting gut health and promoting restful sleep. I fermented the mixture for thirty-six hours in the SousVide I’d invested in to make our medicine. Because of the heavy use of antibiotics I’d taken over time to treat chronic infections from my ulcerating tumor, I’d become susceptible to colitis. I was determined to heal my gut — which I did — and I truly thought Mama’s had healed too… until she ate that spring roll.
She took two bites and gave me that unmistakable “uh-oh” look, instinctively clutching her gut. A wave of foreboding settled into my own stomach. Not here, not now, I thought. Our red curry was still on its way, but even as I tried to distract her with conversation, we both knew it wouldn’t be wise to fuel more heat into her already-agitated system. I took a few bites and asked to have it packed to go while Mama visited the washroom for the second time.
“Maybe we should just go home,” I suggested.
“No, I’m fine,” she said, slowly getting to her feet.
The best medicine was only a few blocks away, where she could tick off everything on her shopping list. Torn between my fear and my better judgment, I decided to let her lead, trusting she knew what was best for her.
She leaned heavily on the shopping cart, pausing and wincing between aisles. Breathing through her pain, she still managed to find the best deals for what she was after. I was impressed, but I still feared that if she escalated to the level I’d witnessed before, we’d be in serious trouble. I rubbed the small of her back, feeling the heat radiating through her shirt, beads of sweat collecting at her brow.
We still had to pick up my car from the detailers yet another town over, which meant we wouldn’t be home for at least a couple more hours — including the stop we had planned at our favourite discount grocery store. She was adamant we stick to the plan, even as it became clear the digestive meds from the drugstore had done absolutely nothing.
Our ride home was cloaked in her quiet endurance, punctuated by sharp breaths over the bumpy roads. Da was already deep into teaching a four-hour seminar online by the time I got her home. I still had the morphine I’d relied on to manage my acute pain for so long, and we’d used this strategy before — a small dose had taken the edge off, and she’d usually be fine by the next day. I practically had to carry her to bed. After setting her up with a heating pad, I gave her the opiate. Let’s wait and see was our family’s go-to plan, always reluctant to face the ordeal of going to emergency.
I’d just settled back at home when my phone rang — Mama on the other end, asking if she could take another pill. Without hesitation, I got back into my car and drove the short distance to her house. I could hear Da’s voice, still presenting in Japanese, coming from the basement. He couldn’t have known that his wife was upstairs, grimacing against the pain that was stealing her breath away. The moment I saw her — her hair plastered to her sweaty, pale, crumpled face — I made the decision. “I’m taking you to emergency, now,” I said, switching to Japanese so she would really hear me. She did not have the strength to argue.
I’m convinced that angels were watching over us, especially after what Mama shared with me a few days later, following her emergency open surgery. Had I not taken her in that moment, had she not been seen quickly in the ER, had I not pushed for a CT scan so adamantly, we may have lost her. She had ruptured her intestinal lining due to an infection that even a strong dose of IV antibiotics couldn’t tame. A severe case of diverticulitis had her ambulanced to a bigger hospital where a surgeon was waiting to assess her.
The connection between thought, feeling, and experience became painfully clear as I battled my fear, clinging to the lessons I’d learned throughout my own healing journey. What was supposed to be a two-hour surgery was now stretching into four. What had the surgeon found once he opened her up? How bad was it? Could she die? My belief in the worst-case scenario truly tested my faith in what cannot be taken away.
I finally got the call I’d been waiting for.
“She’s out. She’s okay,” Da said.
“I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” I replied with a huge exhale.
The surgeon had told Da she could have died without the emergency operation. He’d removed a large section of her badly perforated sigmoid colon and attached a temporary ostomy bag. A long line of bulky staples was etched down her belly where the incision had been made.
When I saw her the next day, I knew — both in what I felt and what I saw — that she had touched something otherworldly.
“There are angels everywhere, Maasa,” she said.
“What? You can see them?” I asked.
“Yes. I can’t see their faces, but they’re like flowing, transparent curtains — and there are so many of them. They’re rushing to help the nurses, helping the people here.”
Her eyes glassed over with emotion as she spoke. “One of them came to me and whispered in my ear.”
She couldn’t understand what was said, but she was completely assured that everything — no matter what — would be okay. And then, she told me, Jichan and Bachan — her parents who had long since passed — came to let her know that there is nothing to fear on the other side. That they are all there — the ones who passed.
I’ve rarely seen my mother cry, but these were tears I recognized — the same kind I’d shed when I felt closest to God during my own brush with death. Goosebumps rose on my arms; I knew she was telling the truth.
“I also saw you with the angels,” she said. “But you weren’t transparent. You walked right by my room, looking for me, and I kept calling out to you.”
I hadn’t been to that hospital until then, but she accurately described the hat I’d worn the day before. I believe prayer can override the laws of the physical world. Somehow, as I clung to faith that my prayers were being heard, I had found my way to be close to Mama.
“Then the strangest thing happened,” she continued. “I found myself hanging upside down… among smoked kippers. And I was completely at peace.”
“Kippers? Like herring?” I asked, puzzled.
I didn’t connect the dots — until Da did. His father had spent much of his life working in a kipper smokehouse in Scotland. Mama felt his presence watching over her in that very place, as if he had come to reassure her himself — confirming what she’d already been told: there is nothing to fear beyond this life.
After a week in the hospital, Mama came home. She’d lost her voice from the tube that had helped her breathe during the long hours of surgery. It feels like she still has one foot in the world where angels abide. Something has shifted in her — a quiet certainty born of what she experienced, which only deepens the ground where I’ve placed my own faith.
LESSON: “God’s angels hover near and all about. His Love surrounds you, and of this be sure; that I will never leave you comfortless.”- Complete and Annotated Edition (CE) of A Course in Miracles.
LESSONS FROM MY LUMP 