Simple Kindness – Linda’s Story

I saw her every day. Occasionally, we would acknowledge one another; a brief nod, a half smile and a little wave but no real conversation. There was so much I wanted to ask her but, for weeks, I struggled to even find the confidence to approach her and say ‘hello’. Mind you, we both had plenty to occupy our time.

Both of our children had cancer and were long-term residents of the children’s oncology ward at the Queen Mary Hospital, in Hong Kong.

She and her teenage daughter were permanently located in the bed closest to the nurse’s station. Her daughter had a brain tumour and lived in a state of chronic pain. Confined to her bed, she could neither walk nor talk anymore and required constant care. Jacob, my six year-old son, and I were on the other side of the large, sparsely furnished, open-plan ward. Depending on what chemotherapy cycle Jacob was in, we spent a lot of time in isolation, to protect him from infection. Visitors were not allowed and so, as the only English-speaking family in the ward for much of the time, the days and nights were long and lonely.

My limited Cantonese was virtually useless in this environment. Phrases like, ‘too expensive’, ‘drive faster’ and ‘how much does this cost?’ were not very helpful in a hospital ward. If only I had persisted with the Chinese language classes. Regardless, I was determined to reach out and connect with this fellow cancer mum.

I took inspiration from the example of my friend, Karla. One of her gifts is the ability to talk to total strangers as though it was the most natural thing in the world. No one is safe from her big smile and warm hug, as she greets you like a long-lost friend. As I faced another day in the dreary ward, I kept asking myself, ‘What would Karla do’?

So, I put on my biggest smile, walked over, extended my hand and said ‘Jo-san’, which is ‘Hello’ in Cantonese. My handshake was gingerly accepted and my greeting shyly returned. Fortunately, one of the nurses then came to our rescue. In a mixture of English and Cantonese we established the fact that her daughter’s name was Cathy and my son’s name was Jacob. Breakthrough! It wasn’t much but it was something.

Over the course of the next few months, in between cycles of radiation treatment, chemotherapy and the resulting complications of these toxic cocktails, we established a relationship of sorts. Cathy and her mum were often in my thoughts and prayers.

Conversation was near impossible because of the language barrier but we established a routine of waving and smiling that became more meaningful than I imagined possible.

There were no facilities for patient’s families at this hospital. No showers, kitchen or lounge area, just the small space in between beds, large enough for a chair and the camp stretcher that we were permitted to assemble and sleep on, between 10pm and 7am. In the 14 months that Jacob and I were regular residents of the hospital, I rarely saw Cathy’s mum leave her side. Her devotion and love were inspirational.

Sadly, Cathy’s condition continued to deteriorate. There were times when she would be lying in bed, her eyes shut tight in pain but, whenever she saw Jacob and I, her arm would rise up from the bed to say ‘hello’.  I am a big fan of conversation but that wave was more meaningful than any amount of mindless chit-chat. Meanwhile, her mum remained faithfully by her side, sometimes sleeping or knitting but mostly just holding her daughter’s hand.

As Christmas approached, it was a battle to not feel overwhelmed at the thought of spending the festive season in one of the least festive places I could imagine. Jacob was in the middle of a particularly aggressive cycle of chemotherapy and not coping very well. He was lethargic, bloated and constantly nauseous. I was anxious, lonely, tired and feeling sorry for myself on a regular basis.

On a precious day away from the hospital, I had bought Cathy and her mum a Christmas present; a bottle of pink body lotion, some soap and a teddy bear.  I wrapped it up with a big bow and nervously presented it to Cathy and her mum the day before Christmas. You would have thought I had given them a million dollars. Cathy, her mother and the nurses all made quite a fuss of the gift; and of Jacob and I. Conversation was still virtually non-existent but we had taken another step forward in our relationship.

A few days later, Jacob and I were on the other side of the ward, where Jacob was receiving treatment. Cathy’s mum walked over to us and wordlessly thrust a brown paper package into our hands. She looked almost embarrassed as I opened it. Inside was a hand-knitted vest for Jacob.  I burst into tears and hugged her. I think I might have scared her. I stood at least a foot taller than her, I was crying and trying to express my gratitude in a pathetic mix of Chinese and English. The poor woman looked shell-shocked but I was elated. I cannot begin to describe how meaningful that gift was to me.

During the 14 months that Jacob underwent treatment at the hospital, there were days when no-one other than medical personnel spoke a word to us. So much of that time I had presumed that the other families and patients in the ward were not even aware of our presence. The knitted vest showed me otherwise.

When I had felt that no one cared about us, Cathy’s mum had been knitting for Jacob. Even as she sat beside her own desperately ill child, she had been thinking of my child, too.

It is so easy to allow tragedy and hardship to isolate us from others, to narrow our perspective to the point that we are so consumed with our own pain that we don’t see anyone else’s. Cathy’s mum had not allowed that to happen. Her world was very small, her resources very limited but she used what little she did have to communicate value and understanding in a way that impacted me deeply.

Thankfully, Jacob’s treatment was successful and he outgrew the vest a long time ago.  But it remains one of the most precious things I own.

A memento from a cancer battle fought and won but, more importantly, a tangible reminder that true kindness is not bound by language, culture or circumstance.

‘Ah kindness.
What a simple way to tell another struggling soul
That there is love to be found in this world’

A.A Malee

This story is an excerpt from Linda’s book, Keep walking – A Journey of Hope. You can purchase a copy here