My Mum

My mum is 59 years old; as I child (and even today) my impression of my mother was that she is an idealistic dreamer. She's the sort of person who if she won the lottery would give every penny of it away to charity. Admirable, yes. But not too practical, considering that she lives in rented property, and will be living off her pension from March next year when she turns 60.

Yesterday I went to see my mother sing with her chorus group at their annual concert. The average age of the group is around 65; she is one of the youngest there, but besides being younger than all the others in her group, my mother is different from everyone: she has only one lung.

My mother, a non-smoker, was afflicted with lung cancer nearly 6 years ago. After a routine chest X-ray the doctors found a shadow. In her usually dreamy style she chose to ignore this warning, believing that if she wished it away it will disappear. But it didn't. The following year the shadow had grown to an inch in diametre; it was time that my brother and I dragged her back to reality, and nagged her to go for further tests. She was lucky to have been referred to a good hospital where they used an endoscope to remove the cancer, which was in Phase II by that time.

She lost her left lung to cancer.

Following her operation she was admitted time and time for pneumonia, or other respiratory infections. She was supposed to undergo chemotherapy after the operation, but was not physically strong enough to make it. The doctors found that some of the cancer cells had moved to her lymphatic system, and told us the chances of her surviving the next 5 years was 50%.

She was always out of breath doing simple things like standing up to go to the bathroom, or doing housework, but as the months went by my mother was fighting her battles and was winning: she walked, albeit slowly, every day, she climbed stairs instead of taking the escalator, and she decided to take up, once again, her childhood passion of singing.

She joined the chorus group nearly 3 years ago and would attend practices every wednesday evening after work. But mum always found that she could not project her voice like everyone else, for she only had one lung. She would sit alone at home working on her voice training, but to no success.

Two weeks ago she confided in me: I can't project my voice, because I only have one lung. I can't sing like everyone else. Even the conductor, although he doesn't voice it, knows that I am struggling. I am strengthening my stomach muscles but I can't keep a note steady. It always sounds like a vibrato, and my voice just trails. I don't want to be a burden on the group anymore. I think this may be my last concert....

Mum? Where are you singing from? She pointed to her lower abdomen, just below the belly button. I then realised that no one had really explained to her how to sing; I play the flute and I also sing. You sing from your diaphram not your lower abdomen. I told mum to put her hand on the region below the ribs and sing a note with me.

Laaaaaaaah.

And there it was. For the first time since her operation she was able to sing as she wanted to. As she imagined to.

Yesterday I went to see my mother sing, but for the first time I saw her not as a dreamy woman, but a courageous warrior. A warrior who stood with pride amongst "able bodied" people, singing her last lung out, and projecting a voice more powerful than the cry of a lone wolf on the prairie.

Yesterday, dear readers, I heard my mother sing. I hope I get to hear her sing next year, and the year after, and the year after that....


(Post script: unfortunately we were not allowed to take photos of the concert, otherwise I would have introduced you to the wonderful lady who gave me the breath of life. Okasan, arigato. Oh, and don't forget to come out of your fantasy land today. We need to get more apples, we are running out.)