your presence is a gift

and attunement is the most precious of all

My dad has been hospitalised for a while now.  On the first day he was admitted, my mom and I spent almost all our waking hours by his bed. With us in the room, he sleeps more soundly. Less fitfully. In the days that follow, we make daily trips down, uncertainty and anxiety stirring in our guts. 

Lately, between my trips to and fro the hospital, all I’ve been thinking about is the idea of ‘presence’. I think about it as watch my dad breathe through the pain. As I watch him lose weight as the days go by. I think about presence when I’m lying beside my mom at night, pondering possible medical explanations for whatever could be happening. I think about it when our arms touch, when I know she is right beside me, and that she is my responsibility. I think about presence when I schedule lunch and dinner around hospital visiting hours. I think about it when I yearn for someone to be present, with me, whilst I cry. 

Presence, at minimum, implies showing up for someone. I think that to be fully present requires a near dissolution of the self. It involves feeling myself merging with something larger, with a delicate bubble that forms around just me and the other person (or persons). A bubble around me and my mom and my dad (and my brother, who is away). I am here with you; I feel your emotions, I try hard to understand them, I do what I can to meet your needs. And because presence can be felt, you notice my showing up; you feel seen and heard, you feel supported. If love is the willingness to extend oneself, presence is perhaps one of the most exquisite and expensive forms of extension.

And so throughout this episode, I imagine that presence can take three forms. The physical, the spiritual, and the combination of both. All three are gifts, with the third being the most precious gift of all. 

the physical

Acts of service is my family’s love language, and showing up in person (physical presence) is the biggest way they express love. My mom visits my dad throughout all visiting hours, like clockwork, her work laptop in tow. She tells me that being there beside him provides morale and comfort, which aids recovery. I try to visit everyday, and we discuss doctor notes, what we’ve learned from Google, and note questions we want to clarify with the doctors during their morning rounds. We’ve become so familiar with medical terms that the doctors wonder if my dad has ever received medical training.

My mom and I bring him soup, herbal tea, magazines, clothes. We play rounds and rounds of Rummikub to relieve my dad’s boredom, with my mom comfortably nestled in the hospital bed beside him while I sit on the bedside chair; my dad now wins every round we play. We take ‘shifts’ when relatives come calling, and I respect the work my dad had put in to nourish his relationships. 

All this is possible because we can be in the same room together. 

the spiritual

Then there is another form that presence takes. The kind where you are together, while physically apart. When loved ones, in the midst of their hectic schedules, text you, call you, check in on you. They are with you — in spirit. It doesn’t matter what they say or how they say it. All you can hear is: “You are not alone. We’re supporting you, even if we can’t physically be there.” And you can feel all of it; all of their love, care and concern. My brother is away, but he calls and texts. My good friend Wai Kit who is working in the same hospital texts to check on my dad’s progress, and avails himself to answer my questions. This presence is of a distant sort, but my family receives the warmth as though it were right next to us. It is a blessing that moves me to tears, and I am reminded of the need to pass it on. 

combining the two: attunement

I believe that when we are at our lowest, we harbour a deep yearning for a third kind of presence: one that combines both the physical and spiritual: attunement. I say that this is most precious form of presence because it involves focused attention and an almost telepathic connection with someone else. It is why we only feel safe enough to fall apart in the arms of a specific loved one. It is why my dad, after hours of sleeplessness, falls into a deep slumber once my mom settles herself by his bedside. In a life filled with busyness and an endless list of tasks that one can be checking off at any one time, this sort of presence is expensive. And we know how elusive attunement can be: you can be physically next to someone but still feel somewhat alone. Or be on an hour-long call with a friend but feel like something is still quite missing.  

This third sort of presence can be hard to sustain. With my dad, there are points where I feel weary and drained from showing up. But not my mom. She stays by my dad’s side, hours on end. Yes, she is his wife — but I imagine that a connection of such a depth can only be effortless when it has been practiced, again and again. And iy is perhaps a lot easier to develop when there is deep love and commitment involved — just like what they share.

And the need for this sort of presence is probably one of the most draining aspects of caregiving: the need to be available and attuned to someone else’s needs for prolonged periods of time. But I try. I hug my mom more often because her other half is not at home. I speak with the doctors on her behalf, asking the questions she doesn’t dare to. And my boyfriend tries too. He buys me cake from Châteraisé and takes time off to accompany me on my hospital visits.

uncertainty and stress

Life is currently a weird limbo. An odd transition phase, an unexpected inflexion point. Amidst it all, I am trying my best to savour my time with my mom as we walk through this bout of uncertainty together. These moments, just the two of us, are precious in their own ways. We lie down on either her bed or mine, discussing notes from the doctor and my dad. We take over dad’s usual chores. We make trips down to the hospital together. In times like this, being present is the gift we both appreciate from each other. The gifts we have received from everybody else — physical, spiritual or a combination of both — they are all precious. And I am grateful. 

personal note:

I haven’t painted since October last year. I painted because I couldn’t do anything else. This piece is for my dad. Watercolour lesson is by The Writing Desk. I also want to thank Wai Kit and Wilbur, my brilliant doctorly friends, for answering my million questions about my dad’s condition. Bless you both!