On skilled hands, a face can say a lot. In moments of illness, my mom's face managed to say even more.

It's 中秋 and 20th September was mom's birthday. Time to unveil the outcome of this project.

I think the timing of this story was around December 2018 to January 2019. By June 2018, the fog of dementia had fully descended. Over the months she got in and out of hospital multiple times. Now she's in a nursing home with a highly distinctive smell.

At this point she was mentally hardly a two year-old. She refused all food intake; nutrient formula was forced fed via the nose. Her body had been slowly surrendering for some time.

During certain time of the day, geriatric clients were out by the porch forming in a line of wheelchairs. On this particular day, I visited at right when mom was out here. She was being fed by thick-bearded Pakistani man-nurse. She refused his service with a sense of disgust.

As I drove into the compound to park my car, mom saw me. That she recognized me being within a car is remarkable. I wonder it was me she thought she saw or my father. Her facial expression at that very moment was a complex mixture of emotions that I don't have the words for.

This image is my attempt at re-creation. It's not picture-accurate, but close enough in spirit to capture what's potentially in her mind.

Mom's reaction when saw me (click to see)

Her cry at that point would remind you of a child who found her parent after being kidnapped. That pleasant surprise was quickly followed up by the plea to escape this sense of horror and dread. Such expression of horror was a frequent feature when hospital nurses were trying help her, sometimes accompanied by intense screams.

When I got to her from the car, she continued crying. I can't be sure if she's crying because she missed me (and dad), or that she felt trapped in so many ways.

By her side, she hold my hand, the cry shifted mode. I imagine her saying "I'm taking this very very hard," but short of saying "please take me out."

In her demented mind, it looked as if mom's cries (in and out of bed) was about pain. It's impossible to tell if it's real or imagined. Maybe it does not matter, pains are subjective by definition. Imagined ones are no lesser than real pain, perhaps more so.

Dad was severely depressed from this whole business. I doubt people could detect it from his face. I myself could hardly take this, let alone him. Dad could hardly visit her once a week. That's how intense the visuals were.

I visited her every other day, each time no more than one hour. Each time I thought "when does this end?" In moments of wishing for the sense of control, I contemplated suggesting dad to let her go. I didn't have the heart to.

Of the many unspoken elements in this process, guilt was a big part of it. Guilt for letting mom suffer, guilt for not taking care of her myself, for thinking about ending it for her myself, for unfulfilled wishes.

A distorted notion is that perhaps this infinite game is about taking on these guilts. To shed all guilt is to put an end to the game. To continue playing them means to carry the guilts gracefully.