Hello everyone,
My mom Anne Chan passed away in her sleep yesterday morning at around 9am, Friday March 20th 2009 in St Paul's Hospital. I don't have much to say. I don't feel much right now. Life gets tough. I have to be tougher. It's all in the head...
I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who showed their support, whether it be verbally, physically, or spiritually. Losing someone is always hard, but having your closest friends around you really does help quite a bit.
Please visit
http://www.xanga.com/answertocancer and click the "support" button and consider making a donation to let me know you're there.
I did the 60km breast cancer walk "The Weekend to End Breast Cancer" in August 2007 in honour of my mom. She even visited me part way with my dog, Kirbie. Back then, she was able to walk. It all happened so suddenly. I did not do it in 2008 because I was mentally out of energy, but this year I am doing it again. The only difference is that I'm doing it in memory of her. I want to break the $10,000 mark in one year. So far, I have raised over $12,000 with the two years put together. I have a lot of supportive friends, especially in the dragonboat community. Now is your chance to give back, whether you know me as an aquaintance, best friend, a coach, a fellow paddler, sister, niece, daughter, or student. None of this money goes to myself or my family. It goes to the BC Cancer foundation who use it not only in research but also to help fund care for breast cancer patients. My mom would not have gone so peacefully if it weren't for donations like these. I'd be forever thankful to see your name on that list.
It is just over a week before my birthday; no.. she was not able to see me turn 21. But she'll always be watching my races no matter what - that I know. And for the rest of my life I will try harder every day, for her.
Thanks again for your time.
Kind regards,
manda
ps: As a favour, if you are unable to donate at this time, please consider wearing the color pink for me on my birthday March 29th, especially if you're paddling. The more pink I see, the happier I will be that people silently know what happened.
From a facebook note I wrote two days before she passed away:
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I never in my life thought I'd pray to have someone stay alive to watch me turn 21.
It's so close yet so far. Every day is so scary... you become so afraid of every phone call because you don't want to hear the bad news that may come out. You don't want to go to school because it's too far away from the hospital that you might not get there in time. You are powerless to do anything further from simply daydreaming and reminiscing about the past.
She is always sleeping now. She last spoke coherant words over 24 hours ago. It was "thank you"; I'm not sure if she thanked me for coming to see her, or if she thanked me for bringing her pink crocheted pig I made for her last year. I stayed there for five hours last night alone with her. I stayed another 5 hours today. I look like I've been punched in the face a few times. Then I lost my sunglasses, so now I'm forced to look like a molested child out in public.
I need to get back on the water. I need to forget about all this.
To think one week ago, my mom and I had our last real conversation ever. It lasted about an hour. Longer than most of our conversations put together. It was about me. School. Work. Dragonboat. Passions. My future. The one I love. She accepted everything. She said everything was alright. She liked it how it was. She was satisfied by what I had done with my life thus far, even though she won't see me become a woman. She won't see me grow up to do something greater, or go somewhere further. I cherish that conversation now and it keeps running through my head. I have no regrets on what I said that day. I wish I recorded it, if only I knew it was our last one.
She's not gone. She never will be. But physically, the doctors say it could take anywhere from a few hours to a few days. Who knows - I don't, and she doesn't... but she seems comfortable. She knows we are there all the time to tell her we love her. She doesn't say anything but I know she knows her oldest daughter held her hand for the first time in 17 years. I know I did it too.
I told her that if she gets better she can be there for one last Alcan race. She's recorded every one of my Alcan races since I was 15. She would skytrain there by herself and look at all the kiosks and try to find me amongst the crowd. And every single time she managed to - if she found someone who looked vaguely familiar she'd ask them where I am and they wouldn't know so she'd keep trying. Eventually she'd find me and tell me she'd be watching, so I'd better try hard.
She'd stand there proudly at the docks and wave to me and I'd be so embarassed in grade 10, so I'd shyly raise my hand a bit and whisper to my seatmate, "that's my mom". But by 2006 I was coaching - she was so proud of me that she made me proud of myself too. I'd tell my entire team to do a "paddles up" or a big wave and I remember shouting, "Banana Fusion. I present to you my mother!"
She would sneak into the Racer's Village without a pass and somehow manage to slide through over 200 teams to find my tent. Then she'd wait patiently after every race until my team came back so she can film everyone. She would make sure they "wave to the camera!" and then go back out to the kiosks to win more prizes. In 2008 we were scheduled right after the Breast Cancer race and I was so filled with emotion at the disease, I remember practically screaming "if they can get on a boat and race their hearts out, you can too" and we laid down our best time that very race. I can't believe so many women had to go through this. Not all make it out to be strong enough to dragonboat. Now, I breathe a little sigh of relief when my mom coughs, because other than that she is so very still.
My mom won't be able to make it to Alcan this year, or the next. She won't be able to see how far I've gotten in my career as a coach or how proud I am to be with Banana Fusion and False Creek. So for the first dragonboat race until the last one before I die, I will dedicate every single race... every single stroke, every single drumbeat to my mom.
She was there for me back then. and she will be for the rest of my life. She'll always be watching my races, just this time without that funky camcorder. She won't be browsing the kiosks or taking photos of herself by a poster of the Great Wall of China (because she always wanted to go there but we could never afford it) even though she thought it was fascinating how realistic that poster was. She won't be there to make my whole boat wave at her as we loaded on. She won't be there to proudly take photos of me while I straddled my drummer's seat and she won't be there to congratulate me even if we come in last place. But after this is all over, she'll be on the boat beside me. She'll give me the extra push when I'm paddling and that extra bit of ferocity as a caller.
I love you and I'm so sorry things had to turn out this way. I wish I had spent more time getting to know you, but I have no regrets because things turn out this way for a reason. At least I never lied to you about who I am, and you never hid from me about what you had. I was the little thing that came out of you 21 years ago and you're the big squishy thing smiling at me and waving right before I pick up my paddle and get on the boat. And you're the one calling my name and my team's name until we push through the finish line.
From now on, every race is dedicated to you.
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