The Lesson Before I Quit Chapter 2

He no longer bothered to maintain the pleasant conversation between us. Like my mother, she was deaf and looked at me with a shy and innocent look - this was his new look after getting old - and listened to me shouting to him. Two times this summer and autumn, I saw him half a bowl of soup and barely a few mouthfuls of rice, so he lit up a cigarette and watched us eat it. The table full of Jiangnan dishes was cooked by Master Shen from this town. After the meal, just after seven o'clock, the husband said softly but decisively: "Okay, go up and sleep." This had never happened before. On the phone call back to Beijing, after explaining the trivial matters, he said quietly: "The oil has run out and the lamp has dried up. All I can think about now is death." I was silent, not knowing what to say. I have long been used to hearing Michael Mu talk about death: other people’s, or one’s own. He only did not go to the hospital, nor did he talk about illness or treatment.

He caught cold, had stomach cramps, stumbled and fell, but he wouldn't let me know about it in New York. You have to get through it yourself and talk about it calmly afterwards. When I visited him in 2003, he was seriously ill and couldn't talk for a long time, so he went back to the bedroom and lay down and curled up. I went in to see him, and he asked me to go away. I know Michael Mu’s temper. Now, Dylan and Oliver also know that their husband always closes the door to take care of himself every day. If he feels any discomfort or inconvenience, he locks the door.

In this way, until the end of October Chunyang called: "Mr. is hospitalized."

How do you feel when you are old and have no children, and are getting old and sick? What was Wan Sheng's mood like when he heard that his elders were in danger? Michael Mu is not my father. If my parents were critically ill, I would drop everything and rush there as soon as possible. Does the difference only depend on this level? When Mr. Chunyang Cuisine was admitted to the hospital, I thought it was time for me to rush there. Everything in Beijing cannot go away, which can be the reason. When Chunyang said that my husband had gone home and he was fine---the re-examination data was indeed good---I sat down. At that time, I was planning a joint exhibition with two old friends, and I was working on a picture book to accompany the exhibition every day.

Dylan and Oliver have taken good care of their husband's daily life for several years, but they don't know how to deal with a sudden crisis, and neither do I. Michael Mu is over eighty years old. At the beginning of the month, he returned from Tongxiang Hospital. After arriving in Wuzhen, within a few days, my husband fell asleep all day long and rarely ate. On November 89, Dylan called: "Sir, you are talking nonsense, what should I do?" Xiang Hong immediately sent a doctor to check: the lung infection caused brain hypoxia, organ function may fail at any time, and he must be hospitalized for rescue.

This is a common symptom among elderly people after winter. The difficulty was how to persuade Michael Mu to return to Tongxiang Hospital---Mr. never sought medical treatment, so it was a miracle that Chunyang could lead him there---Twice Dylan handed the phone to Mr. , he could no longer speak a single sentence. "My life is at stake, sir!" I shouted, and there was a slight murmur on the other side of the phone... Finally, I don't remember how my husband agreed, or in other words, gave in, and he was admitted to the hospital again. When asked about Dylan after the funeral, he said that when his husband went downstairs to wait for the bus, he was still smoking. Anyway, Michael Mu left Wuzhen again and locked the bedroom door. Outside the bedroom is the living room on the second floor with a fireplace, which was decorated as his mourning hall more than a month later.

It was November 15th. On the afternoon of the 16th, I arrived in Tongxiang.

"Where are the pirates..." he asked seriously. It's over. My husband and I talked and joked about it for twenty-nine years, and now he has passed away forever, and he has become an old man who talks nonsense.

The new hospitals are all similar, clean and ruthless---New York's public hospitals were built roughly before and after World War II. They are well-managed, but the facilities and area are not as good as here---most of the wards on the twelfth floor are vacant. Well, if we were in Beijing and Shanghai, it would be overcrowded. The hospital had already taken care of Xiang Hong and attached great importance to it. He was placed in a single ward. I saw with my own eyes the chaos of local villagers seeking medical treatment and hospitalization downstairs. Xiang Hong said that he could also be sent directly to Shanghai Huadong Hospital, but because of his availability, he would have to be squeezed into a ward of five people to a room. Now in the private room were two young men who were inseparable from each other - black hair on the temples and shaved green beards. They looked too young next to the old man - and an aunt. The town's vice president, Xiao Fu, visits me at any time and delivers warm dishes and porridge on time every day... All these things that my hometown can do should be reassuring.

The gentleman had no idea that he was holding the hanging needle, and he looked up and murmured:

I can imagine it...but I can't name it...unknown...who gets to decide how to do this...comedy, but hurtful People's hearts...this is wrong...either, buy a chicken for the two of us to cook and eat at night...and buy some winter bamboo shoots...

The memory of imprisonment during the "Cultural Revolution" has apparently awakened. What was he thinking about? Mr. sleeps most of the time. When I woke up, the head of the bed was shaken up. My husband didn't seem to know that he had slept before. When he was being held upright by several hands around him, he looked at me with his eyes and continued talking. He seemed to recognize me. The day after I arrived, I took out a notebook to record his nonsense, and suddenly felt like I had something to do. When he got tired of talking and closed his eyes and was about to fall asleep, I quickly drew him - he didn't like his old appearance and never allowed me to draw - - raised his head sharply, and he opened his eyes again, His eyes moved, and he obviously had some thoughts:

...Thinking about the value of those poems, I feel very happy...Thinking about it again, I am still a child...those poems and short sentences are for fun with everyone. (His hands slowly danced, tangling with the IV tube, but were quickly stopped by the nurse)...Christian. It was only later that we here learned about the teachings of Christ... (Suddenly he hummed a Bach melody. He lost strength and stopped, looking at me blankly.)

The husband murmured, not knowing that I was recording or stroking his head.

When he was tired from talking and fell asleep, Dylan came over at any time to tuck his husband into bed.

Mr. Delirium. I was shocked at first, but now I am happy: the old man who has been declining and silent in recent years has disappeared, or in other words, has come to life on the hospital bed. He is the Michael Mu who joked and talked to me earlier, and his shrewdness has been removed. rationality, no longer weighing every word or sentence. The next five or six days seemed long and stagnant, an isolated time in my busy life. In addition to going back to Wuzhen to rest at night - the Xizha Scenic Area is full of tourists with the sound of oars and lights - as soon as I arrive at the hospital during the day and enter the ward, I enthusiastically continue his conversation that is sometimes hindered by phlegm and cough. In the meantime, I quickly learned to use the lift switch on the side of the bed, quickly changed the wet cotton pants with the two boys (Michael Mu had already teased me about this old incontinence), or put up the movable small table. , coaxing him to drink water and eat, and saw that a person's lips can be so weak that it is difficult to suck clean water.

He became more and more compliant, allowing the needle to be removed, the sling bottle to be changed, being carefully lifted up, put down, turned over, or violently removed from the bed, put into a wheelchair, and carried out periodic inspections on the second floor, and then ceremoniously pushed Returning to the room --- Xiaoban probably lost his last strength due to delirium. All he had left was thoughts and words. In the intermittent sentences, at a certain moment, his eyes flickered as before, knowing that he could say the right thing. Sentences, from my gaze, seek confirmation. I like this strange and precious moment more and more: I don't have to pretend to be respectful, no longer worry about being rejected, I can draw him at any time, touch his head, and occasionally yell at him to stop pulling on the IV tube. He raised his chin and Dylan shaved him, obediently cooperated with the towel wiping, in short, he really became a child.

Something magical. Before my husband was admitted to hospital, someone happened to forward a photo of Michael Mu that he accidentally discovered in Shanghai. It was taken in 1946. He was only nineteen years old. He was standing at an angle, wearing a student uniform and a pair of white gloves. He was flanked by two people in robes. man.

The first time it was shown to him, he couldn't recognize it at all and looked away. When I tried again the next day, he looked up at me pitifully, with a troubled look on his face, then looked down again, and finally muttered: "Hey!... It's me! I'm so proud!"

In 1946, Michael Mu held his first solo painting exhibition in Hangzhou at the age of nineteen. This was his only solo exhibition before leaving mainland China. The exhibits have been lost long ago. I guess he has not seen this photo of himself for at least fifty years.

Suddenly, Michael Mu twisted his head and cried.

I hate to describe this moment. It was the first time he was in front of me and he burst into mourning. Over the years, I only remember that he had two or three subtle choking moments: talking about Ji Kang and Shan Juyuan in the Wei and Jin Dynasties, and talking about Tolstoy. He ran away, talking about his little sister who died in infancy--who has never seen his youthful appearance in the past half century? ...In a flash, he smiled like a child, not at all ashamed of his gaffe. Looking at the photo again, he faintly talked about the situation back then: "Everyone liked me... That was my first time." It’s my first solo exhibition..." Then he watched it again, cried again, and immediately shed his tears. He looked at us innocently and absently, obviously having some other thoughts, and then fell asleep on his back.

Another gift was Lin Bing’s art museum design draft. "A bridge?" The husband looked at me begging for mercy, knowing that he was confused. "Art museum! Your art museum!" I yelled at him.

oh. Wind, water, a bridge.

This is how the Zhejiang dialect calls "bridge" "Yiding". He's crazy, I thought, waiting for him to suddenly ponder. Gradually, Mr. looked towards the ceiling and said in a calm tone:

It can drive people crazy... It's nice to fall on the bed like this, dead.

I'm not sure if he finally confirmed that this was his gallery: the last thing on his mind. "Sir! When the museum opens next year, I will push you there in my wheelchair!" I lied to him loudly. What I was concentrating on and almost enjoying was that he was confused: If in the early days, my husband was extremely arbitrary, but when I met the designer face to face in July, he had given up his lifelong shrewdness: "Go and get it... It's done, it scared me."

Ward 11. An empty corridor. Is there any hope for a cure? If not, how long will Sir have left? "How long" is an unspeakable word. On the 19th, Michael Mu reader Fan Xiaochun invited three middle-aged doctors from Shanghai to consult, each specializing in cardiology, respiratory and neurological departments. It was a cold afternoon in the south of the Yangtze River. They entered the ward and took turns examining each other, refusing to take any money. After the matter was over, I gathered with the doctors of our hospital in the large room facing the north and stated in detail: The key is the congestion of the left lung, and instruments must be used to suck out the accumulated phlegm. During this period, if there is any abnormality in the heart, spleen, kidneys and liver, there will be no cure--- how long? Of course, a large number of cases can be cited. Some say it is three months, and some say it may be half a year. All words avoid death and, at the same time, point to the end.

It is difficult for Michael Mu to survive this winter. Watching him grow from strong to old, old to weak, weak to decline, I understood that this was his last time. But, how long will it take?

Several times, his eyes looked hopeless: "Go back...send me home." But his expression was no longer eager and stubborn, or even serious, and he started talking other nonsense. The last time he was admitted to the hospital, Chunyang said that he was still conscious when he went home noisily and still had an irresistible will. We always obeyed him, and now I could only look at the doctor's mouth with dubious hope. They pondered one after another, skillfully and fairly explaining the terms that I didn't understand.

...There is a rosy fire beneath the earth...Reading my poem...Messiah...I'm done...I'm going to kneel It's going down... I can't do it, I can't do it... If this continues, I will give in...

When I tiptoed out of the ward, I was used to seeing this bed. All kinds of things that have been scheduled are waiting for me: the 21st is the Guilin celebration of Guangxi Normal University Press, I will go back to Beijing to arrange our exhibition on the 22nd, and launch it on the 25th. After that, I will give lectures for two consecutive days. Among the young people, the dying teacher and the ward appeared. I talked to Xiao Dai and Xiao Yang on the phone every day. At the end of the month, the hospital used a bronchoscope to suction sputum on my husband. It was a minor surgery that was almost painless. It is said that my husband obeyed the whole process and it worked. I felt a slight and self-deceptive sense of relief in my heart, thinking about how long it would take and what would happen, it didn’t seem particularly heavy, but the days became serious, and the core of the seriousness was in Tongxiang.

I went to Tongxiang again on the 29th and stayed for three days. During this period, Xiang Hong and I experienced a difficult story: My husband had to fulfill his funeral arrangements. Before he was admitted to hospital, he had written his will in handwriting. His handwriting was trembling and he could not finish writing only a few lines. The dilemma now is: when will he wake up? I don't want to describe the detailed process. Finally, at that moment, he was very obedient. After being helped up, he sat down solemnly, stretched out his hand, and signed his name like a baby's strokes. "Wood" and "Heart" fell in ridiculously separated positions, and then , someone gently held his finger and dipped it in the ink mud---Mr. He was always good at writing. When they left, I cried uncontrollably. Only then did I understand my long-standing depression.

There were more people inside and outside Ward No. 11. My husband's only relative, my nephew Wesley Wang, an educated youth of the same generation as me, came from Beijing to take care of me. Quentin Zhong, a poet and painter from Jiangsu Province, was addicted to Mr. Poems and Books. He rushed over on his own the day after I left in late November and stayed with him day and night. Hazel Huang, the first girl assigned by the town to be with Mr. Wang in 2006, resigned last year and returned to Changsha to find a job. When she heard that Mr. Wang was critically ill, she also came. Dylan and Oliver took turns on duty. They stayed up all night the next day and were obviously thinner, but they were still loyal. We shook hands hastily in the doorway, and we walked to my husband's bed one by one, like a small family.