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We went to visit J yesterday. It was good to see her. She is able to walk, talk softly, eat, and isn't in too much pain. Yet it was troubling. It was difficult to watch her have to cope with the trauma of surgery, and the implications and the psychological burden of having cancer. It broke my heart.

When I walked into the room, her newly wedded husband told us that a huge old tree in our neighbourhood was split into two by lightning on the day of her surgery. He pondered the significance of the violence of both events and went to check out the split tree. While looking among the roots, he found a figurine of the Chinese deity Qi gong, a drunken monk who goes around curing people of their sicknesses. He found it very significant and took it upon himself to wash the deity and bring him home. Along the way, he met two Chinese aunties who gave him lime leaves soaked in water and told him to bathe the deity in it.

So I sat there and watched him bathe this deity; I watched my friend with the 15cm gash across her throat tearing when her grandma asked her how she was; I had dinner with S later and watched her tear over a quiet dinner; I watched myself wake up in the middle of the night with worry.
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