Bamboo Canes by Tarmo Rajasaari
Yai is praying. She does that every evening around this time. Yai doesn’t speak English. At the customs, she had started crying when she was questioned by the security on why she had brought a suitcase full of dried noodles into the country, undeclared.
Yai sleeps on our couch in the lounge. She doesn’t use the upstairs study room because she’s concerned that she wouldn’t be able to climb the steps in the dark.
Yai is praying. She recites a prayer book where the verses are laid out in large print, ancient Sanskrit language. Yai disagrees with the Oncology team and says that the chanting will make Apinya recover.
Apinya slouches in her own Lazyboy recliner, next to Yai’s couch. I’ve placed a plastic seat protector for her – just in case. There’s a few days’ dosage of steroids left, after that the doctors will have another review.
Earlier in the day, Yai brought out two long bamboo canes she had found in the backyard, left on the ground behind the compost bin. Our son doesn’t play with them anymore. Yai explained to us how by using the canes in a certain fashion we could support Apinya and help strengthen her bones. Yai says Apinya will recover.
All I hear is monotonous chanting; I wonder if Yai understands the prayers herself. The humming sounds hypnotic and she writes down something in her notepad several times each day. I should keep a diary, too.
Apinya has fallen asleep in her chair. Her flower baskets on the porch need watering. I rest on the other side of the lounge and it’s getting darker. I haven’t turned the ceiling light on – I don’t want Yai to see my face. Last night she was burning incense sticks on the coffee table by her couch. We have now run out of them and I can’t buy more because of the stat days.
Yai is praying. She must have noticed how Apinya’s speech is becoming more and more slurred, day by day. Everyone else has.
I’ll wait for half an hour and let Yai finish with the mantras before I wheel Apinya to bed. I have taught our son how to stand mum up safely and transfer her to the wheelchair if I’m not around. Yai is too frail.
We have a commode from the hospital right next to our bed, that way it’s easier for me to help Apinya up at night. Sometimes she just sits on it, eyes rolling, head dipping, and does not pee.
Yai has left the bamboo canes outside on the deck for the walking exercise tomorrow. They are leaning against the wooden railing, side by side, sheltered from the rain.
Yai says the canes need to stay dry so that Apinya can get a good grip.
Freelance-writer Tarmo Rajasaari is a Finnish-born New Zealander. His published works include a short story collection Vapour Trails – Tales from Rural Thailand (Orchid Press 2003) as well as multiple articles, columns and other writings in various international publications. His first novel is currently under consideration by an independent publisher. By trade, Tarmo is an Addictions Counsellor.
