作品名稱：L E N A
2023年初，我得知媽媽罹患卵巢癌且已擴散，並完成了兩次化療。在那之前，我已經超過十年沒有回家。自從脫離國籍後，我選擇不再踏入家門，也刻意避開家中的一切。但當得知媽媽的病情惡化，我立刻訂機票飛回去。
媽媽的身體已經很虛弱，卻仍堅持在機場等了我兩三個小時，因為班機延誤。我帶著愧疚與不知如何面對的心情回到她身邊——我們已經超過十年未曾見面，而我一直刻意忽視家中的消息。
2023年7月，我再度收到家裡的消息，媽媽的視力急遽惡化，只剩下5%。我在日記中寫下：「5%是你的視力，95%是我的視而不見。」但這些年來的心結依舊無法解開，我瞬間崩潰，再次訂機票回家。
這次，我準備了許多回憶中的事物，希望能與她一同重現——她曾經做的手工藝幸運結、花藝、客家菜「算盤子」、甚至是跳舞。我請她教我，想讓這些記憶延續下去。在我回家之前，媽媽真的按照我的請求，準備好了所有材料，甚至在視力急速衰退前，買了一本日記本。在她的世界逐漸變得模糊之際，她仍努力地在一週內，把想說的話寫滿了整本筆記。
5%的視力，幾乎等於全盲。她最喜愛的收藏品，因為看不見、無法再使用，便讓我帶走。短短的一週內，她忍著身體的不適，仍然教會我煮菜、做手工藝、跳舞……像是在為這趟旅程畫上句點。
2024年2月23日
我特意選在生日前一天回馬來西亞。即便什麼都看不見，媽媽仍執意要來機場接我，繼父則負責開車載我們回家。半夜，我們在路邊吃宵夜、喝啤酒。
隔天一早，媽媽已經煮好長壽麵等我。原來，她還記得我的生日。我說：「這跟我想的劇本不一樣。」因為我原本打算買蛋糕幫她慶祝，因為這一天是母難日。
2024年2月18日
我再次計畫在生日前回家。電話裡，媽媽說她身體很痛，常常昏睡，不想接電話。她無法親自來機場接我，卻還是為我安排了計程車。
這次，我盤算著要在2月24日親手煮長壽麵給她，還有一直沒說出口的那句話：「對不起，這些年來，我沒能好好照顧妳。」
2024年2月20日
上午9:30的班機，等待登機時，我在機場買了梅酒——媽媽上次說過她想喝。就在這時，我收到弟弟的訊息：「我們正在趕去醫院，醫生已經束手無策。」
2024年2月20日
下午近三點抵達吉隆坡，一打開手機，又收到弟弟的訊息：「直接來醫院。」
2024年2月20日
下午5點前，我抵達馬大醫院。弟弟拖著我的行李，幾乎是用跑的，頭也不回地帶我直奔媽媽的病房，然後讓我們單獨相處。
「媽咪，我回來了。」
「媽咪，妳很辛苦吧？」
「…………………………………………………………..」
2024年2月20日
下午5點30分，媽媽離開了
Title: L E N A
At the beginning of 2023, I learned that my mother had ovarian cancer that had already spread. She had undergone two rounds of chemotherapy. Before that, I hadn't been home for over ten years. Ever since renouncing my nationality, I had chosen to stay away and refused to deal with anything related to home. But upon hearing about my mother's deteriorating condition, I immediately booked a flight back.
Despite her frail health, she insisted on waiting at the airport for two or three hours because my flight was delayed. I arrived carrying both guilt and uncertainty—I hadn't seen her in over a decade, and I knew deep down that I had neglected our family all these years.
In July 2023, I received more news from home: my mother's eyesight had deteriorated drastically, leaving her with only 5% vision. In my journal, I quietly wrote: "5% is your vision, 95% is my blindness." Yet, the knot in my heart remained. I broke down and immediately booked another flight home.
This time, I came prepared. I wanted to learn everything I could from her—things I remembered from childhood: the art of crafting lucky knots, floral arrangements, Hakka dishes, even dancing. I wanted her to teach me, so I could inherit these pieces of her. Before I arrived, she had already gathered all the materials for me. She even bought a notebook, just as I suggested, so she could write things down before her eyesight failed completely. By then, she could barely see—her vision was blurry, her eyes couldn't focus properly, and her handwriting wavered across the page. But in just one week, she filled the notebook with everything she wanted to say.
What does 5% vision mean? It means seeing almost nothing at all. She could no longer use or even see her beloved collection of objects, so she told me to take them.
In that short week, she pushed through her physical pain to teach me how to cook, craft, and dance—as if trying to complete a final task before time ran out.
February 23, 2024
I deliberately chose to return to Malaysia the day before my birthday. Even though she couldn't see, my mother still insisted on coming to the airport to meet me, while my stepfather drove us home. That night, we stopped by the roadside for a late-night meal and a beer.
The next morning, she had already prepared longevity noodles for me.
She still remembered my birthday.
I told her, "This wasn't how I planned it." I had meant to buy a cake and celebrate her—because my birthday is also her "mother's suffering day."
February 18, 2025
Once again, I planned to return home before my birthday. Over the phone, my mother told me not to call because she was in pain and sleeping most of the time. She said she wouldn't be able to meet me at the airport this time, but she still arranged for a taxi to pick me up.
I had already decided—on February 24, I would cook longevity noodles for her instead. And I would finally say what I hadn't been able to for so long:
"I'm sorry. I wasn't there for you all these years."
February 20, 2025
My flight was at 9:30 AM. While waiting at the airport, I bought a bottle of plum wine—she had mentioned wanting to drink some last time.
Then, I received a message from my brother:
"We're rushing to the hospital. The doctors have done all they can."
February 20, 2025
Around 3 PM, I landed in Kuala Lumpur. As soon as I turned my phone on, my brother's message arrived:
"Come straight to the hospital."
February 20, 2025
Before 5 PM, I reached the University of Malaya Medical Centre. My brother grabbed my suitcase and ran ahead, not looking back, leading me straight to my mother’s hospital room. Then, he left us alone.
"Mom, I'm back."
"Mom, you must be so tired."
"………………………………………………………….."
February 20, 2025
At 5:30 PM, my mother passed away.