Mother's eyes

BAC GIANG - "The total corneal transplant this afternoon was a success, everyone go back to your room and rest!" The nurse's gentle voice rang out, dispelling the tense atmosphere in the waiting room.

The operating room door opened, Dr. Phong entered the waiting area:

- Everything is fine. Your aunt's eyes may be red and a little uncomfortable for the first few days. I will prescribe eye drops to prevent infection and corticosteroids to reduce inflammation and prevent rejection. Since this is a total corneal transplant, the recovery time is quite long, so please take good care of her.

Illustration: China.

Tears welled up in the relatives' eyes. They could not contain their emotions, thanking them profusely, mixed with sobs. To them, Dr. Phong was the savior who brought light, a new life to their loved ones. In the Ophthalmology department, everyone knew that Phong was a "professional" surgeon, one of the best. Not only that, he was also an important bridge between the noble hearts of the deceased and the patients who were waiting for the opportunity to see the light. Obtaining suitable, quick and safe donated corneas was not an easy task. His talented hands had brought light back to countless patients, helping them see this life again.

This afternoon after work, Phong leisurely walked through the familiar streets, his heart light after a long day. When passing by a flower shop by the roadside, among the myriad of flowers, the newly bloomed pink roses stopped his footsteps. This was the flower his mother loved the most. Without hesitation, he stopped in to buy a bouquet as an old habit filled with love. When he got home, before he could open the door, the fragrant aroma of grilled chicken wafted through the crack of the door, inviting him like a gentle melody. Thuy - his wife, had long had cooking skills that would make any chef take off his hat. That was also one of the first things that made him fall head over heels in love with her. People often say that the shortest way to reach a person's heart is through... the stomach, and it's not wrong.

– Mom… I'm home!

Phong spoke softly as he entered the room. After handing Thuy a bouquet of roses to put in an old ceramic vase on the shelf, he gently pushed the door open. The room was still the same, heartbreakingly quiet. The gentle scent of essential oils wafted through the air, the yellow light cast a warm layer over his mother's face as she lay on the bed. He pulled the chair over, sat down on the edge of the bed like every day, and whispered to his mother about the surgery this afternoon, about the patient's family smiling for the first time after weeks of anxiety. Occasionally, he stopped and gently massaged his mother's thin legs. Her skin was wrinkled, her toes shriveled. His father had died early, his mother was all he had, the sky of his childhood, the support whenever he felt weak. But after a sudden stroke a few months ago, she fell into a coma, never opened her eyes, never responded.

***

This morning's meeting took place in a heavy atmosphere. The head of the department, with a heavy face, placed the file on the table and slowly announced:

- The number of people waiting for organ transplants nationwide is increasing rapidly at this time… especially corneal transplants.

A moment of silence fell over the conference room. Phong glanced at the list of new patients. All of them were lying quietly somewhere in the hospital, carrying within them a faint hope for a miracle. Corneas, an organ rarely donated. Dozens of patients were waiting to see the light, but each week, if lucky, the hospital only received one or two donations. Meanwhile, the number of files sent to the operating room increased. There were patients who had been waiting for surgery for quite a while. Phong left the conference room with a heavy feeling in his chest.

Standing on the third-floor balcony, Phong quietly looked into the distance. In front of him was the hospital yard covered in early morning sunlight, where an old Lagerstroemia tree was blooming with pale purple flowers. On the high branches, a flock of sparrows chirped from branch to branch, their tails waving lightly, as if playing with the wind. Phong blinked and smiled slightly. In that moment, in the midst of the hurried pace of life, he felt lucky to still be able to feel peace, to still be able to see the sunlight every morning, hear the birds chirping and stand here, intact. He still had his mother, Thuy, and the patients waiting for him every day.

Suddenly, a tiny hand gently tugged on the hem of his white blouse. Phong bent down. It was a little girl of about seven or eight years old, her hair braided on both sides, her cheeks rosy from running, looking up at him with big, sparkling eyes.

- Doctor, my mother told me to bring this to you. Thank you for helping her see my sisters and me again.

The little girl held out a small packet of candy, wrapped in bear-shaped wrapping paper. Phong laughed. He took the candy, bent down and patted the little girl on the head.

- Thanks. Be good with your mom today.

The little girl nodded, then ran off happily. The small package of candy in his hand suddenly felt strangely warm…

***

Today the weather turned cool after a long series of scorching hot days. The early morning breezes filtered through the treetops, carrying the gentle scent of the earth after the night rain. As a doctor, he realized… the signs of survival were fading in his mother. Her heart rate slowed down, her breathing became shallower, and her skin began to cool down at her fingertips. She didn’t have much time left!

He called Thuy and the two children over and stood by the bed. Each of them took one of her hands, now as light and wrinkled as crumpled tissue paper. Like a lamp that had run out of oil, only a flickering flame left in the wick, wavering before the wind of fate. Phong knelt by the bed, his hands clasping his mother’s as if holding on to the last bit of warmth.

- Mom… I'm here. Everyone is here…

The room was so quiet that one could hear the clock ticking. Phong understood that his mother was going somewhere else, gently, like the first wind of the season today, after a long life of living fully and lovingly. His heart ached to the point of numbness, but as a son, and also a doctor, he knew he had to do the right thing, what his mother had always wanted. Suppressing the pain that was tightening in his chest, Phong picked up the phone and called the bank:

-I want to donate my mother's corneas which I registered earlier.

Mother's corneas, two parts of light that have been attached to her all her life, with the mornings of watering plants, the times she watched him grow up, enter medical school, put on his first white coat... He had performed cornea removal surgery many times, but this time, he just stood silently in the corner of the room. The operating room lights shone on his mother's face, now strangely peaceful. His fellow doctors still did their familiar work, gently and carefully, just like he had done with others.

When the cornea removal was completed, Phong walked to the bedside, bent down and hugged his mother for the last time. Tears silently fell on her shoulders. He believed that in the afterlife, his mother was smiling. No more pain, no more unconsciousness, only the serenity of a mother who had lived a full life and passed away meaningfully. Back then, every time her son told her about blind patients who had to wait day by day to regain their sight, Phong's mother often reminded him: In the future, if I am no longer here, you should do what you should do. I believe that light can extend from these eyes to someone's heart. Now, my mother's corneas have been successfully transplanted into two patients at two different hospitals. Two people who thought they would have to live in darkness all their lives can now see the light that she has preserved all her life.

***

At a small tea room in the heart of the city, Phong and Thuy's wedding anniversary party took place in a cozy atmosphere. Soft yellow lights shone on the tables covered with white tablecloths, the clinking of glasses mixed with the sound of laughter, as gentle as a nostalgic song. The piano suddenly sounded slowly and passionately. The first notes were played, Phong frowned slightly. There was something very familiar.

Then… a voice rang out.

That song.

The song that his mother wrote for him when he was 18 years old, the song that his mother had only ever sung softly in the kitchen, when the sun was about to set and the rice was just cooked. The lyrics were as gentle as his mother’s arms, as warm as the night she sat awake watching him study: “Where are you going in this tumultuous life / Remember when you come home, your mother is still waiting on the porch…”

Phong was stunned. In the flickering light, he turned to Thuy but she only nodded slightly. No one said anything. His eyes were red. Each melody, each word seemed to open the door to memories. The rainy afternoons when mother and son huddled together beside the coal stove, the first time he failed the medical university entrance exam and cried in his mother's arms, the stressful nights on duty, he still received messages: "Hold on, mom is always here." Now, mom is no longer there. But that song resounds in the middle of the night, as if mom is still somewhere around here, in Thuy's hand, behind the eyes of his grandchildren, and right in Phong's left chest, where there is always a beat reserved for mom.

The singer was not a professional singer. Each sentence, each word was sung with a rustic sincerity, as if he was pulling out each memory from his heart and singing, sometimes trembling as if he could not contain his emotions. When the song ended, Phong was about to stand up and walk backstage but Thuy stopped him:

- Wait a minute...

From outside the door, two little princesses walked in. Both were wearing white dresses, their hair tied in pink bows, their cheeks flushed with excitement. In their hands were large heart-shaped gift boxes, wrapped in glittering paper with the neatly written words: "For Mom and Dad."

With bright faces, the two children said in unison, their voices clear:

– I wish you two will always be happy like today, always holding each other’s hands tightly, rain or shine. Thank you for teaching us to love, to protect our family, and to know that… the most precious thing in life is being together!

Phong and Thuy gently removed the glittering wrapping paper. Inside, lined with dark red velvet, was a small but delicate wooden statue. It was a carving of his mother with her hair tied back, wearing a simple ao ba ba and hugging him. Phong's face suddenly felt hot, his throat choked. He couldn't help but raise his trembling hand to gently stroke the smooth wooden surface, where his mother's face was carved with such gentle features.

- It's time for you to meet the special people who gave us meaningful gifts tonight - Thuy whispered

At that moment, the tea room door gently opened. Everyone turned their eyes in that direction. A tall, thin young man entered, and beside him was a middle-aged woman with silver hair but her face shining with indescribable emotion. Phong tilted his head slightly, somewhat suspiciously.

It's them.

It was the two people who received cornea transplants from their mother.

The woman approached, her eyes filled with tears, she put her hand on her chest, choking:

- I don't know what to say other than thank you. Thanks to you and your mother… I have found the light again after many years of living in the darkness.

The boy standing next to him also bowed his head:

- I didn't know who your mother was... until today. But I will carry these eyes with me for the rest of my life, and live a good life. Thank you for helping me come back, to once again see light, wood, color and... the faces of my loved ones.

Because his mother’s two cornea transplant patients were both treated at other hospitals in the country and discharged early, Phong never had the chance to meet them. He hugged both of them. As a doctor, he had witnessed many organ transplants. But never before had he seen light so clearly, with a form and soul as now. Indeed, life is not only measured by the number of years lived, but by what we leave behind after we leave.

And his mother, with those eyes, with her silent heart of organ donation, wrote a beautiful final chapter for her life...

Short story by Linh Chau

Source: https://baobacgiang.vn/doi-mat-cua-me-postid419916.bbg