Mother's eyes

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

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

- Everything's fine. Your aunt's eyes might be red and slightly uncomfortable for the first few days. I'll prescribe eye drops to fight infection and corticosteroids to reduce inflammation and prevent rejection. Since this is a total corneal transplant, the recovery time is quite long, so please pay close attention to her care.

Illustration: China.

Tears welled up in the eyes of the family members. They couldn't control their emotions, expressing their gratitude profusely, their voices choked with sobs. To them, Dr. Phong was a savior who had brought light and a new life to their loved ones. In the Ophthalmology department, everyone knew Phong as a highly skilled surgeon, one of the best. Moreover, he was a crucial bridge between the noble hearts of the deceased and patients yearning for the chance to see again. Obtaining a suitable, quick, and safe corneal transplant was no easy feat. His skillful hands had brought light back to countless patients, helping them see life again.

This afternoon, after work, Phong strolled leisurely through familiar streets, his heart light after a long day. As he passed a flower shop, amidst a myriad of blossoms, the pink roses just beginning to bloom caught his attention. These were his mother's favorite flowers. Without hesitation, he stopped to buy a bouquet, a familiar habit filled with love. Upon arriving home, before he even opened the door, the fragrant aroma of grilled chicken wafted through the cracks, inviting him in like a gentle melody. His wife, Thuy, had long possessed cooking skills that would impress any chef. That was one of the first things that made him fall head over heels for her. They say the shortest path to a person's heart is through their stomach, and it's certainly true.

– Mom… I’m home!

Phong spoke softly as he entered the room. After handing the bouquet of roses to Thuy to place in the old ceramic vase on the shelf, he gently pushed open the door. The room was still the same, heartbreakingly quiet. A gentle scent of essential oils filled the air, and the warm yellow light cast a soft glow on his mother's face as she lay on the bed. He pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed as usual, whispering to his mother about the surgery that afternoon, about the patients' families who had smiled for the first time after weeks of anxious worry. Occasionally, he paused, gently massaging his mother's thin legs. Her skin was wrinkled, her toes shriveled. His father had died young; his mother was all he had, the sky of his childhood, his support whenever he felt weak. Yet, after the sudden stroke a few months ago, she had fallen into a coma, never once opening her eyes, never once responding.

***

The morning briefing was held in a tense atmosphere. The head of department, with a somber expression, placed a stack of files on the table and slowly announced:

- The number of organ transplant waiting lists nationwide is currently increasing sharply… especially for corneal transplants.

A moment of silence enveloped the meeting room. Phong glanced at the list of new patients. All were people lying quietly somewhere in the hospital, clinging to the faint hope of a miracle. Corneas, a rare organ rarely donated. Dozens of patients were waiting to see the light again, but each week, if they were lucky, the hospital only received one or two donations. Meanwhile, the number of cases being transferred to the operating room was increasing. Some patients had long overdue for surgery. Phong left the meeting room with a heavy feeling in his chest.

Standing on the third-floor balcony, Phong quietly gazed into the distance. Before him was the hospital courtyard bathed in the early morning sun, where an old crape myrtle tree was blooming with pale purple flowers. High on its branches, a flock of sparrows chirped and flitted about, their tails wagging gently, as if playing with the breeze. Phong blinked, a faint smile on his face. In that moment, amidst the hurried pace of life, he felt fortunate to still be able to feel peace, to still be able to see the sunlight each morning, hear the birds singing, and stand here, whole. He still had his mother, Thuy, and the patients waiting for him every day.

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

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

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

Thank you, dear. Be a good girl while you're with Mommy today.

The little girl nodded, then skipped away. The small packet of candy in his hand suddenly felt strangely warm…

***

Today the weather has cooled down after a long, sweltering period. The first breezes of the day rustle through the trees, carrying the gentle scent of the earth after the night's rain. As a doctor, he realizes… his mother's vital signs are fading. Her heartbeat is slowing, her breathing is shallower, and her fingertips are growing cold. His mother doesn't have much time left!

He called Thuy and the two children over, standing by the bed. Each of them took one of her hands, now light and wrinkled like crumpled silk paper. Like a lamp running out of oil, only a faint wick remained, flickering in the wind of fate. Phong knelt beside the bed, his hands clasped tightly around his mother's, clinging to the last vestiges of warmth.

- Mom… I’m here. Everyone’s here…

The room was so quiet you could hear the clock ticking softly. Phong understood that his mother was going to another place, gently, like the first breeze of the season today, after a long life lived fully and full of love. His heart ached numbly, but as a son and a doctor, he knew he had to do the right thing, the thing his mother had always wished. Suppressing the pain tightening in his chest, Phong picked up the phone and called the bank:

-I would like to donate my mother's corneas, which I previously registered to donate.

His mother's corneas, two sources of light that had been intertwined with his life—watering the plants in the mornings, watching him grow up, entering medical school, and putting on his first lab coat… He had performed corneal harvesting procedures countless times, but this time, he stood silently in the corner of the room. The operating room lights shone on his mother's face, now strangely peaceful. His fellow doctors continued their familiar work, gently and carefully, just as he had done with others.

When the corneal transplant was complete, Phong walked to the bedside, bent down, and hugged his mother one last time. Silent tears fell onto her shoulder. He believed that, in the afterlife, his mother was smiling. No more pain, no more delirium, only the serenity of a mother who had lived fully and passed away meaningfully. Back then, whenever she heard her son talk about blind patients waiting day after day to regain their sight, Phong's mother would always remind him: "Someday, if I'm no longer here, just do what you should do. I believe that light can extend from these eyes to someone's heart." Now, his mother's corneas have been successfully transplanted to two patients at two different hospitals. Two people who seemed destined to live in darkness for life can now see the light that his mother had preserved throughout her life.

***

In a small tea room in the heart of the city, Phong and Thuy's wedding anniversary celebration took place in a cozy atmosphere. Soft yellow light shone down on tables covered with white tablecloths, the clinking of glasses mingled with gentle laughter, creating a peaceful, nostalgic melody. Suddenly, the sound of a piano filled the air, slow and heartfelt. As the first notes began to play, Phong frowned slightly. There was something very familiar about it.

Then… a voice rang out.

That's the song.

This song, written specifically for him when he turned 18, was once softly sung by his mother in the kitchen, as the sun was setting and the rice was just cooked. The lyrics were as gentle as a mother's embrace, as warm as the nights she stayed awake watching him study: "Wherever you go in this turbulent world, remember to come home, your mother is still waiting on the porch…"

Phong froze. In the flickering light, he turned to Thuy, but she only nodded slightly. No one spoke. His eyes welled up with tears. Each melody, each word, seemed to throw open the door to memories. The rainy afternoons when mother and son huddled by the charcoal stove, the first time he failed his medical school entrance exam and cried in his mother's arms, the stressful nights on duty when he still received the message: "Keep going, Mom is always here." Now, his mother was gone. But that song echoed in the night, as if she were still somewhere around here, beside Thuy's hand, behind the eyes of his grandchildren, and right in Phong's left chest, where there was always a heartbeat reserved just for her.

The singer wasn't a professional. Every word, every phrase, resonated with a simple, sincere quality, as if drawing threads of memory from their heart to express themselves, sometimes trembling as if unable to hold back their emotions. When the song ended, Phong was about to stand up and go backstage, but Thủy stopped him:

Wait a minute, sir...

From the doorway, two little princesses entered. Both were wearing white dresses, their hair tied back with pink bows, their cheeks flushed with excitement. In their hands was a large heart-shaped gift box, wrapped in glittering paper with the neatly written words: "For our beloved parents."

With radiant faces, the two children spoke in unison, their voices clear and bright:

– May you both always be as happy as you are today, always holding hands tightly, rain or shine. Thank you for teaching us to love, to cherish our family, and to understand that… the most precious thing in life is being together!

Phong and Thuy gently unwrapped the glittering paper. Inside, lined with dark red velvet, was a small but exquisite wooden statue. It was a statue of his mother, her hair neatly tied back, wearing a simple traditional Vietnamese blouse, and embracing him. Phong's face suddenly flushed, his throat tightened. Unable to restrain himself, he tremblingly reached out and gently stroked the smooth wooden surface where his mother's face was carved with such tender features.

"It's time you met the special people who gave us such meaningful gifts tonight," Thuy whispered.

Just then, the tea room door gently opened. Everyone's eyes turned towards it. A tall, slender young man entered, accompanied by an older woman whose hair was streaked with gray, but whose face radiated an indescribable emotion. Phong tilted his head slightly, feeling a little bewildered.

They are them.

These are the two people who received corneal transplants from their mother.

The woman approached, her eyes welling up with tears, she placed her hand on her chest, her voice choked with emotion:

- I don't know what more to say than thank you. Thanks to you and your mother… I have found my sight again after many years living in darkness.

The young man 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 to see again, to see light, wood, colors, and even… the faces of my loved ones.

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

And his mother, with those eyes, with her silent act of organ donation, wrote a beautiful final chapter in her life…

Short stories by Linh Chau

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