8. An Inevitable Regret
If There Truly Is a 'Next'
Anyone who is human has likely faced the feeling of regret at least once.
The bus you could have caught if you had left just a little earlier, a single word you shouldn’t have said, and the last moments with people you can never return to. There are regrets that repeat themselves in everyday life, but there are also regrets that embed themselves deep in your heart for a lifetime. The depth of regret varies depending on whether there is another chance or not. It is an emotion we want to avoid but cannot. In the end, all of us live with regret.
Not long ago, in my neurosurgery ward, I had the opportunity to take care of a patient from beginning to end. She was a woman in her seventies who shared the same name as me. She was admitted for surgery to remove a WHO grade 4 malignant brain tumour (meningioma). I was able to follow the entire process — from deciding which medications to stop before surgery, attending the surgery, managing her pain and nausea afterwards, writing the discharge summary, and joining her outpatient follow-up clinic. Covering busy inpatient wards, having the chance to follow a single case so thoroughly was rare, so she held a special place in my heart. But that surgery was not for a cure. Even as the tumour was being removed, it was already growing again. Comparing the pre- and post-operative CT scans showed that the tumour had grown back. The chemotherapy that followed was only a means to ‘put the growing tumour to sleep.’ On the day she came to the outpatient clinic with her husband, I saw in their eyes fear, anxiety, and the faintest thread of hope. There was very little I could do. “Don’t worry,” “I will make sure the aseptic pharmacy team knows,” “I will see you again soon.” These were all I could say. But I knew — would that ‘again’ really come? Soon after the surgery, I heard that the patient had asked me to show her a photo of her brain tumour. But I never went back to the ward, and she was discharged. When I saw her in the outpatient clinic, I cautiously asked, “I couldn’t show you the photo then, but would you like to see it now?” She shook her head. Perhaps she hated the tumour that had grown back, and no longer wanted to see it. Those words stayed with me. I ask myself: Were those few minutes really unavailable? Where was the initial resolve I made to treat patients like family? And so, I created another regret.
After saying goodbye to Bandal, I found myself reflecting on my life and myself. Living abroad, I had been chasing the life I wanted, giving up time with my family. My strong and dependable mother and father, my grandmother who was said to have no risk of dementia thanks to her sharp number sense, my grandfather who was always healthy while working, my parental grandparents who took daily walks by the Han River despite minor ailments, my uncle who solved everything like a walking encyclopedia, and Bandal, whom I always thought would be by my side — none were exempt from the relentless flow of time. Everyone changed, is changing, and the time we can spend together continues to diminish, even in this very moment. Most recently, my grandmother was admitted to a nursing home due to worsening dementia. I know she will not be able to return home. Even with a profession that brings me close to life and death every day, I had ignored the time with my family, and their images in my memory have changed little by little. And now I ask: Were the times I exchanged for all these things really the right choice? Was my decision worth giving all of that up?
I sent my grandmother a memory book containing family photos and our relationships, a light-weighed cup with two handles, and a small doll. It was hard to find an Asian doll with black hair here, but I eventually found a cute doll with a Pucca hairstyle at a small shop. Contrary to my mother’s and uncle’s expectations, grandmother liked that doll the most. She even hugged it, looked at it for a long time, and kissed it. When I asked her to name the doll, she said my name. I was deeply grateful that I still remain, even a little, in the fading memories of my grandmother. But how much time did I really share in her life? Will she be able to wait for me until I return? Is there still a ‘next’ with my grandmother? The wounds and fears that came after parting with Bandal might create yet another regret, and so I still stand there, hesitating and lost.
Faced with a life that can end suddenly at any moment, we try to remember the past moments so that we don’t have to believe in the end. Perhaps we tell ourselves we will do better next time. I too will continue to wonder, probably for my whole life, what matters most to me: independence, learning, or my family in Korea. The answer is always ‘family,’ yet my greedy self lives through this summer alone here once again, letting time slip away from my family once more.
I draw Bandal’s face on the faces of other dogs. On my way home from work, I look at the sea spreading out to my right and speak to Bandal. I ask if she is doing well in heaven, and if possible, to visit my grandmother’s dreams often who would be lonely in her bed. How wonderful it would be if we knew the moment of ‘last time.’ But reality does not allow that. Each farewell is quieter than expected, earlier than planned, and harsher than prepared for.
So today, I wait for the unknown ‘next’ that may come, carrying unfinished regrets in my heart.
