It started around early October 2014, when we were driving
back after a simple dinner outing. She
complained of a bloated discomfort in her stomach. Nothing to be alarmed about. Perhaps she ate
too much? Or too quickly? We get such problems every now and then.
Next day, she consulted her doctor and was given some medicine
to take. But the uneasy feeling persisted
so the doctor recommended ultrasonic scans.
The scan revealed an abnormal “mass”. It suggested something serious and
worrying. A further CT scan of her abdomen indicated strong suspicions of
peritoneal carcinoma. A quick google
search and it confirmed our worse fears. They have to give such fanciful names
to cancer. We immediately admitted her, and into a private hospital no less,
where a gastroscopy and PET scan could be arranged almost immediately. The results were devastating. 4th stage gastric cancer. The
tumour, about a golf ball size had taken root in her stomach and the cancer
cells had metastasized onto her spinal cord.
I held her in my arms as we broke into tears. From there on, I knew our
lives have taken a terrible turn, in particular for her. If she could even survive the ordeal.
I have heard enough of the traumas experienced by patients
undergoing chemotherapy. There and then, as I stood with her sobbing in my
arms, just thinking of the suffering she would have to endure to fight the
disease, I felt my heart fracturing into pieces.
Jenny went through 7 rounds of chemotherapy over the months
that followed and another 2 rounds of immunotherapy when it was clear that even
with a change of the drug regiment, the chemo was not working well. Her cancer cells were outsmarting all the fancy
pharmaceuticals that our doctor could possibly dish out.
Her petite 46 kg frame wilted down to skin and bones. She
lost nearly all of her hair and gone was that sparkle in her eyes and the
cheerful cherubic smile that I have gotten so used to. She bore the brunt of
the toxins pumped into her veins, which ironically were meant to be her best
hope in fighting the cancerous cells.
The ill effects of the chemo drugs ravaged her withering frame. She suffered incessant bouts of nausea,
vomiting and diarrhoea and blistering ulcers rippled around her gums and into
her gullet. We monitored her weight each
day. Every kilogram loss was an ominous
warning that she was losing the fight.
But Jenny was determined to live. She never once talk about giving up.
Understandably, there were anxious moments when she professed her fear of not
making it but through it all, despite the gradual weakening of her body, her
mind stayed the course. All the advice
we received, from friends and relatives who had close encounters with cancer
survivors and also her own oncologist echoed the same words – we must be
optimistic, keep our hopes high and not give up. So throughout the ordeal, we never once spoke
of her dying. We never discussed what her last wishes might be. To die was not an option. We spoke of how we should change our life
style and eating habits and the things to do to avoid relapse, after we had conquered
the disease. We kept our hopes alive, even
as the signs looked bad.
Walking alongside Jenny’s harrowing journey with cancer was
needless to say, a trying experience.
But the tribulation brought us closer together as a couple than we ever
had been during our 30 years as husband and wife and loving parents to our three
children.
Looking back, it was hard to forget the high anxiety,
tension and stress of seeing her health deteriorating away. I was ever all
fired up, despite nights of restless sleep, and constantly primed on high alert
to keep a close watch over her state of health and well-being. You might say I
was a man on a mission. And the end goal
was clear. Do everything it takes to
increase her chances to survive: Find
the best food that would suit her very restricted diet to strengthen her and
“starve” the cancer cells (which on hindsight was really gullible and mere wishful
thinking) and cost would be of no object.
Sanitise and clean every thing around her to safeguard her
weakened immunity. Keep the bugs at bay
also as she could not risk catching dengue fever and so on.
In between, my office duties beckoned, even as my company
had very kindly allowed me to work from home, as there were still essential meetings
to attend. I was all prepared to put my career
on the line. I was mindful that our time
together could be preciously limited.
Her needs were highest on my agenda.
At times, Jenny saw how stretched I was to keep everything
together and felt sorry that her affliction had imposed so much upon me. “Don’t
say sorry, Honey. It is my greatest privilege to be able to take care of you”, I
would reply. And I meant every word said. Dire as it was, her affliction inadvertently
created and offered me the opportunity to care and show my love for her, in a
way that I could not in all the years before, as her husband. She was going through a far worse ordeal
herself so I should not be the object of pity.
So throughout the time when she was undergoing treatment, my
focus was crystal clear. It was all about her well-being. I had a mission and
stronger sense of purpose than at any other point of our marriage years
together.
But in truth, she was sinking slowly, like a victim in quick
sand right before my eyes and I could only watch helplessly, too powerless to
pull her out of the quagmire.
Till the final moment, Jenny showed immense courage. During her last weeks in the hospital, she
had all kinds of medical tubes weaving in and out of her body including a tube
inserted through her nostril and into the stomach so the nurses could aspirate and
remove the gastric juices from her stomach. The discomfort must have been agonisingly
unbearable. Yet she complained little
and asked for even less.
Many times, sitting by her bedside, I have tried to port my
mind into hers. What were the thoughts going inside her head? Her intestinal system had all but shut down,
due to the cancer spread. As a result she was unable to swallow even tiny sips
of water. One side of her lungs had
nearly completely collapsed due to the build-up of ascites fluid. Though we did
not speak about it, we both knew that recovery would take nothing short of a
miracle. The mental anguish of knowing
that the end is nearing must have been tormenting. But Jenny kept her
dignity. She neither moaned nor shed
tears for pity.
As a devout Christian all her life, has she resigned in
quiet submission, to accept this unhappy ending as part of God’s plan for
her? Or was she deeply disappointed with
God that all her prayers for recovery had come to nought? It was hard to tell
but I would like to think that her faith had given her the strength and peace
needed to cope with the stress of facing imminent death.
Eventually, on 17th April 2015, about 6 months
after she was first diagnosed, she drew her last breath.
The end came not directly from the cancer itself, but from
an infection of the lungs that was caught two days earlier. Her enfeebled body was too fragile to fight
off this infection, despite multiple doses of antibiotics injected into her. It
was swift and perhaps in a way, a more merciful end for her. I tried consoling
myself of this each time I relive the pain of picturing her exiting from this
world.
My kids remind me that I should avoid recounting the cancer
days as they feel that Mum should be remembered in health rather than in sickness.
They were of course right in many ways. There are so many other wonderful things
I could share about my beloved wife and I would do that, another posting,
another day. But far from erasing these
last months we spent journeying together in her futile battle against cancer, I
would want to store every painful detail.
Mum displayed a courage, a side to her hardy character which
we never knew existed in her. The fragility
of life have taken on a new meaning and nothing is permanent, as we should also
learn. And bad as the experience has been, it does not exempt us from even more
harrowing times ahead. Should life throw
us another curved ball and should adversity come knocking on our doorsteps again, we will
remember how strong and brave Mum has been.
We will draw inspiration from the memories.
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