Gen Y Speaks: My hopes, pain and tears in my mum’s fight against cancer
I think I speak for most people coping with the loss of a loved one when I say that the pain almost never goes away, however hard we mask the agony and try to adapt.
Wednesday (Sept 30) marked exactly one year since my mum left us.
She would have been 64 years old, enjoying life and (probably) looking forward to watching her two daughters get married, settle down and have families of their own.
Yet life does not always turn out the way we expect it to.
To say that my world turned upside down the day my mum was diagnosed with final stage neuroendocrine cancer would have been a huge understatement.
I was in the midst of a casual chat with my manager at work about my upcoming family holiday in China when my dad rang.
They say that some phone calls are life changing, and I guess I never understood that until I heard my dad’s voice that day. He did not have to say much.
The moment he called out my name in that broken voice, I realised life would never be the same.
As I rushed over to the hospital, I never knew I had it in me to store that many tears. Or that sobs could be so uncontrollable.
My mum took one look at me and shook her head: “Why are you crying? Aiyo, don’t cry anymore, later your eyes will get swollen.”
“Se, then our family holiday how? Don’t know whether still can go or not. Do we need to postpone it?”
Isn’t it amazing that facing a life-threatening disease, the very first thing on a mother’s mind was not herself, but her family?
She then told me very calmly that she had asked the doctors how long more she could live, but nobody had any answers for her. What could we say to that?
At that time, there was only one thing we could hang on to — hope. Hope that the doctors had made a mistake, hope that her condition was not actually cancer, and hope that it was not final stage cancer.
KEEPING A PROMISE
The days after her diagnosis were fraught with confusion, uncertainties and an overwhelming sense of helplessness for my family.
My sister and I decided to take unpaid leave from work so that we could care for our mum at the hospital round the clock.
This went on for about two and a half months, and we made use of whatever reclining chairs we could find lying around for our makeshift sleeping quarters.
Thinking back now, it was probably the best two and a half months of my life. How many of us have the luxury of time to spend 24 hours a day and seven days a week with our parent without ever leaving their side?
The author and her sister took unpaid leave to care for their mother around the clock in hospital. Photo courtesy of Seline Kok
One day in the first week that we stayed over, at about 4am, we heard gut wrenching howls echoing through the corridor.
I had never heard cries like that before in my life; those guttural sounds expressed so much grief it was hair raising.
My sister and I were at one side of my mum’s bed each, and all three of us lay there with our eyes wide open, probably thinking the exact same thing.
Breaking the silence, my mum looked at both of us almost defiantly and whispered: “Don’t go outside, somebody just died. Quickly go to sleep.”
A few days later, doctors said that there were complications to my mum’s situation. They suspected that her intestines had ruptured, and that the toxins would enter her blood stream.
In layman terms, she was in a critical condition and would probably not last more than a couple of days. We were told to say our final goodbyes.
My mum was conscious throughout, and she never once shed a tear as she bade her farewells to relatives and friends, less than a month after her initial diagnosis.
My sister and I pleaded with the oncologists and the surgeons. We wanted to try anything that had a slight chance of making her better.
The next few days were the toughest. It was akin to knowing that the sky would crash onto your head, but you just didn’t know when exactly, or how.
Yet for an entire week after we were told to prepare for the worst, my mum’s vitals remained stable.
She told the doctors every single morning without fail that she could not go yet — she had to wait for my uncle and aunt to return to Singapore from their trip, as she had promised them.
My mum had always been a resilient woman, if she had promised someone something, you can be sure that she will fulfil it.
And she did. Doctors told us that it was a miracle because my mum’s intestines ended up sealing by themselves.
The author and her family on a holiday to Port Dickson in Malaysia in October 2018 before her mother was diagnosed with cancer. Photo courtesy of Seline Kok
GOING HOME BUT NO MORE MIRACLE
My sister and I have always been close, but during the long hospital stays together and many heart to heart talks, we grew even closer.
We discussed our mum’s situation in depth every day so that we could prepare a list of questions to ask the doctors making their rounds.
We researched the best kinds of food for cancer patients and created a food diary for our mum. We accompanied her on her physiotherapy sessions and took walks with her even as her muscles started to waste away.
All these duties and responsibilities kept us busy; they kept us sane.
We are also grateful for our relatives and friends who stood by us throughout that period.
Things eventually took a turn for the better, when our mum recovered enough to be discharged.
We had so much hope then.
We busied ourselves getting ready to welcome our mum (and ourselves) back home after three long months.
We prepared her wheelchair, her walking aid and learnt from the nurses how to change her abdominal tap drainage and fentanyl patch. This was in May 2019.
For more than four months, my mum stayed with us at home. She taught us how to cook, she taught us how to handwash clothes properly, she taught us how to sew.
We took her out to parks, to eateries and accompanied her for her weekly chemotherapy sessions.
Everything seemed to be going so well, until September 2019.
We found out from the doctors that she was no longer responding to the chemotherapy. It all went downhill from there.
I knew then, that miracles never happen twice, and that we were more than lucky enough to have experienced the first.
My family belonged to the traditional type of Chinese family — we hardly ever openly express our emotions.
But I am grateful we were gifted a few months together with her and that I had the chance to thank her properly for everything that she had done for us.
In turn, she would reassure us that she had led a good life without any major regrets — perhaps apart from not being able to watch her two daughters get married.
She also told me on countless occasions: "Don't blame anyone for what happened. It is nobody's fault."
That stayed with me for the longest time, and it was what I drew strength from during the darkest periods, knowing that we have done all we could for her.
In a strange way, I felt more aggrieved when I first heard news about my mum’s cancer than when I knew that she had to be hospitalised for a second time.
I guess by then, I was better able to come to terms with it. I had spent every waking and non-waking hour of my time with my mum at the hospital, and then at home.
Surely, that would have given me enough time to bid my farewell to her.
Yet when time is limited, it can never be enough.
Marking the author's sister's birthday in hospital in April 2019, the author's mother had promised the author that she would be around to celebrate the latter's birthday in September too. She kept her promise, but died later that month. Photo courtesy of Seline Kok
LOSING THE FIGHT
When she was hospitalised for a second time, she was so weary, so spent.
All the months of undergoing painful blood tests, chemotherapy sessions, endless vomiting — what did they count for?
Once, I fed her some fish and tried to coax her to eat so that her body could have some nutrients. She took one look at me and told me something I would never be able to forget. “Don’t force me anymore.”
My heart broke. And that was when I knew that my mum had lost the fight to her cancer.
The wilfulness that she had during the first time she was warded was gone. When people suffer for extended periods of time, it changes them.
It gnaws away at their resolve and it weakens their willpower.
Wouldn’t it be selfish of us to expect her to continue fighting for us, gritting her teeth through all the pain and suffering? None of us would want to see that.
Another time, my uncle came by to give her a new type of medicinal herb to try. My mum told my sister: “Is it too late?”
By then, I had no doubt that she no longer had the will to fight.
In her last few days, she was constantly tired, and drifted in and out of consciousness.
Throughout my stay in the hospital, I had seen two persons pass on in the ward that my mum was in. Both were barely conscious going into their final hours.
It was the same with my mum. For hours, she would stare ahead at nothingness. She would react to us less and less. She stopped eating completely. And then she stopped drinking.
I knew it was time to let her go.
The sight of her lifeless eyes staring straight ahead still haunts me today. I wish she had looked at me for one last time, instead of looking through me as she breathed her last.
Although the process of healing generally begins after a person’s passing, mine had already started during the time we spent with her in the hospital.
My mum used to tell me that she hated dusk; she hated the period where the sun was about to set, as it always made her very sad even as a child.
On Sept 30, 2019, she passed away at 6.50pm, just as dusk came and the sun’s orange hues spread across the horizon.
I think I finally know why I will always love sunsets. Because it reminds me of her. And when I think of her, there should be no fear.
I could not write the cancer survivor story I had so badly wanted to write, but I have come to the realisation that the most beautiful part about any story is the journey, and not the end.
Rest in peace, mam.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Seline Kok, 28, works in corporate communications.
