A Kinder Way to Life

Cancer, like a death sentence, was pronounced on me at the age of 33. I guess I can be only thankful that I didn’t know I had it until long after my operation was over.

The whole discovery of the tumour was a dream that I was waiting to be over. I thought I’ll wake up from the dream and continue living my life, but little did I know that my life has been changed forever.

Did my family refrain from using that word to protect me? But from what? I wondered. At first, it was a tumour, appearing in a routine scan. “A tumour”, a concept I heard for the first time in that routine scan room. I was told to go to the hospital and have it cut out, so I did, obediently. A few days later, it was cut, and I thought that was the end of that.

Little did I know, there is radiation therapy and chemotherapy to follow. I was sent to MD Anderson in Houston, and even by that point the seriousness of the illness didn’t occur to me. HOW? I have no idea. Isn’t the fact that MD Anderson is a hospital making my cancer obvious? But I was so innocent and naively blind to it all. I flew into Houston, went through all the registration paperwork, the tests and scans, so that I could finish all the work and go home soon.

Then, I was told to go freeze my eggs at a nearby clinic, so I went. I still remember that moment, when the nurse told me cheerfully: “Sweetie, you can get financial help for your drugs, they give out free stuff to cancer patients”.

There, it finally hit me, like a death sentence. Wait! What? What did you say I have? I wanted to shout. It was beyond comprehension. Not in my dictionary.

Me? Cancer? That doesn’t make sense. The doctors must have made a mistake. I am the healthiest person on earth that I’ve ever met (I guess my ancestors don’t count, as I can’t call them out from their graves to stage a health contest with me). I eat right, sleep right, exercise right, and the last time I got even the smallest minor cold was over a decade ago. I thought I was an exemplar of health.

And I had expected cancer to be a horrible monster, reserved for the old ones, the physically weak ones, and the badly behaved ones (like those naughty kids who ate too many chocolate cookies and had their arteries clogged and live with inflammation caused by visceral fat). These concepts were so foreign to me, they’re miles away, probably lifetimes away from me, that I need to probably mis-behave for another three lifetimes to get anywhere close to cancer! By that point, I was still telling myself that the nurse didn’t know what she’s talking about. I said to myself, “She must have me confused. She’s not my doctor, she’s just met me, she doesn’t even know me.” So the narrative goes. I really don’t know how long it took for the truth to sink in, but when it finally did, it was brutal. I felt my world crushing down on me, like infernal. (I mean, I’ve never been to infernal, but I just know the real thing can’t be any worse)

For months, I shed many tears, more tears than I thought could be stored up in a human being. The flood just gushed out, I couldn’t even explain why I was sad.

I’ve had friends who can tell you exactly why they’re sad. One friend, who was discovered with stage 3 breast cancer during Covid, had 8 operations, lost all her hair in each of the subsequent chemo cycles, and now has one arm shorter than the other. She had a story to tell. She could pin down exactly what she was grieving for.

But I could find no justification for my tears, because I never had any symptoms. No, nothing, not even the slightest pain. My tumour was discovered in a routine checkup, so no pain. My operation was numbed by anesthetics, so no pain. The radiation therapy was no pain – in fact, they even plug in earphones so that I can listen to music, how fun! And my chemo was just pills – absolutely nothing considering my friend was doing drippings for 8 hours a day for her chemo. No pain, no story, no drama, but still tears. For that reason, I grieved alone.

People say I’m lucky that I felt no symptoms. I absolutely agree, but what does that do? It was a feeling so unfamiliar to me.

If I felt pain, I could confide in others. And if I’m completely cured, I could open a bottle of champagne with others. But I was neither. I was a cancer patient for life (as the tumour cells will continue to have traces remaining, and doctors can only help me control their growth), with no drama and no story.

The months when I stayed in Houston were the darkest in my life. My mom and dad stayed with me in Houston to keep me company (and walk me to the radiation centre, even though it was only 10 minutes walk from our hotel). But I could not articulate my inner pain and confusion, and suffered alone.

Mom had lots of time during these months (away from home, away from house chores and socializing commitments), so she started reading more books. “I’ve read more books in the months in Houston than I’ve done for years at home!” she said proudly, and went on to share with me the content of her readings.

And guess what she read? She read books of these heroes in China who suffered from cancer, and made something amazing from that. They’ve established charities and fundraised trillions to help cancer children, they’ve engaged with medical studies and supported incredible breakthroughs in our medical fields, and they’ve written books to inspire billions of others to live life positively and lovingly.

Frankly, I could not bring myself to read these books. I read the first few pages of Paul Kalanithi’s book and felt like throwing up. How incredible that other cancer patients suffer so much, and I feel nothing? They are truly the heroes, for fighting immense physical pain, and they do face mentality (absolutely, seeing that Paul actually died!). And here I am, with no symptoms and just tears, makes me feel like a fraud and a coward.

I just nodded and smiled as mom shared these incredibly “inspiring” stories with me, and I felt that I am such a failure. Failing, failing, failing. I fail, even with cancer.

I felt so lonely and so humbled by my cancer experience. I still feel tearful thinking back at the process, and when my expectations have all gone to dust, I hope that the future will offer me more enlightenment.