The Invisible Scars

Six months have passed since my cancer diagnosis, and life seems to be back to normal, without a trace of illness or tiredness. In fact, many of my colleagues never found out why I was on sick extended leave, nor would they ever imagine cancer as a possibility knowing how full of energy and liveliness I always am.

I also feel that I’m no different. After my surgery, I’ve never suffered any pain. Two months of radiation therapy was just a matter of lying flat on a bed for ten minutes a day (the hospital room even plays music in the background for entertainment). And for my ongoing 12 months of chemotherapy, I just take medicine at home five times per month (it takes about 30 seconds to swallow, including a cup of water).

Often when people say to me, “poor you” or, “you must have gone through a lot,” I just smile, but deep down I am silently saying back, “Oh I haven’t been through anything, not really.” A good friend who suffered breast cancer during COVID had ten surgeries already. Her chemo was in the form of drippings, for eight hours a day, every day, for one year. She said that she’s become very close friends with the nurses in the hospital because they spend so much time together.

I don’t know if I should be thankful that I’ve not suffered, compared to her. But sometimes when I feel lonely, I also feel a little envious of her rich experiences. I felt that she had a story to tell and I didn’t.

But that means I am back to my normal happy life, right? Well, not really. Some things have become different.

I feel that I’m ten years younger, not physically, but in terms of independence. Mom took time off to nurse me for the past six months, and she said there was no way she would return to her life until the end of my chemo treatment. I felt like a little girl again.

I do enjoy time with my mom, and we are as close as mother and daughter can be, but I now have very little independence. I’ve been living by myself since university and have grown into my independence, and now I am losing it.

I am now on a very strict diet, curated by Mom. Every meal is nutritious, balanced, and absolutely delicious. She even went through books and books of material to understand the science of healthy eating, and whenever she sees some doctor recommending a particular anti-cancer food, she’ll immediately dash off to the shop to get it. I know she means the best for me, but still, cutting out some of my favorite foods sometimes can be challenging, including the likes of matcha ice cream.

My New Year resolution was to get back into shape, after gaining ten kilos after my illness. Just as I was about to return to the gym, my mom disapproved. “This is not the time. You need to focus on having lots of rest and be gentle with your body.”

Soon after returning to work, a great opportunity came up for me. I was thrilled and applied immediately. Mom and Dad were not so enthusiastic. “Under normal circumstances, we would encourage you to work hard, but this year you need to rest,” they said.

Many of my mom and dad’s friends are very surprised to find that I’m still working because they would absolutely let me stay in bed every day if they were my parents. Mom and Dad must have been affected by this mentality somewhat, and they said to me that they were already treating me in an exceptional way by allowing me to work but warned me to absolutely not exhaust myself.

Suddenly, I felt my world crashing because the values of ambition and achievement that have been so fundamental to my identity were gone. I no longer recognized myself.

What’s the point of staying alive, if I cannot be in control of it? I mean, if I cannot be the center of my own life because I have the responsibility of caring for elderlies or infants, then at least I feel I’ve been useful. But to be in my circumstance of living a restricted life, for no reason except for the fact that cancer is a scary word doesn’t make much sense.

Friends often ask me how I’m feeling, and when I say I have no pain they let out a breath of relief. They then ask me if I have any symptoms. No nausea? No headache? No tiredness?… and upon finding me answering “no” to every one of the questions, their face relaxes into a big smile.

But deep down, I feel trapped. The label of cancer is like a ghost. I don’t see it, but I know it is following right behind me. What’s worse? The formlessness of cancer the ghost means I could not even declare war on it so that we could have a proper fight to see who is stronger.

On a good day, I feel the sun is bright, and I really enjoy being looked after by Mom. Mom has always said that she enjoys coming halfway across the worldf to visit me in London, and she enjoys all the magic the city offers—taking long walks in the parks, visiting museums and really taking her time to see each picture properly, shopping for international fashion, enjoying the big city’s culinary treats, and enjoying quiet time to read by herself at home. I felt great that I live in London, so that she could stay for as long as she liked without the need to rush from one attraction to the next like most tourists.

But once in a while, the ghost returns to haunt me, carving invisible scars into me.

A few days ago when I mentioned that career opportunity again, Mom was furious. “Do you know that I’ve given up everything in my routine life just to nurse you?” she burst out with rage. “How could you be so selfish as to just think about what you want? You need rest now so that the tumor doesn’t return. Even if you’re willing to go through all that treatment again, I am not!”

So that was the end of that conversation. I can’t even argue with her.

I have always lived life wanting to make my mom proud of me. I have always envisaged a life where I can gain career and financial stability and have lots of energy and capacity to look after my parents and extended family members during their times of need. I felt such a life would make me proud of myself and that it would give me confidence that all the time and effort Mom has invested into my upbringing is all worth it.

And now, even if I have the strength and intellect to reach for such a dream, Mom is not allowing it. The label of cancer has stuck to me, and I just have to live with it. I feel like surrendering to cancer. Once a cancer patient, always a cancer patient. Here I am, six months after diagnosis, only beginning to discover how difficult this journey ahead is going to be.