“Bad news, there are white spots found in Dad’s X-Ray.”
This was the start of our journey towards the unknown. Questions filled our minds. Is it cancer? Is it benign? Is it stage 4? Is the tumour removable? Is he going to die?
Dad had stage 3 pancreatic cancer that has spread to the liver. He was a hepatitis B carrier, which meant his liver was weaker than most people. His liver had lost its function to remove toxins and he needed to put a stent so that bile can be removed. He was in and out of the hospital to do chemotherapy and resting at home. It was tiring and evident that Dad was losing weight as his ability to consume and digest food is hindered by the condition.
Nevertheless, we had good days, especially when the cancer marker decreases and he responsed fairly well to the medicine. Before we know it, we’re hit in the face by the bad days where he’s got infection from the wound, infection of the blood and is deemed unsuitable for chemotherapy. Instead of fighting the war, his body was busy fighting battles. It was like a roller coaster ride that often throws us into a limbo, wondering what’s next and feeling helpless.
Dad had a funny sense of humour. He has his way of lighten things up and making people laugh (especially when there’s a crowd). It was Chinese New Year Eve, together with some relatives; we gathered for reunion lunch. He had a bile bag attached to him so he took a while to gather his emotions before emerging into the kitchen. And as he did, he said: “ 皇上驾到！” which meant, the emperor has arrived. That was the last meal we had together as a family.
Finally, the doctor says Dad can be discharged to go home. Chemotherapy has no effect on the cancer cells and there isn’t any other treatment available for Dad. We have reached the stage of palliative care. By then, Dad is pretty much bed-ridden and is asleep most of the time. To be honest, my memory of this period is quite hazy; perhaps a part of me is unable to register an unresponsive, bed-ridden, sleepy Dad. Maybe… I just don’t want to remember him that way.
As the day approaches, home nurses visited us to check on Dad and updated us on his progress and also informed us when they think he might pass. Even though armed with these information, there is no way one can be ready for death. Our head registers the information but our heart can’t seem to understand or grasp; it’s almost like the heart malfunctions and feels emotions that indescribable. You try… to function as logically as possible; knowing that you’re just a huge big mess on the inside.
The night before Dad passed, I skipped the memorial service of my mother-in-law (they passed four days apart). It was too overwhelming with the information, the crowd, the unknown, the fear, and the loss. My best-friend, Joyce, drove me home and I slept. My other close friend, Rouxin, was there in the living room with Joyce; they just waited for me. I cannot remember any conversations and I don’t think I could manage any. On hindsight, I felt really bad but touched by their presence. My relatives from Malaysia were staying with us as my mum needed extra help when Dad passes; they needed the room to rest for the night. So I went to sleep in Dad’s room, he was sleeping right beside me on the hospital bed. Our final activity together, resting in the same room, occupying the same space, breathing the same air… perhaps having the same dreams.
We will never be 100% ready for death in the family.
But we can progressively ease ourselves towards the day. Dad has heard everything that I wanted him to know. While I have no regrets, I hope Dad is aware that his life is well-lived and that he should be proud to have been a faithful husband and father to his family. This should be the best report card he can present to our Father in heaven.
Death is not the end.
We continue to process the impact of death and work through grief – we do not “move on” from grief; we move forward with it. Here’s a TedTalk which I found useful and best reflects my train of thoughts,