Why I Cry

I’d mentioned before that my aunt – my mom’s sister and my godmother – was diagnosed with cancer. She had a hysterectomy in May, and had undergone three rounds of chemotherapy. I’d never seen her since before she got diagnosed.

Not until yesterday.

My aunt’s family – my uncle and cousins – had already asked for help. Simply help to relieve them at my aunt’s bedside and give them some chances to rest. My mom had already assumed even beforehand that I’d be going with her to watch over my aunt in the hospital, thanks to my availability it being a holiday. But overhearing that my aunt had developed pneumonia had left me concerned.

I know I sound selfish. But whether I like it or not, I am now immuno-compromised. And pneumonia is always going to be one of my foes. Ate, our nurse at the RITM, had advised me against exposing myself to it. But my mom nagged me enough to get me to go. Of course she didn’t know what risk I was running. Until last minute, I still wasn’t sure whether I’d stay the whole time or just take my mom there and leave. I just thought, worst case, if I stayed, I’d just spend most of the time outside the room.

So, fine. I woke up early for a holiday, took breakfast, showered and dressed up. My first instinct was to wear my happiest outfit to cheer things up. Was it inappropriate? It wasn’t a wake anyway, right? So I ended up in a blinding orange shirt with a huge smiley printed on it. Very me.

I spent the cab ride to the hospital thinking. I knew she was in recovery. I knew she was in some pain. I knew chemotherapy had caused her to lose her hair. I knew she’d been wearing wigs and hats to hide it. I knew she was going to look different from when I last saw her. But no matter how much I knew, nothing could prepare me for what I was going to see.

Stepping into her room and seeing her for the first time, I was overwhelmed. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe how different she looked. It was pitiful. I almost cried. But I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. I knew that in the same way I don’t want anyone’s pity, she wouldn’t want it either. So I tried my best to keep the tears at bay. But I didn’t know how else to react for the first few minutes.

Frail, pale and lying in bed, she looked up at me, pointed at my shirt and said, “Now that makes me smile!” But you know what, more than me making her smile, I think she was trying to make me smile. As always.

This was the woman who never made me feel like I was a disappointment. This was the woman who always made me feel good about myself. This was the woman who always had something good to say about me. This was the woman who would take the news of my HIV status well. This was the woman who I don’t think ever made me cry. She still was.

So at that point, the pneumonia was not a factor. Catching anything was the least of my concerns. I was going to stay. For her.

The rest of the day was spent massaging her legs, applying some hot compress, adjusting her blanket, fanning her head... just anything she needed that could give her comfort. But I could feel she was in a lot of pain. It was so bad at times that she was crying. I admit, I shed a few tears myself. But I tried my best to hide them. Believe me, I shed more secret tears during my six-hour stay with my aunt, than I did for the more than a year that my dad suffered from cancer himself. It was heartbreaking to see her suffering. But what was more heartbreaking was that there was nothing I could do to ease it.

It was tough to be there to hear that the prognosis was bad. It was tough to hear that the cancer came back with a vengeance. It was tough to hear she wasn’t responding to chemotherapy. It was tough to hear the word “palliative” being used. But surely, not as tough as what she was going through.

Indeed, it is scary that the cancer genes are definitely present in both sides of my family tree. And HIV causing me to be more prone to it definitely won’t help. But certainly, if my own time comes, I shall never forget the spirit with which my aunt is fighting right now.

Right now, I’m still physically, mentally and emotionally drained. You won’t believe how many times and how hard I cried just writing this entry. The heavens can be so unfair sometimes. Certainly, as a mentor, as a daughter, as a sister, as a wife and as a mother, she has much more to live for than I do. She just doesn’t deserve this. If I could take her pain and suffering, I would. I would. I would.

Before leaving, while no one was looking, I left a rosary by her bedside. It was a rosary given to me, brought from and blessed in Jerusalem itself. I always had it at my own bedside. But this time, I think my aunt needs it more than I do. Please help me pray for her... if not for her recovery, just for some relief and comfort. Please... Thanks.