"Dear Alex, I have just returned from a grueling four hours at the hospital where I have learned I have a tumour at the bottom of my oesophagus. This following what I thought was a fairly standard procedure to 'eliminate' anything of such a serious nature a few days ago. To be frank, I am really devastated. The prognosis isn't great. Three lots of four chemotherapy sessions which will hopefully reduce the tumour to a size where it can be completely removed in a single operation, probably just before Christmas. But survival rates for this kind of cancer are no more than 50:50.
It feels weird writing this. You are the first person I have told. I owe you the explanation because there is no way I can get it together to come to London tomorrow and do what we had planned. I need to cordon my resources, inform my family, and get my head round this. I need to find the place inside me that will address this positively and enable me fight and survive it. I hope you understand. Please stay in touch. Hopefully there will be a day in the not too distant future when we can do what we planned and celebrate the joy of that fully."
I have spoken to Richard after receiving this email and he is now spending some time with his family. Given that he lives several hours away from me, I've not been able to see him yet but I hope to arrange that as soon as I return from Singapore. It just makes one wonder: what if you get that diagnosis tomorrow? What is your legacy? What would be on your bucket list? What changes would you make to your life? How would one spend one's last few months on earth? Would you be missed when you're gone? What would people say about you at your funeral? Thanks for reading.
Too poor + young to do anything significant in just a few months. I would love to go travelling and meet new people, but the futherest I could go out of my pocket is probably KL. I would most probably quit school, indugle more often in sinful food like chocolate cake, pudding, ice-cream and empty out my bank account. :)
ReplyDeleteGosh! Where to begin? My first thoughts would be --- how would my son live without me? Would he know how much I love him? What kind of man would he become?
ReplyDeleteI would like to spend my last months in Europe. I would like to walk the cobbled stones of Tuscany with my son and husband.
Then I would come home to die. I want to die on an Ethan Allen sleigh bed with 800 thread cotton Egyptian Cotton sheets. It is a warm autumn day. Not too warm, but warm enough for the windows to be open. The white Irish lace curtain sway slightly in the gentle breeze. I can see a humming bird fluttering its wings outside a window. My son is reading to me one of the many books I have read to him when he was a wee child. Perhaps Robert Munsch's I'll Love You Forever or The Veleteen Rabbit? As he reads, tears flows down my cheeks. My son pauses and looks at me. I tell him to continue reading. When he finishes the story, he takes my hand. He wipes the tears off my cheeks. He says, "You can go now, Mama. It's OK. I'll be OK" I smile. I close my eyes as I squeeze his hand feebly. Then I "leave". My son cries as he places my hand on his cheek. The doctor comes in and declares my time of death. My son asks everyone to leave the room so he could be with me for a while longer.
At the funeral, my son tells the attendees that his mother gave him everything he ever needed. She loved him more than life itself. She was strict and fierce, but she was wise and loving. Then he reads an excerpt from one of his childhood books. Everyone cries. Not a dry eye in the church. The organist plays Amazing Grace. My son throws himself at my casket. His wife (whom I got along with very well and loved liked a daughter) had to prop him up and console him.
My husband is not at my funeral because I intend to survive him.
My friends will all say that I was witty, funny, naughty, and a very true friend.
See, Alex, I got it all planned. Lol!
I am so sorry about your friend. I hope he does get better. I am glad you plan to see him when you get back from your trip. A good friend of mine died 2.5 years ago. He wanted to retire in Vancouver, but he died before he could do that. He lived in Alberta. His family flew here, and I helped to arrange a boat to scatter his ashes out at sea. It was a very sobering day. Till today, my heart aches to hear his voice again. Sometimes I would be driving or just going about my day, and I would think of him out of the blue. Then I would feel the sting of tears in my eyes. I never got to say goodbye. He died of causes similar to a blood clot in his heart.
Live each day with gratitude and prayer.
Thanks for your message Di.
DeleteI am just talking to him ... I let him do the talking and I wonder if I have the right words to say. Sometimes I distract him with stories as I don't want to dwell on the cancer ...
Honey, no one ever knows what the rights words are. Just that you bother do talk to him means a lot to him. Letting him do the talking is a great idea too. It may be a one-minute call or an hour-long call, it doesn't matter. What comforts him is that there is someone listening when he wants to talk. I will pray for him. Miracles do happen. He has 50-50? Help him stay positive.
DeleteTo be honest, I have come across very few people who choose to work hard during the times after the fateful diagnosis is closed. No one should ever aspire to that state in which, post-death, the thing that is inscribed on his or her epitaph was merely, "He/She was a hard worker and gave his/her all for work." That would be really sad. In Japan and South Korea, the phenomenon of death from exhaustion, also known as 'karoshi' in Japanese and 'garoshi' in Korean, is so common owing to all the hours of overtime and being overworked that people do not even bat an eye at it. An American friend told me that his Japanese friend (female) was in her 20's when her father (50's) passed over due to karoshi, and well, let's just say that when asked if she missed him, her response was simply and tragically that she did not feel much for him because she never really saw him at home since young. The point is, do not become a blind slave to work.
ReplyDeleteThis is really a tough period, it must be even tougher on Richard's love ones. Esophageal cancer is really no joke. Even if treatment is successful, there could be compromise in your gastric functions such as reflux, painful swallowing, strictures and functional complications as a result of the chemo or surgery. Stark reminder that we should not take life for granted. Just be there for Richard when he reaches out to you.
ReplyDeleteCatch up in Singapore if keen. PM me at leukast@yahoo.com
There's this documentary known as "Before I Kick The Bucket" by Rowena Kincaid. You might find it interesting. :)
ReplyDelete