We were five people, five too many in a long sterile room crowded with others who have far more important duties than us. Only a while ago, we were chatting amongst ourselves as we walked down the main corridor. There was a palpable sense of worry as we shuffled alongside one another. Silence was an unspoken understanding that bound all of us together. As if the occasion wasn't sombre enough, the place we were looking for happened to be sited at the furthest end, in a corner which took us past all the other rooms. The distance had the effect of prolonging our pregnant footsteps, while time seemed to have slowed down to stretching seconds, weighed down by heavy anticipation of what was to come.
(I am reminded of what ShY posted on her FB status update one day later: "For once, keeping quiet seems to be the best available option.")
When we finally arrived, we weren't sure where we could stand, so we stood around awkwardly for a few moments; there just wasn't any suitable space to plonk ourselves. I looked around; there were numerous small movements glazing my sight, just like how a cinematic camera would play out fuzzy scenes to show how they are processed and perceived by a confused mind. Mostly, my gaze was met by either sombre-looking or stony faces. An admonishing voice - not directed at us - was soon heard: 'Visiting hours are over.' It was obvious that our presence was frowned upon.
After some hurried shuffling and exchange of disapproving voices, we were led to a small room at the end of the long corridor. Little was spoken in between that time; we just followed where we were led. When the door closed and the eight of us sat nearly huddled inside that room, it was as if the final stroke had been dealt to mark the commencement of our visit.
Once inside, the smallness of the room only served to amplify our unease. The size of perhaps two bathrooms, the room spotted a television suspended coldly from a corner of the ceiling. The only other furnishings were the rock-hard chairs that we sat on. For a brief moment, besides our physical beings, the void in the room was filled only by silence and the grim knowledge of K's illness.
'I guess things just happen,' K finally said in a gentle voice with a weak smile, as if to explain and rationalise things to his hapless visitors.
It is at times like this, I realised, that words fail us. Clasping someone's hands, putting an arm across his shoulder, giving a reassuring look with a subtle twitch of eyebrows or a smile - these small gestures are able to humbly convey something more powerful than what words alone could do. Sometimes, our search for the right words could be a struggle that finds no easy solutions.
Before and After
Only two days ago, we were all gathered at K's place for a happy occasion. We were enjoying ShY's nachos with home-baked salsa toppings, shepherd's pie, stingray, sausages and black peppered chicken, before finishing the night off with chocolate cake from Awfully Chocolate. We were recalling the happy moments of K's wedding and JM and Sa, re-enacting hilarious episodes and having a few good laughs. K was almost upset that we remembered so clearly the embarrassing karaoke songs sung by his parents' friends at his wedding dinner, but not the moment when he and R sang a song together as a wedded couple.
Earlier that night though, I sensed something was amiss when I first met K to buy food before the rest arrived. I noticed that his face was swelling and was certain it was not a case of getting fat - the reason given by the GP that K saw earlier. I urged him to see another doctor, which was what he planned to do anyway. I also did not want to sound alarmist, but I could already detect worry in his look.
Before we had time to know more, the grim and completely unexpected message came on Monday morning, just as all of us were getting started for the day and week. The cause of K's swelling face and neck was finally known: a tumor - in a most inauspicious part of the body. K wanted to let us know, and asked for our prayer; I replied immediately, and copied the rest in my SMS. The next moment, I googled to find out more about the tumor. Things didn't look too good. I was almost shuddering, worried about a good friend whom I have known for almost seventeen years. This came closest to what it feels like when a closed one is met with a misfortune. What Fate or God divined, we are completely powerless to it. There was little we could do against a tumor growing inside a young and healthy body. I was overcome with sadness.
I was surprised at how heavy my heart grew that week. The night before news of K's illness broke, my heart was grieving at the devastation and loss of lives in Japan, as news of the Fukushima radiation leak had heightened the crisis that is still ongoing in Japan. It was dispiriting to read the news and see the heartbreaking pictures in the media. Bound by a common humanity, it is impossible not to feel the pain of the devastation that the Japanese are suffering. When a misfortune of such magnitude happens, everything else surrouding you seems to become relegated to an incosequential level and degree. Posting pictures of your happy weekend and parties on Facebook seems to me almost sacrilegious as friends from Japan posted and twittered updates on the situation in Japan and prayed for hope. The fury of Mother Nature is frightening. At such times, the only defence humans have against the destructive vagaries of Nature is their collective will and solidarity.
But the reality was such that the tragedy was not personal, and it happened miles away. It therefore did not hit me as hard as news of K's illness. For the next 36 hours after the news broke, all we could do was to wait for updates. The waiting proved to be most difficult to bear for R and K's family, who were agonised by a lack of information. Is the tumor benign or malignant? Is there a cure? How serious is it? These difficult questions must be surging through their mind before some light was finally shed.
Thankfully, our worst fears proved premature. When R called me the next day and told me about the preliminary prognosis, I was much relieved and happy. As quickly as the tumour was discovered and K hospitalised, the doctors were now concluding some final tests before sending K for immediate chemotherapy treatment the day after. No surgery was required at this point; K was to undergo chemo for the next 12 weeks. It appears that the doctors were quite confident of the treatment. But as with all kinds of cancers, what nobody could tell is whether there would be complications during the process. Besides that, K could become more susceptible to other illnesses and infections due to a weakened immnue system caused by the treatment.
Action
Regardless, we were relieved to hear the news. In fact, I felt more relieved for R and K's family. Coming to terms with such an unexpected challenge is one thing; having to cope with the innumerable small and big changes that immediately affect their living is quite another. Fortunately, as a young couple R and K enjoy the support of both their families. With K's condition known and understood, my worry turned to R, K's petite wife whom he wedded only 3 months ago. Over the next few days, I was in touch with R through SMS. I told her to let us know if there was anything we could help. Knowing that hospital and money matters would be taken care of by their families, I told R specifically that if there were other mundane things that she needed help with, we would just be a phone call away.
R turned out to be a very strong woman. She reassured me that she was all right, and told me instead to tell K that we would take good care of her, so that he could have a peace of mind. (K was worried for her well-being and the burden that his family had to shoulder.) R was also overwhelmed by concerned SMSes during the week. Though she obviously couldn't reply to everyone, she very much wanted to as she knew these were people who cared. Her strength of mind and resolve became clear to me when we started liaising on the very mundane matters that I spoke about. She asked if we could help clean up their house so that K could return to a fully disinfected home after the first week of chemo treatment. I told her not to worry about this; we would take care of the cleaning and make sure the home's spick and span in time for K's discharge.
Over the next few days, in between stressful work and more stressful work, I was communicating with R on the one hand, and discussing with Sa and Adr over FB messaging on the other. We realised how clueless we were when it comes to knowing what are the proper things to do when preparing a disinfected home for a cancer patient. Apart from a list of cleaning stuff to procure before Saturday, we had to discuss schedules and ask R various questions. As K had started his chemo treatment, we would not be able to see him until after 12 weeks, so as to minimise the risk of him getting any infection from human contact during this period.
At the end of the week (which was only 4 days after we learnt of K's illness), I headed down to Borders after work on Friday and bought two books, a 'Have Faith' bookmark and a warm animal card (K loves animals) for K. The next day, only Sa and I could make it in the end as the others had work. R's brother and girlfriend joined us too. Though we had five pairs of hands, cleaning a small flat proved to be a massive task, for we literally turned the whole flat inside out and scrubbed every corner. It was particularly challenging because R and K own a dog which sheds a lot of hair. While Jolie (their dog) had already been sent over to R's parents' place, its hair was all over the flat and we just never seemed to be able to rid it completely. From 10am in the morning when I lugged a litre of disinfectant and cleaning equipment to R's place, till 7pm in the evening when I stank with sweat and grime, I had spent an entire day scrubbing, wiping, sweeping and emptying a three-room flat. I've never had such an intensive cleaning operation before, and the effects were duly felt on Sunday when I woke up with a stiff neck and aching shoulders. It had been a mentally exhausting week, but I was glad that the worst did not materialise and we were able to help in some way.
Now and after
As I am writing and updating this, K has updated us on his good progress thus far with the treatment. We couldn't visit him and might arrange to use a webcam to see him soon. He and R are both drawing strength from their Christian faith. We will continue to keep them in our prayers, and I hope he would get through this challenging period safe and sound.
Hope will prevail, and you will be okay. Stay strong my friend.
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