My Mother’s Victory
By Sharon Toh Shu Ren (19 Mar 2006)

December 17, 1999 marked the end of an intense, exhausting battle of just over two years. On that day, my mother died of cancer.

After the first diagnosis in late 1997, she tried to live as normally as possible. She took in her stride whatever the illness chucked at her: surgery, chemotherapy, hair loss, mouth ulcers, blackened skin; worst of all, insensitive comments from people who should have known better, whom she cared about and whom she thought cared about her.

The surgery, to remove the affected section of her colon, took place barely a week after the diagnosis. I believe it was the first time she was admitted to hospital since my birth in 1980. When visiting hours ended and my family had to leave, she didn’t say a word about being alone the night before major surgery. Not once at that time did she share how she felt, having been diagnosed with the disease that had killed her father 34 years earlier. From the day she found out until the day she died, I only heard her voice her fear of the future once.

After surgery, she went back to work. It wasn’t easy. Her hair was falling out, and though she’d invested in a stylish hand-made wig, she believed it was as becoming and natural-looking as feathers on a fish. She was the only one - we thought of as always beautiful.

A faithful few of her friends would call regularly, come visiting, and treat her as if nothing had changed. Others stayed away, as if cancer was contagious. Even their phone calls stopped, as if with every syllable she uttered my mother could infect them with “cancer germs” that twisted and turned their way through the phone lines. She was a private person who seldom shared her feelings with even her family, but the look in her eyes when she talked about the people who had turned away told of her hurt.

My mother’s family rallied to her side. Her doctor brother arranged for her surgery and treatment in Singapore through his industry contacts, and never mentioned the cost. Mama, our maternal grandmother, spent weeks at a time with us to give moral support, keep my mother company and cook her priceless assam fish, sayur paku and jiu hoo char when our spirits needed lifting.

My mother’s two sisters took time off from their work in Penang to spend alternate weeks with her. Her other brother sent his support from Penang and came to visit when he could.

Together, all these friends and relatives were like a safety net, keeping my family cushioned from the free fall that begins the moment you hear the word “cancer” in the same sentence as your loved one’s name.

My mother went into remission for a time, and we assumed that meant the danger was over and this little nuisance called cancer had left for good. For a while, I believe, she dared to dream of the future, of seeing my brother and me graduate from university, settle down and have families of our own.

Then, less than two years after the initial diagnosis, I was in a tutorial at university when my father called. My parents were in Singapore for my mother’s follow-up with the oncologist. They were a frugal pair, and I knew they would not call in the daytime just to chat with me about classes or to find out how the cats and dog were doing.

The cancer was back.

After that, it seemed to me as if someone put the clock in fast-forward mode.

More surgery, this time to insert a Portacath in her body to make it easier to administer medication.

More chemotherapy.

Thankfully, this time it was with a drug that allowed her to keep her hair and spared her the painful mouth ulcers. Until now, irrational as it may seem, I am glad she was able to die in dignity and with her natural beauty untouched. Naturally, if I had my way I would rather have her not die at all, not for another 20-30 years. But why not be thankful for the things that made her passing less painful for all of us?

She insisted on working until almost exactly a month before her death, by which time the treatments had been stopped. The most they could do by then was offer a feeble extension of three months, maybe six. And they would be painful, uncomfortable months. My mother knew that the stopping of treatment meant not only that her days were numbered, but that the days were few. Still, she chosen to live the rest of her life to the fullest and not leave us with only sad memories of her quick decline.

A trip to Bangkok with some members of the extended family was like a celebration of her new life of total freedom from needles, doctors and treatment schedules.

The morning after our return to Petaling Jaya, I woke up to find myself alone. Soon, my brother came home and told me that my parents had gone to the hospital because my mother had been coughing the whole night and couldn’t breathe.

Exactly three weeks later, she died peacefully at home.

Even so, I believe she won the battle against cancer. She died surrounded by people who loved her. Cancer may have destroyed her body, and numerous medical procedures weakened it, but the experience of those two years only strengthened her spirit. She made her peace with God weeks before she died, while her mind was still lucid and unaffected by pain-relieving drugs. She left an immeasurable legacy, the memory of her colourful and vibrant personality, which will remain with her family and friends as long as we live. Cancer may have shortened her life, but it cannot diminish its influence over those of others who knew her and who hear her story. That was and is my mother’s victory.
 

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