"Why Are You Doing This To Yourself?"

I am a cancer survivor.

I started noticing the growth when I was about 17.  By the time the tumor had gotten so large that I had to, reluctantly, bring it to my doctor brother's attention, I was 19.  Not only was it malignant.  Actually, it was an aggressive type that is particularly dangerous, and potentially lethal, for young patients.  The decision was that I suspend school so as to receive treatments immediately.  

In addition to surgery and many weeks of radiotherapy, I had to go through six courses of chemotherapy.

   

Because of my young age, I was given the heaviest dosage possible in order to make sure the cancer does not come back.  There were three shots in each dose: a small blue-colored one, a small clear one and a larger clear one.  I had no idea what was what.  I only knew they were poison.  The idea behind chemotherapy is to attack actively dividing cells -- healthy and cancer cells alike -- so that the cancer does not have a chance to metastasize . . . while hoping that the patient survives.

I usually went to the hospital on my own.  After a quick blood test to verify that I had sufficient red blood cell count to endure another dose of chemo, I would be admitted into a ward to wait for a doctor to come to execute the injections.  

There were usually four weeks between doses.  Sometimes I got sent home after the blood test because my blood count was too low to endure another dose.  If that happened, I had to wait for another two weeks, hoping that my body would recuperate enough to generate more red blood cells.  

The chemo injection is a very strange experience: It feels so cold when the solutions are injected into the vein.  At the same time, it also burns as these chemicals travel along the blood vessels.  It is really painful.  With this feelings inside your body, it is actually possible to track the exact reach of the solutions moment by moment.  Usually, I lie in my bed with my eyes closed to experience this strange sensation until the pain reached my head and knocked me out.

Between the many blood tests and the IV for chemo injections, I sometimes ran out of sites for the doctors to stick another needle in me.  One time a doctor tried to force the drugs through a bad IV.  It caused my blood vessel to swell up so badly that it was not usable for a year.  

Chemo was very traumatizing.  Looking at the many needle holes and bruises on my hands and arms was enough to trigger nausea in me.  My dear brother, CK, tried hard to find things to distract me.  Thanks to him, because he "really desperately wanted to play mahjong", I was forced to learn to play so I could be one of the four players needed for the game.  Most of the time, I felt exhausted, but could not sleep.  My head was spinning.  It was not easy to play mahjong while feeling that way.

I have always been very close to my doctor brother, TW.  He is possibly the smartest among the siblings.  

After my first dose of chemo, TW congratulated me: "Hey, you got one down!"  

I looked at him with a big frown: "There are still five more to go!"  😓 

Every subsequent dose of chemo was just as bad.  Occasional surprises -- complications or exceptionally bad reactions -- got me even more wiped out than usual.  Painful injections were followed by many days of severe nausea and headaches.  It felt like a very dark tunnel that had no end.

After my second dose, my brother TW congratulated me again, "You finished another one!" "But I have four more!!!" I exclaimed.  😣  

😁 "Think of it this way: You already finished a third of it.  Just do the same two more times and you will be done."  My brother can be so annoyingly positive at times.

For my final dose, TW took time off work to accompany me to the hospital.  My sweet brother sat next to my bed to hold my hand as we waited.  Seeing that look in his eyes, tears came down my face.  It was already not easy to withstand the discomfort of the treatment alone, yet it was worse having my brother around to helplessly watch me suffer.  

The many emotions mixed with my anticipation of what was to come caused my body to twitch uncontrollably, as if I were slipping into some convulsion fit.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?  Don't make it worse . . ."  My brother lamented as he gently stroked my hand.

  

What my brother said sounded very logical.  However, it just was not how it felt.  

Before I had chemotherapy, I had no idea what would happen.  Being young and stupid, I did not anticipate the process to be so awful and miserable.  Just as the discomfort from one dose began to lift, it was time for yet another dose.  I could see in my head that the butterfly needle was waiting to take my blood again.

After you have experienced the first round, you are scared to face the second round.  Your immunity system was so hammered by the drugs that your body's ability to handle the injection continued to diminish.  Being experienced does not help you feel more prepared.  Instead, it makes you fear even more.  

Recently, the memory of this episode in my life came up when I was talking to my sister.  

"TW was right.  There was a lot of truth in what he said," my sister concurred.

"I know he was trying to help me think positively.  Logically, he was right," I replied.  "Unfortunately, that is not how emotions work.  Also, the assumption that every subsequent dose would feel the same is flawed.  No matter how many doses I had taken, when it was time for another one, I still wondered if I could survive.  It was a very traumatic experience."

It is true that, when we see our loved ones suffer, we are eager to jump to help solve their problems.  Unfortunately, not all problems can be "solved".   Tackling them is the sole privilege of the parties involved.  Bystanders may only get to witness it and weep our sympathetic tears.  

Nobody can or should argue with people about how they feel.  Feelings are feelings.  To show our love, the best way maybe to acknowledge their feelings and hold their hands as they brave their way out of the woods . . . 

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