中It was a chilly evening as I left the outpatients department.
Perplexed? No, the treatment plan, risks, pros and cons were all clear.
“So the operation will be at the end of March or early April”, I reckoned. That’s pretty soon. On my way back to the office, I shared the latest news and the shocking MRI image with my family, close friends and my boss. Gotta start planning and get into position, folks.
Scared? Of course.
I’m the timid kind that wouldn’t consider piercing my ears just for earrings. In the kitchen, I rarely hurt myself with cuts or burns. I’m also almost immune to sports injuries. But now a major operation awaits! You know the kind of movie scene where a baddie holds a knife against a hostage’s neck? That’s roughly where the knife would be on my neck!
I dreaded the pain. The scar. (Will I have to wear my hair long again?) Damage to major nerves. But what could I do? There’s no running away from the operation. But I didn’t and don’t fear death. This is not a terminal illness, the chance of it killing me is very low. I wasn’t going to get wound up by this.
Whenever I am served bad news, my rational brain automatically takes charge. Its motto is like the public message from the British government before WWII: “Keep calm and carry on”. That’s exactly what I did and looked —— at the outpatients clinic, on the street, on the bus, or when messaging people about the diagnosis. My teacher once said that I rarely get emotional trauma whatever life throws at me and remain as cool as a cucumber. Others, especially those who work with me, had the impression of me being an armoured warrior queen on horseback who “fights” each “battle” stoically, with rigour.
Still, there are limits for my rationality. I’m not a robot. I wasn’t returning to my office desk straightaway to answer emails and calls, as if nothing had happened.
I needed some quiet, private space to digest what I had taken in and organise my thoughts. My car was parked at a quieter corner of the company carpark, that’s where I needed to be.
In the driving seat. I sat upright, but my heart slumped. What came to my mind? The unforgettable MRI image? Plan A vs Plan B? No. I saw a huge wave. A tsunami.
I’m not a novice in surfing waves in life. Whatever cards life dealt me, I accepted. The past decade had been an intense training period, with wave after wave which kept growing in height. I never shied away from them, and thankfully didn’t drown either. It made me quite a skilled surfer.
Enough training for now? I was a bit worn out. “Can I take a break, please?” No. The next wave was ascending and approaching fast!
Oh, great......
“Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”? “Suffering makes you a better person”? “Every cloud has a silver lining”?
I needed to speak to someone. A very good friend swiftly turned up. The warrior queen’s armour was shed. It wasn’t long before I bursted into tears and cried my eyes out. They weren’t tears of fear, not “why me?” but “why now!?”
It was a long chat. The car was really cold, of course it was. Neither of us had thought of turning the heating on......
So, my emotional brain had finally spoken; it was now at peace. The ball was passed back to my rational self to figure out how best to surf this tsunami.
The only other time that I shedded a tear in this journey was many months later, when the pain from the numerous oral ulcers was so intense —— a nasty side effect of radiotherapy. (Yes, I do dread physical pain......)