中It’s not all doom and gloom during radiotherapy. Occasionally there were moments of respite when I could watch some TV with my parents or exchange messages with friends online. Notably, however, I rarely touched the piano during the latter half of the regimen when the side effects took hold. Playing gentle pieces would hardly be putting strain on my body or causing pain, but I just lost interest —— until a friend came up with the suggestion of having a “musical dialogue”. He started by composing a few bars of harmony in arpeggio form for me to “respond” with a melody line on top. That woke up my musical senses, especially when the choice of key was ambiguous and kept me guessing! I came up with some Baroque-like tune, tested it on the piano and sent my composition back. In return, he tweaked my melody line slightly and mixed it with the original harmony into a MIDI track. Tada, a cute little musical project completed! Looking back, my brain was probably operating in quite strange ways, as in composing music in a style that I normally wouldn’t, and not noticing how the pitch of the piano at my parents’ was off by a fraction.
How about the long nights, sleepless for whatever reasons? Friends from other time zones would come to my rescue, patiently reading my boring reports on oral ulcers, pain, or sticky saliva. And of course there’s YouTube providing unlimited brain fodder of all kinds. I scoffed down numerous videos on cooking, food and travel —— basically all the things I missed due to the double-C. The cooking ones were especially captivating, not for their mouth-watering qualities under my circumstances, obviously, but for keeping me intrigued about the taste and texture of those Instagrammable dishes. I also paid special attention to some culinary techniques and tips, hoping to put them to practice one day when food becomes enjoyable again.
As for the uneventful radiotherapy sessions, I tried to brighten up each one by wearing something I liked. Not dressing up, but just to be comfortable. It’s like making a subtle statement that there is still some normality in my life. I opted for long-sleeve cashmere jumpers on most days as they doubled as my “blankets” keeping me warm in the slightly chilly treatment room. Those jumpers were also conveniently without any metal buttons, zips or embellishments that could otherwise cause problems when in close proximity to the scanner. Paired with the jumpers were some skinny jeans, which appeared looser fitting as I gradually shedded weight. What attracted the most attention of the radiographers were my pair of shoes: some leather trainers with my favourite paisley pattern —— blue, on a white and rusty red background, bought second hand prior to the operation. I absolutely adore them as they’re so light on the feet, having been designed to be foldable and easily packed for travel. Also catching the attention of some female radiographers was how colour coordinated my outfits usually continued to be, down to the underwear. They’re pleased to see me having energy for these little details. Indeed, it wasn’t a coincidence. Practical clothing for a patient doesn’t have to be dull, right?
I also spared some energy for my family, who pulled me through the deepest end of radiotherapy by chauffeuring, cooking, preparing medicine, doing housework, as well as dealing with the aftermath of all my failed food experiments (basically cleaning my plate). So it’s rather timely that the 19th day of my treatment fell on the Mid-Autumn (Mooncake) Festival that celebrates familial bond and get-togetherness. To mark the occasion, mum prepared a mini banquet at home, and for once I ditched my irregular meal times and joined the rest of the family at the dinner table, sampling a bit of every dish. It’s a shared experience that I was determined not to miss.
At the end of the day, what protected my mental health through the ordeal is the realisation of how incredibly lucky I am as a patient.
Let’s count the blessings:
My family is not thousands of miles away, otherwise it would have been very difficult to summon help through multiple lockdowns;
We’re a close-knit family with no grievances, so I had no emotional hurdles to overcome when seeking help;
Being a biologist really helps to put my medical condition in perspective and assuage irrational fear. It also enabled deeper discussions with my doctors;
While many people went into financial crises due to COVID-19, pandemic-related job losses or other illnesses, I was fortunate to have the financial security to fund a long career break and focus on my health;
Despite getting a super rare cancer, I had the privilege to be under the care of the UK expert surgeon who’s one-of-a-kind in so many ways, as well as a renowned traditional Chinese medicine doctor who pulled out all the stops to prevent my physical health hitting rock bottom;
Many cancers are simply incurable or found at inoperable locations, with quite pessimistic prognosis, but mine is the opposite;
And last but not least, the great British institution, the National Health Service (NHS). It eliminates any worries about running up a hefty medical bill, for the care was, and still is, all free —— consultations, scans, surgery, hospital stay, radiotherapy and all medicines. I still remember how in the early days of my diagnosis, I was weighing my options of going private for treatment......
A common comment I received on my cancer is that I’m too young for it. Well, it’s all relative, isn’t it? How about babies or children with early onset cancers or other incurable diseases? Their lives have hardly begun......
It’s often said that one should avoid dropping casual platitudes such as “there are many people out there who are less fortunate” or “so-and-so’s plight is much worse than yours” onto patients, as such remarks might be interpreted as their traumatic experience being belittled and can cause emotional distress. Yet, when such realisation comes from within oneself, it can spare one from the abyss of hopelessness. For me, I was well aware that my condition could have been a lot worse. It would have only taken a further delayed operation or a metastasising tumour to change my whole prognosis. Yes, the journey was really tough, at times a nightmare, but the truth remains that the worst case scenarios didn’t materialise*. I was really content to just press on and not complain.
What’s the joy of living in times of crisis? It’s in having a mental refuge in the midst of the physical ordeal, experiencing the deluge of love from those around me, and counting all the blindingly obvious positives.
And the ultimate blessing? To be alive. Yes, just that.
*I was going to say “never materialised”, but “never say never”, right? I get it......