My sister, the cancer warrior
A WAR baby, my sister subsisted on rice am. It was a cheap substitute for mother’s milk during World War II. The old folks swore by its nutritive value, crediting it with my sister’s good health in her growing years.
Unfortunately, when she turned 69, breast cancer struck without any warning. But then who said cancer rings the alarm bell? Armed with the 3 Ps—positivism, perseverance and prayers (the most efficacious armor of all)—she waged a valiant battle against the dreaded disease. Defeat was not in her vocabulary.
Short of getting a direct line to heaven, our prayer brigade stormed the celestial gates with petitions for her wellbeing, via social media that reached three continents. As a result, my sister was deluged with words of comfort, prayers and Mass offerings. One of her former classmates posted on the Internet that Canada, where my sister is based, has one of the best, if not the best, cancer programs there is. No truer words could have been said. As my sister would recount later, she was administered with first-rate cancer management from her oncologist down to the nursing care, post-op services and checkups.
Although a bit scarred, literally and figuratively, from the “fight,” she would recall now with amusement that she’s already a veteran of the “invasion” of medical instruments. Every nook and cranny of her anatomy has been poked by a syringe, needle, spatula and what-have-you.
Each time she underwent chemo, she was rushed to the hospital due to adverse reactions to the medicine. At one point, my sister’s wedding ring had to be cut because her finger got so swollen from allergy to antibiotics. At another occasion she and her 93-year-old mother-in-law (who was admitted for renal problems) were lying side by side in the emergency room. Her husband took it rather good-naturedly. At least, he said, it saved him from shuttling back and forth from one room to another.
If prostate cancer wreaks havoc on the male machismo, losing one’s hair (a woman’s crowning glory) was more traumatic than losing one of her breasts, my sister declared. Her heart sank just watching clumps of her hair falling on the bathroom floor each time she took a shower. It was too much to bear. So she asked her husband, Dave, to shave off her head before she becomes all bald. The ghastly sight would totally devastate her.
She opted to wear scarves in lieu of a wig. An array of colorful collection hung in her closet. A certified clothes horse, my sister had to match everything with the head gear. They must have looked great on her because at church, an elderly male parishioner would approach her, each time she went to Mass, to give her a candy. This went on for months until she grew back her hair. I jokingly reminded her of the saying “never take a candy from a stranger.”
Now that she is sporting a new crop of salt-and-pepper hair, some of her friends call her Judi Dench, of “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel” fame. Come to think of it, she sure is a dead ringer for the British movie star.
Her hair never fails to draw flattering comments even from people she hardly knows. At the rate she has been eliciting complimentary remarks about it, my sister decided definitively, no more hair color for her. If I may say so myself, the new hairdo does look very becoming. It adds, to a certain degree, to her respectability and vivacity.
Chemotherapy, it is said, makes one lose one’s appetite. My sister was no exception. She went back to her pre-childbearing figure. I lost no time in urging her to keep it, but knowing my sister, it was an exercise in futility. Before long, she had regained her “normal” weight. Oh well…whatever makes her happy.
Human as she is, there are moments when she gets emotional when confronted with her own mortality especially when she talks of her unmarried sons whom she wants to see settle down and raise kids of their own. For what mother would not wish the best for her children before she goes?
Her faith had never been so strong and unflinching. If cancer was some kind of wake-up call for her, it most definitely got the message across. She has ceased asking, “Why me?” Instead, “Why not me, indeed?” Total surrender to God’s will is truly liberating. In her heart of hearts, she knows she has a personal relationship with God.
The selfless love and care of her husband and children, relatives and friends saw her through her ordeal. Indeed, trying times bring out the finest in people. There is no doubt in my mind that they were 101 percent supportive of her.
It helped that my sister took after our late mom, she with the happy disposition. Looking at the glass half-full surely hastened her convalescence. Undaunted by life’s challenges, she forges ahead with grit and determination. She would admonish me every now and then, the worry wart that I am, not to sweat the small stuff. She has always been the big sister to me, a role she plays to the hilt. When she left for Canada in 1966, I still remember her parting words to my boyfriend then, who later on became my husband: “Take good care of my baby,” a line taken from a popular song in the 1960s.
After all this time, her visits here and my visits in Canada were always punctuated with tearful and sentimental goodbyes. Hopefully in our sunset years, fate will be kind to reunite us to relive the past, seize the present and look to a future, still full of dreams and expectations.
Meet my sister, Sandy, the cancer warrior.
Romana F. Gella, 69, is a widow who dabbles in writing in her spare time.
