JANUARY 28 — I had my second last immunotherapy session at Hospital Kuala Lumpur (HKL) this week.
The doctor noted as much, asking if I’d checked in with general surgery and if I’d scheduled a mammogram yet.
After my final session next month I will be getting my prescription refills at the old oncology building.
It’s a relief that In less than a month I will no longer be a cancer patient in active treatment but at the same time I feel some trepidation and some melancholy, as again I enter a new phase of life.
Getting this far is something I’m grateful for but I will always be haunted by those not as fortunate.
Last week I came across a posting by a young woman about her sister.
She had died recently, January 18th, a bone cancer patient at HKL some years back but she was a Sibu-born native.
Oh, she was so young, I thought, looking at the obituary notice.
The thing about cancer is that the treatments, and choosing to go through them, is hard; you must endure what feels like death to try and bargain for more time from the Reaper, all the while the pain testing your resolve.
Yet it seemed she had dearly wanted to live.
In a separate post, her sister wrote: “My sister has been fighting cancer since she was 14 years old, and every step of the way has been extremely difficult. Chemotherapy, surgery, rehabilitation, she was never without pain or fear, she just never chose to give up.”
Born on March 10, 2003 and sadly dying just a couple of months before what would have been her 23rd birthday.
Yet I did not first learn about her from her sister; instead a local website, one of those that specialises in “viral” stories had posted about her on Facebook.
So I dug around a little until I finally found the original source — a Facebook post.
She had bravely endured bone cancer while still a young schoolgirl but her last few years seemed to have been filled with despair.
In the post there are snaps of police reports she made against her father and stepmother, screenshots of WhatsApp conversations and also pictures of her in a hospital bed, holding up letters she had written to her father.
She alleged mistreatment, recounting various incidents and accounts of suffering.
While I cannot independently verify the truth of her stories, written in Mandarin, printed out and signed with her initials and IC number, what is plain is that she was unhappy.
“爸爸，你就那么希望我死吗？(Dad, do you really want me to die?”)
Reading that rent at my own heart.
I could not fathom ever saying that to my own father because whatever frictions I have ever had with him in the past I have never doubted that I was his daughter and that he loved me.
How much anguish must she have been feeling, how much despair was she in as she lay dying?
How alone did she feel, in that loneliness we must all endure when Death waits for us in the hallway?
It is not up to me to judge her treatment by her family because that should be left to those with the power to verify the truth of what happened, and if there is any action that needs taking.
What I can do is bear witness to her suffering and her misery.
Of all the things she wanted, it seemed that what she wanted most was to be heard, even at the end of all things.
Cancer did not break her spirit but her unhappiness at home did.
How many other patients are out there needing places of security and comfort?
Where are the social workers?
Where is the training for police to refer those who feel unsafe to places where they can find refuge?
Why must we hold onto the mindset of “other people’s children” when in reality we should see them as all our children?
If a child is unwell, we should all care if the ones who were tasked at keeping them well fail.
If she had been one of those cases that had gone viral, if she was a known face and name, would she be safe now?
Would she be smiling and living out carefree days as a young 20-something instead of writing anguished letters from her deathbed?
The most recent update (according to her sister in a Facebook post on January 24) is that likely due to how far her story has spread, the police have opened an investigation into this young person’s circumstances.
Rest in peace, brave girl. I hope wherever you are, pain can no longer find you.
* This is the personal opinion of the columnist.
