Over Christmas drinks, I was
commiserating with a doctor who administers chemotherapy. I must have had a
trace of bitterness in my voice when I said after spending six years
watching what it did to my brother, I didnít think going through cancer made
anyone a better personóa platitude that offers no comfort. (I was
remembering his countless surgeries, the needles, the blocked veins, the
perpetual nausea, the financial erosion, the physical limitation, and
ultimately the loss of hope).
What it did show us is that your
immediate family is like a single body. When one family member dies, you
feel like your own limb, or heart is torn. At least thatís how my parents,
sister and I felt. Itís why my heart goes out to Mr Manning and his wife and
children and I am glad he will be recuperating with them this Christmas.
Hundreds of families go through this every year. They sit and watch their
loved ones wither and die. They are split in twoóthe way they were before
the cancer and the nightmare they never wake up from.
Earlier this year, I encountered a
woman, barely 30, with two small children have to deal with ovarian cancer.
She couldnít afford surgery. Her family had to stand in a line at St James
to get her chemotherapy prescription administered in a public placeówhere
cancer patients watch one another suffer and die.
When her aunt had surgery for colon cancer, she visited, wearing sexy boots,
skirts and make-up pretending, along with the rest of the family, that the
lump the surgeons removed wasnít cancerous. She held her aunt's hand and
The auntís prognosis was poor. Unless
she got state-of-the art treatment, the world's finest drugs, she would die
in four months. But she pretended she didnít know; didnít want to talk about
it. Except, we knew she knew when she turned her head to one side and wept.
By this time, chemotherapy had destroyed the young girlís hair. She wore a
jaunty hat and came to her auntís house to show her how well you can look
despite it. The aunt perked up. She decided that if she followed the
doctorís orders she would recover. She wore a pretty nightie every day. She
took her vitamins. She even danced once when the family next door held a
wedding reception. She tried to help herself. She forced herself to walk
outdoors. Then she stopped.
Her nephew got angry with her. She
must stop wearing nighties in the day he said, in a rage that barely
disguised the tears. She must wear a dress and sit in the verandah. We had
to persuade the nephew that she was too tired now. The girl with the sexy
boots and the two children was too ill to attend the auntís funeral a month
later. She died with her small children around her. Cancer makes you breathe
in and hold your breath while waiting and hoping for the cure, and you get
toxic while waiting to breathe out. In my brotherís case, initially we tried
the local health system. We tried the local chemotherapy options. It was a
The five of us trooped into dreary
rooms filled with cancer patients and their IV dripsóunable to offer up
courage. Around the same time, one of my dearest friends, with three young
boys, developed cancer. While she was rallying and doing chemo (she said it
felt like a nuclear blast in her head), I was able to talk to my brother
about her hope; although I couldnít bear to visit my friend any
moreósomething I know hurt her, but how much cancer can you take?
She went to Venezuela, turned to
natural medicine, then died. My brother knew she died but we both pretended
she hadnít and they were both going to be okay. Hope comes in strange
canisters. We got wonderful treatment abroad that with stage four cancer my
brother lived for six years with minimal side effects. It was financially
crippling, but most people donít even have this option.
Bad is bad
You may not agree with the Prime
Ministerís policies, but you have to look at him at two levels. Firstly, as
a man who, having been struck with cancer, is deserving of our compassion.
Secondly, as a Prime Minister who can be an active agent of courage. Not
courage that is false and dredged out, but real courage. He himself doesnít
have faith in our system, and rightly so. Itís still not too late to divert
funds from big buildings to people, from big conferences to healthcare, from
big industrial plants to education. I no longer want to pretend that ďgood
thingsĒ come from bad. If itís bad itís bad. Mr Prime Minister, we wish you
well. In the meantime, your nation is waiting to breathe out.