THERE are more than five months to my scheduled surgery, and my cousins will speak to me almost every day in that time. Maybe they have secretly put together a roster, I don’t know, but every other day, if not daily, someone calls, or I call someone. Most often, it’s during the long evening walks I take. I use my headphones so it’s easier to talk as I walk. These phone calls are another balm. One or the other is always checking on me, and they all are this wonderful well of support, love and caring that keeps me afloat, sustained, spiritually nourished. Pretty soon, everybody is praying for me, including their prayer networks. One of my cousins sets up a FaceTime group with her friends, and they pray for me together. Whenever I call any of my uncles or aunties, before they say “goodbye”, they unfailingly tell me, “Boy, We will pray for you. Don’t worry.”
Long walks are actually by order, along with work on light weights. Samra tells me I have to prepare for surgery like I would practise for a marathon at 60. The thought scares me. A marathon at 60. All I have ever done before is play badminton, table-tennis when I was much younger, during my schooldays. I feel the build up of muscle and endurance on my brisk trips around the block, sometimes to the park. A half-hour, maybe 45 minutes. Don’t do it to the point of exhaustion, the doctors have said sternly. I warm up with light weights, push-ups, squats, and close with all the stretches Ben and Sara have taught me. Every night, these two children of mine check to see if I have done my duty. They are as encouraging as they are firm and serious when they keep tabs on my discipline and perseverance.
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| Post-op with cousins in KL: From left are Jane, me, Lucille and Ann. |
It’s summer in the southern hemisphere, late November. I usually walk about 6pm when Oatley streets are cool. Every one I call makes time for me. I wear my heart on my sleeve when I talk to them. We always tell one another “I love you” when it’s time for goodbye. They remind me I am in their prayers. They tell me I am doing well, that I am moving them, with my I’m-fighting-this attitude, my spirit, the newly rediscovered belief that keeps firing me. Sharing my fears, hopes, my human-ness in the face of the truth of my condition has helped me no end. I have stood naked before my closest friends and family. I have told them I am scared, more than I have ever been. I ask them for help. Please pray for me, I say to them. I can tell them all about the mad thoughts in my head, the sense of blessedness, protection, the grace of God.
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| Aunty Mary: Our first post-op trip home. |
We speak the same language of faith and they know exactly what I mean, they listen with such genuine interest that not once do I doubt the affinity they have for all I am going through, feeling and sensing. And it helps so much. It’s not easy, but the effort brings a bounty of sustenance. I am always left with an inner smile, the strength grows with the love we share and express so openly. I am constantly reminded of how blessed this journey has become. Aunty Mary tells me, “When all this is over, William, you must write a book about all this. This is what God wants you to do.”
My uncles, aunties and cousins are my only “first family” now. Mum, Dad and my only sibling are gone. I am the last man standing from the family Mum and Dad built. My cousins and I consider ourselves Emmanuel stock, after my Mum’s parents, despite some being children in families that carry, by marriage, the surnames Lopez, Corray and Athanasius. The Emmanuel men have married into the families of Paul, Yong, Fernandez, Netto, even another de Cruz, my dad’s sister.
Aunty Ivy, in Melbourne, often calls Helen’s phone — just in case I am napping. She tries to be strong, but I can tell when her voice is breaking, no matter how hard she tries. Aunty Ivy’s family will always have a special place in my life. In the years when Mum is resident in a nursing home, Aunty Ivy’s children (my cousins) do everything the absentee son is unable to, and much more. Whenever I come up to KL for 2-3 weeks to visit Mum, I stay at their home in Taman Tun Dr Ismail, where I am fed and waited on day and night. This is the home of Aunty Ivy’s youngest, Sheila, and her husband, Adtely. Sheila’s brother, Matthew, nearly always rides shotgun when I drive to visit Mum in the nursing home along Jalan Pudu. On the occasion we have to rush Mum to Assunta, Adtely carries my mother in his arms, from the TTDI house to his people mover, and again from the vehicle to Emergency. On the drive to the hospital, with Mum and I in the back seat, Mum takes my hand in hers, and with the other hand she points to Adtely, who is driving. “He’s a good man,” Mum tells me.
When the cousins call, we recall how we used to sleep on mattresses and mats on the floor in “Dadda’s house”, whispering to one another so our parents wouldn’t know we were still awake.
Thinking back, I have no idea who would sacrificed their mattresses, because I don’t remember any being rolled up, tied and stored away in Dadda and Amma’s home, ready for use the next time the clan gathers. Some of our uncles and aunties must have given up their mattress-space for us kids.
We talk of how Aunty Floby would always arrange to take us to Port Dickson, the most popular beach around in those days. Our Aunty would get her good friend, Uncle Sivaneson, to hire a mini-bus to take all of us. While we all play in the water, Aunty Floby brings out the lunch she would have cooked at home. This is most often rice and chicken curry, mixed together in what you would today call a salad serving bowl, a really big one. She mixes it all with her fingers, pinching bits of meat off the bones, and feeds us one at a time as we line-up in the water, straight from her hands to our mouths. And back to swimming and wading and jumping we go, until she calls us back for another “piddi”, Malayalam for that particular-sized portion of rice and meat you roll into a bite-size portion, when you eat with your fingers, or when someone feeds you by hand. “Big mouth, big mouth,” she says, and we open wide so nothing is wasted.
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| Sentul Songs: From left are Uncle Marcel, Ted, Uncle Joe (with my guitar), Mum, Aunty Letty, Suresh, Dr Nair (from the clinic opposite our home), Cletus, Uncle Clarence, Aunty Floby and Aunty Beatrice. |
We remember the family singalongs, which songs were always sung by whom. How Uncle Francis would say, “Let’s go Sarawak,” instead of “Let’s go for a walk.” Sarawak is a state in Malaysia, and we would all break up in giggles, no matter how many times he said it. Uncle Francis’s wife was his “room-mate”. When he was really cheeky, Aunty Beatrice was his “bed-mate”. This is the upbringing that has led us all to be very openly affectionate, eager to hug, to say “I love you” easily, to mean it. Now, way past middle age as we are, nothing has changed. We are all very proud of this heritage in particular, the openness, the public expressions of love. That we are Emmanuel is an endless source of pride among us. These are the blessings, this is the blessedness, that has also brought me to where I am. Everything I learned about love as I was growing up is from Mum, her family and the women and men Mum's siblings married.
The home of our grandparents is where the clan gathered for Christmas, New Year, Easter and some birthdays. At the times we were together as children, we would recite the Holy Rosary and other prayers every day, on our knees, before an altar permanently affixed to a wall, usually about 8pm. All of this returns front and centre in my fight with cancer. This is my bedrock. I am a de Cruz, which is Spanish for “of the Cross”, from my Dad’s family. I am also Emmanuel, Hebrew for “God is with us”.
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Since Errol’s passing, I am the eldest in the generation. It makes me feel I have to do the right thing. The need to set an example is more motivation than burden. My generation has already lost one to cancer. Connie suffered and it broke our hearts. Others have gone, all too soon. I cannot put them through this again. As I talk to my family in cities in Malaysia, New Zealand, Canada and England, I feel I have to reassure everybody who cares for me, loves me.
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| Mum, 'Doc' a.k.a. Uncle Gilly, and Aunty Floby. |
Sometimes, I think it has to do with the family funerals in the Sentul home, along Jalan Kovil Hilir. The coffin is always in the living room, the body is always facing out, from under the altar on our wall. All that crying and screaming and sobbing when the family pallbearers have to carry the coffin to the hearse. There’s always six of us. When we bring the coffin to our shoulders, it’s the taller ones in the family who do the heavy lifting. The funeral service in St Joseph’s is almost always scheduled for 3pm. So, about 2.30 in the house, when it’s time to leave, the equatorial sun on the sharply varnished coffin lid can be blinding. I’ll never forget that. By this time, the crying is so loud you fight to contain yourself because you cannot carry a coffin and be sobbing at the same time. So, just maybe, I don’t want to be the cause of another round of mourning for my big, wonderful family. I’ll do everything I can to save them from that scene this time. See what I mean? Put someone else ahead of you, do it for them, and you end up helping yourself.
When I talk to my cousins, everything I do is about saying, “Don’t worry, I’m OK. Tell Mum, tell Dad, I am OK. Alright? Tell them I am OK. Don’t let them worry about me.” As I record all this, I can believe that the more I say it, the more my body listens. I’m setting the ground-rules as I say it, and the first rule is: We’re fighting this to win.
Saying that I’m OK is also like prayer. At the same time, I have to ask for their help, their prayers, which I know will be freely given. I tell my cousins, when you think of me, think positive, think that I will be OK, believe that I will be OK. Send me good vibes. I tell them that this is what I do for my own sake. I talk to myself, telling this new person I have become that I will be fine. They tell me I am showing them how to fight. Later, they will say, “William, you did this. You. God has been with you. And we all prayed for you. But you did this. You. Don’t forget that.” David, Ben and Sara are the first to put this thought in my head. “Dad, it’s great that you have found your faith again, that you feel God is with you. But, Dad, don’t forget. You’re doing this. You.”
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| Connie and Sara, Summer Hill, 1995. |
None of this is a boast. What I have gone through, the permanent temporariness of remission, all of this is very difficult. And if you fall into the same sort of place, of course, it is also difficult for you. You're allowed to feel lousy, bloody angry, depressed, worse, much worse. And if that's how you feel, you should come out and say it. Don't lock it all up.
A few days ago, I was on the phone with another survivor and we both spoke of how it is actually terrifying to be told you have cancer or some other illness, that you may soon die. We both agreed that “people mostly don't get it.” People like us go through terror, before we come out on the other side, and adjust to the utter uncertainty of it all, adjust to just not knowing.
But we can also feel good about ourselves as we fight, because fighting is the right thing to do, and knowing that we’re not giving up is the best medicine we can give ourselves. And if we can muster enough reserves to also be nice as we fight, then, we’re also giving. And that can leave us feeling on top of the world as we fight a debilitating illness or situation. I feel a bit like that. Most days. And on the days I don’t, there’s always tomorrow.
This is also a message in my story. If it happens, it will come down to you. The fight is yours. Others who love you may be there to offer help and support, but it will ultimately come down to you. You are vehicle and driver for the best medicines, doctors, surgeons, oncologists, alternative therapies, supplements, meditation and yoga programmes. The best may assemble at your disposal, but it is you who will assign purpose to them.
I love repeating for everybody, “I’m gonna kick this bloody thing from here to Jupiter.” I love the fact I have coined this. It tells me my faculties are still firing, I can still show a sense of humour. And I mean what I say. I am, arrogant, garrulous, drunk on the spirit of knowing God is with me, that so many people I love so much are cheering me on. They want me to win. They are not prepared to countenance my going. I feel I have a power, part of which I am drawing from all of them. I am sick as a dog and there is a good chance I will die in a few months, but I feel blessed. The lines keep repeating, strength in repetition. God is walking with me. My cousins remind me, again and again, we are Emmanuel. “God is With Us.” No matter what, I am de Cruz, of the cross. It rings as true as the bells of St Joseph’s.
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| Before the storm: 2012 Winter, London. |
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