Chapter 4: I Am Not the Centre of the Universe

BETWEEN the clinic and going to see Helen at Peggy’s apartment in Lugarno, a diversion to our home seems like a good idea. Ben and Sara are in, anxious, knowing I have been to see Magar. I need to tell them, if only to lose some of the chill that has come over me, unload some weight, take some of that look from my face before driving on to see their mother.

Ben is lounging in the TV room when I come through the front entrance. He stands, puts his hands in his pockets, doesn’t say a word. He just looks at me, immediately catches that it’s not good. He looks strong, ready. He takes charge, the elder brother. “Sara,” he shouts to his sister upstairs, in the tone he uses when he doesn’t need to add, “Come now”. In a few moments, there she is, sitting near the foot of the stairs, from where she can see Ben and I. 

“I’ve got a tumour on the pancreas.” Then the other scant details. “Early discovery”. Of course. And: “Magar thinks I shouldn’t tell Mum till after the weekend. I don’t think that’s the right thing to do. Mum will scream if she knows I kept it from her.” Ben and Sara are at a loss, momentarily. Ben’s in his very early 30s and Sara is seven years behind. They’re good kids, rock-solid pillars when I need them. Ben looks at Sara, agreement passes between them, in an unspoken, hidden code.

   Psalm 46: “To the Chief Musician”.

He turns to me, saying, “Ya, I think you need to tell Mum.” Then, “Are you OK?” From one to the other, I look them straight in the eye. “I’m OK. I’ll be OK. I know what to do. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of Mum.” Ben nods, I can see he’s fighting back disbelief, about all I have had to say. More than anything else, I imagine my defiance has left him at a loss for more words. He’s probably preparing himself for when I crumble, poor guy. “We’ll call David later.” He’s our eldest. It’s still early in London, where David has lived for a few years already, and he is probably still asleep. You don’t want to wake up your son with news like this when he’s living away from the family.

I drink some water, fill my bottle, vote against the cigarette and drive to see Helen. Along the way, I feel very grateful for Ben and Sara. They are worried as hell, but they are strong for me and I see an unqualified love in their eyes. They are also very, very sad for me. I know it as I walk out the door. I will reassure them later. I also know, come what may, these kids of ours will roll with the punches.

Oatley and Lugarno are about seven minutes apart by car. I travel a thousand miles in that time. I might be on an astral plane, traversing planets. The whole world has changed, quick as the flick of a switch. There is just a deep, abiding sadness, which I immediately realise I will have to endure for the rest of the life I have.

But something is different. I feel a presence, beside me and yet so close it’s under my skin. I am cold from shock, it is hot outside, but there’s also a deep calm within me. I am afraid, but fear is not important. “How am I going to handle this?” doesn't even arise as a question. Answers don’t matter anymore, questions are unnecessary.

For the first time in my life, just when “me, myself, I” should kick in, I am no longer the most important person in my life. I have to protect Helen and our three children. Out of nowhere comes the overriding thought that I have to become the husband and father who would not die crying for pity. If these are to be the first of the last impressions I leave on my wife and children, I have to become someone they will remember as strong till the end. If this is to be the last example I am to set, it will be five-star. I have never felt this way.

A realisation is growing, concretising in my soul. These thoughts have not come out of nowhere. I know I have felt and known this ever since I decided to hide my symptoms from the most important people in my life. I felt it, and didn't stop to think about it, because it was all I could do to keep the fear from showing on my face. Now, I am free. There is no need to hide anymore. You can not hide anymore. Now, I go through the formality of confirming it, nodding to myself in acceptance, like I am already walking the road to convalescence. This is the spirit of God, whispering to me, without words, conveying through a sense, a knowing. The feeling is so strong, it takes shape, clarifies: “Don’t worry. You look after them. I will look after you.” I feel a quiet strength building in me. It is an arrogant belief. I am no longer the person I had been until just two hours before.

In the backyard of the home Helen’s sister,
Peggy, used to own, in Newtown, Sydney.

I am not the centre of the universe anymore. I become last on the list of everything that is important to me. Never before has the path laid before me been so clear about where it will take me. Every bit of my life till now has simply been unspooling to this time. All that matters is what I will do from this point on, how I will do it.

My future reveals itself, clear as day, for the first time in my life. I know what to do. In the face of a horrible illness I will have to bear, major surgery I may not even survive, the whole thing becomes about my wife and children, my friends, the clan. And it makes everything easier. I have reason to fight. I have so many reasons to fight, and each and every one of them is a member of my family, the extended family, my friends. The rest of my life has begun. I am no longer living for myself. I can do this. I am not alone. God is walking with me. God will take care of this.

I surrender. And a peace comes with surrender, a relief. The peace, the relief, washes over me, like a second skin, warming. Surrender. Peace. A freeing from the earthly coil, even as I live. Another bolt of light. With surrender comes freedom. I do not want to turn back the clock. I do not want it to be someone else, not my cousins, uncles, aunties, friends. I’ll take this for the team. I don’t have to think too much about it anymore. I may not be that 80-year-old cardiac surgeon, but I’m not going to worry. At least I’ll die trying not to. It’s the best thing I can do for my big, lovely family. I will be strong. For them.

I am very, very grateful for one thing: I am the one with cancer in my immediate family, not Helen, not any of the kids. I would not have been able to take that, see any one of them in the position I am in. I will take this, I will be the statistic in the dC-Heng clan, the ball falls on my slot in the roulette wheel. This is part of the truth, part of the purpose, evolving around me. I am actually glad it is me, not one of them. I know. Life is strange.

  A section of our Oatley home: The Crucifix hanging over our family photos
  by the staircase, as it is reflected on the glass doors opposite. The building
  that “appears” above the downlight is a section of our neighbour's home.