EFML: In the blink of an eye

Recently, my mother told me ever so casually that a close relative was suspected of having cancer and that she was waiting for her biopsy results. Knowing my mother, I knew she was devastated by this news, but she carried on with the charade of being unaffected. I too responded in kind, and asked only technical questions, as if we were discussing a hypothetical person and it didn't mean anything to either of us. What are the implications of this prognosis? What are the treatment options available? How long would recovery be? Are secondaries common in this form of cancer? We continued this way for about an hour, never touching upon how we 'felt' on hearing this, skirting around it like a minefield. But when I put the phone down, I had no doubts about what either of our reactions were. We were deeply worried and upset, and she was more close to devastated. I could not sleep, and lay in bed endlessly pondering over this piece of foreboding news.

Today, I think if I should reach out to this person. But I am only capable of offering inane platitudes such as 'My prayers are with you', 'Don't worry. Everything will be fine.' and 'I know the results will bring good news.' But having lived through life for more than a quarter of a century, I know that statements like these do not hold any truth. They are baseless, and I doubt they bring any solace at all to the receiver. I wish I could offer something more substantial, but I feel helpless. 

I lament, not knowing what else to do, going into the very cliched path of 'why her' and 'why us'. Isn't there a limit on how many close relatives one loses? Why does my family's story feel like a tragic Hardy novel? I remember very vividly, five years ago, hearing on a rainy September day from my mother that my aunt was diagnosed with late stage Glioblastoma Multiforma, a rare, malignant and fast spreading cancer. I had just started my Masters then, and was struggling with homesickness, hostel life, postgraduate academic rigor and several other things. I remember shrinking into myself and staying still for a few hours, till my friends came to call me for dinner and found me in this state. I recall a friend sharing her story of how her mother survived a brain tumor, and she urged me to have hope. The next few months were a blur of chemotherapy and irradiation, of hope and despair, of getting better and getting worse again, until in July I suddenly found myself standing at her funeral, watching her dead body, cold and lifeless. 

I grieved over the fact that this person who I'd known all my life was now gone, in less than a year. I grieved that this disease created a chasm between us that I could never bridge. I grieved that I had never been able to open up and tell her how much she meant to me. I grieved the magnificent person she had always been, and that her life had ended so early and on such a tragic note-- one day she was an accomplished successful professional, and the next day she was in a hospital, going through so much emotionally and physically. I can never forget my mom's struggles during this period either. She was already my grandfather's primary caregiver, and she tried to do the same for her sister as well knowing that her days were numbered. She also had to manage a full time career, and my Dad and me, none of which were easy. She toiled endlessly, both physically and emotionally, and I was afraid she would break. I had no room to take on more load or support her, and I selfishly, rationally and unemotionally suggested that she delegate the responsibilities of her sister to other people in the family. My mother did not listen, but what I suggested eventually happened due to different reasons. My aunt died a few months later, and I have never been able to forgive myself for what I said, and for believing that I was right.

My mother has lost two siblings and a parent in the last three decades, each loss leaving her more shattered. I can only imagine how she feels as yet another person she loves totters dangerously on the brink of serious illness.

I am overwhelmed by all of this. These were all people who seemed so larger than life when I was a child, and I somehow had this feeling that they were all invincible and would remain in good health for a long time to come. I blinked, and I am an adult, and all of my parents' generation are aged. Why does my youth come with the burden of watching my loved ones' fade away in sickness and struggle? I always thought this was farther away, that I would be a decade older if not two when all this happened. But now, especially after covid, I realize how fragile life is. How quickly one is reduced to feeling like they are at the mercy of their bodies, a mass of blood, flesh and bone that doesn't comply with one's wishes.

I have no succor to offer you, Dear Reader. I am struggling to accept this dark reality myself. I cannot take these losses dispassionately, gently or with grace. I am filled with sorrow, anguish, and rage. The thought that I most closely resonate with at the moment is Dylan Thomas' poem, so I will end this post with that.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Poem credits rest with the original author, Dylan Thomas.