Going from Purple to Bald, Part Three

(Read Part Two HERE)

Except for the occasional bandana tugging, Mom was motionless for the most part of the 10-minute trip. I attempted to strike a conversation with her a couple of times, but she just wouldn’t budge. All she could afford was the sporadic Mmm’s and Yeah’s. She wasn’t the bubbly, chatty personality that everyone knew. She loved life and lived life to the fullest. But at that moment, it seemed as if life had completely been drained from her.

The sun finally peered through the clouds when we arrived at our compound. My brother was the first one to alight the vehicle and made his way to where my Mom was seated. Understandably, it took some time before she could get off. And when it was finally empty, I remained inside the car and tried to take everything in.

It was so surreal, like watching your life unravel before your eyes. Before I boarded the plane, Mom was in her usual self, sending me the usual affectionate messages. But the moment I got here, everything changed; like someone switched the mode from colored to black and white.

I tried to stifle my screams, but a few tears still managed to escape from my eyes. I couldn’t shake the feeling how unfair this whole thing was – unfair for her and for us.

I observed my mother and my brother walking towards the house; and as I watch him assisting her, I thought about all those families who are still able to enjoy the love of their mothers even when they’re already in their 50’s and 60’s. My brother’s just 23, and with the rate that my mom’s cancer has been progressing, there’s absolutely no telling as to how little time she still has, how little time my brother still has to enjoy a mother’s love.

I wanted to be optimistic. I was optimistic until I finally saw her. Then, I remembered what she would always tell me, “Everyone has their own cross to carry. It may be hard now, but trust that there will always be a silver lining. Always.” I resigned to the idea that this is my family’s reality now, and it won’t be long until things get back to how it was, as according to her, our better days are still ahead of us. I trusted that. But in the meantime, being my mother’s firstborn son, I have to suck it up and man up to it.

We proceeded to my Aunt’s house – which was within our compound – for lunch. And as expected, everyone from my extended family was there. We gathered around the table while Mom sat on the couch. Everyone was in their typical lively selves – chatting enthusiastically with each other. As always. Mama, on the other hand, served as the audience in the background.

Ironic, I thought. She was the leader of our band, the tireless chatterbox who used to be the life of any party. She was the one who'd laugh the loudest and the vigorous emcee who would tell rib-tickling anecdotes and jokes about everyone and everything. But now, her illness has reduced her to a mere spectator in the background of it all.

When she was diagnosed, my mother had stage 4 Endometrial Cancer. A few weeks before I arrived, she already had her first round of chemotherapy sessions which were coupled with the required surgeries. Although she was a fairly diminutive lady, the enormity of her personality was inversely proportional to her size, so naturally everyone, myself included, thought she would just breeze through it given her sunny disposition and her admirable optimism. Although my Aunt said she got through her treatments better than the others, I just didn’t expect it to like this.

A good thirty minutes after, lunch commenced. I looked at my mom and noticed that she was already lying on the couch. My brother grabbed my arm when I was about to approach her. “She gets tired so easily,” he said. “Let her rest.” I turned my attention to my mom again, and she was already looking at me. I smiled and motioned for her to eat. She waved back as if to tell me we can start without her. And she smiled.

Despite being so weak, she smiled. She smiled her toothy grin at me, and I realized, “No, this lady’s not defeated. She’s not done. She’s going to fight this.” And it dawned on me that even with just a glimmer of hope, one can be very optimistic about even the most impossible hurdle. And right then and there – when I saw a change in her that was absent while we were on the vehicle – I felt so much better. She smiled. And that’s what matters to me.

Cancer doesn’t just affect one person, it affects the entire family. Cancer creeps through every facet in the family’s life. It destroys a family, ruins relationships, and throws everything in shambles.

But it doesn’t have to be. Cancer, like the saying goes, is a word. Not a sentence. And in order to prevent it or at least lower our chances of contracting this deadly disease, we must be educated and be made aware. We should be aware that Cancer isn’t exclusive to the movies. It isn’t exclusively to other families. Cancer can affect you. Cancer can affect me. Cancer can affect anyone. Be it rich or poor, happy or miserable, healthy or sickly – Cancer does not discriminate. My mother was a fairly healthy, very happy woman and nobody expected for Cancer to befall on her. But it did.

Prevention is better than cure, so the cliché goes. And I could not agree more. Wouldn’t it be better for us to safeguard ourselves while we’re still healthy and able? Wouldn’t it better to get ourselves involved with cancer prevention NOW rather than later? If you don’t want to do it for yourself, how about doing it for the people around you, for your loved ones? Be educated. Be involved. Before it’s too late.

That night, while I was trying to catch up with Mama, I noticed that with every minute that I got to chat with her, she seemed to go back to the Mom that she's always been. I lay next to her and we talked excitedly for hours, just like the old times.

And just before midnight struck, when it was time for her to rest, I stroke her wrinkly hands, looked at her and said, “What do you want to do when all of this is over, Ma?” Stroking my head like how she used to, she replied, “Well, for one, I’d like to have my hair back.” We both laughed quietly. Then with a pensive look on her face, she said, “I don’t know, honestly. I haven’t thought about it yet. I just want everyone to be alright, that’s all.”

She then looked at me intently, squeezed my hand briefly -- and slowly, she removed her bandana, exposing her bald head. I looked at her straight in the eyes and scrunched my eyebrows in defiance. She titled her head slightly to one side and raised both eyebrows as if to prod me. I heaved a deep sigh, and slowly lifted my gaze towards her hairless scalp. I was stunned. I struggled to keep my tears at bay. But I failed.

Wiping the few tears on my cheeks, she then took my hand and lifted it towards her head. I hesitated, but as soon as it made contact, I let my hand linger. I caressed it for awhile, and hugged her immediately. She looked at me with a lovely grin on her face and softly said, “Relax, goodboy … it’s just a bald head.”

She fell asleep a couple of minutes later. And while I was observing her, I thought to myself; she may already be bald and skinny, but she’s till the warm, reassuring, optimistic person that I’ve known and loved; she’s still looking out for us even when she’s the one who needs our care. I know how heartbreaking it had been for her to pull her bandana off, yet it was she who offered comfort.

Her body may be weak, but her spirit remains unbreakable. She’s still the same beautiful person. It’s still her. It’s still my Mama. And no Cancer can ever change that.

I still think about her every day. I still feel her presence everywhere. And at times, I often wonder if she still thinks what I’m thinking, just like the old times. But whenever that happens, I always see her lovely, toothy grin somewhere, somehow. Then I smile and tell myself, “Of course she does. Of course. Mama always does.”

I love you, Ma … with hair, without hair, or with shockingly purple hair!

It's been exactly 17 months since you passed on. I'm still thinking about you. I imagine you now sitting somewhere amidst fields of violet, purple, and lavender flowers while you're reading your favorite book and enjoying the sunset.

I love you, Ma. Always.

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Read the previous parts here:

Going from Purple to Bald, Part One

Going from Purple to Bald, Part Two

For Endometrial Cancer Resources, please visit this link and scroll down to the bottom of the post for useful links regarding Endometrial/Womb Cancer.

A Woman Named Jocelyn 

Staring Cancer in the Face

Attributions:

Image 1: 123RF
Image 2: Tumblr Lilac Fields
Image 3: 123RF
Image 4: Pictsopin
Image 5: Pinterest
Image 6: Pinterest

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This post is in memory of Jocelyn 'Joji' Adriatico Aleta, who bravely fought Endometrial Cancer, and is also dedicated to all the brave women who passed from, are fighting, or have survived ENDOMETRIAL / WOMB CANCER.

Posted in: Cancer, Endometrial Cancer, mom, People