The burly doctor led me to a cozy room, almost like a living room, with a sofa and a homely table surrounded by white walls decorated with a dark painting or two. The incandescent light overhead further enunciated the whiteness of the room, but its artificiality forebode whatever little hope lay ahead.
She bade me sit down on a stool. I couldn’t see her entire face because of the surgical mask, but the look of concern in her eyes betrayed what I was fearfully anticipating.
“Sir, I had wanted to tell this to your mother-in-law, but she seemed to be in denial”. My mother-in-law had been crying inside my wife’s hospital room. “¡Lumaban ca, Yeyette!” were the only words she could utter repeatedly beside my semi-conscious wife who by then was already breathing in gasps, her mouth wide open, as if running out of air. “She seemed to be in denial, so I decided to just talk to you.”
Deep inside, I already knew what she was going to tell me, but I would like to hear it from her. And definitely, she would be revealing more.
She took in a deep breath before commencing. “Your wife’s breast cancer is already at stage 4, and it has metastasized to other parts of her body. She now has cancer in her brain and lungs. And her heart problems have returned.” The doctor was referring to my wife’s ordeal last February when she had an emergency procedure to remove abnormal amounts of liquid in her heart.
The doctor also signaled to her throat, meaning to say that my wife’s cancer had spread to that part too. No wonder she couldn’t swallow well her food. That is why my wife weighed only 28 kgs. She was literally skin and bones upon admission earlier that day.
“I have handled many other patients that looked similar to your wife’s, and I can say that hers is terminal. I am sorry.” The way she said those three final words were not rote. The empathy was real. Somehow, it made me feel grateful.
I was then struggling to fight off tears. “I understand, doc. I am open-minded about these things. If there is really nothing you can do, I won’t take it against you,” I said, my voice starting to crack.
“For now, we can only accord her palliative care,” the doctor said. “But should we still go ahead with the procedures that your wife requested?” She was referring to an endoscopy and others that Yeyette was supposed to take. I said no. What for if she was already on her way out? The doctor nodded in agreement. “But in case her heartbeat stops, should we still revive her? Should we still use defibrillators or CPR?”
“No.” I was more surprised by the swiftness of my response than the directness of her question. “I don’t want her to suffer anymore. My only request is for you and your staff to let her pass away as comfortable as possible.” My voice struggled not to break. I couldn’t tell anymore if I was making the right decision. My mind was in a daze. Just a few months ago, I moved heaven and earth to raise more than a million pesos to pay for the expenses of her heart surgery. That traumatic experience was still lingering at that very moment I was speaking with the doctor. What if I tell them to try to revive my wife? But that might cost me millions again. Besides, didn’t the doctor say that Yeyette was already terminal?
“Should I be the one to tell your family members about what’s going to happen?” the doctor asked.
“No. I will do it.”
“OK.” For a moment, I thought the doctor was going to cry. But she just clasped her hands together and said her apologies again.
“No, I understand the situation perfectly. You did what you could.” She then led me on my way out of the room.
* * * * * * *
My wife was confined in Asian Hospital and Medical Center from February 22 to March 16 due to cardiac tamponade. A few days before she was discharged, an oncologist approched us and told us that the real cause of her cardiac tamponade was the recurrence of her breast cancer, the ailment which she had been fighting since the start of the pandemic, or some four years ago. Suspicious nodules were found in her lungs. A lesion on her left skull was also detected.
The oncologist said that she should undergo another six rounds of chemotherapy the soonest possible time. But Yeyette decided to rest first for a month or two. She said she couldn’t do it soon. She had wanted to gain some weight first. I believed her. Because she was already a pile of skin and bones. But the oncologist was insistent. He said it was only a matter of time before the cancer cells start to spread; my wife was adamant and confident that they wouldn’t. I didn’t disagree with her. It was her body, after all. Only she can really tell and feel whether or not she should go for it or not.
Upon her discharge, she was brought straight to her mother’s house in Bacoor, Cavite. We all agreed that she stay there for a month or two in preparation for her chemotherapy.
But that didn’t happen anymore.
* * * * * * *
In the afternoon of April 24, I received a message from my mother-in-law. She said that Yeyette was again confined, this time at South City Hospital and Medical Center, also in Bacoor. Since her discharge from Asian Hospital last March 16, my wife had been making frequent visits to that hospital in Bacoor. There was even one time when she was brought there in an emergency — she collapsed at my mother-in-law’s as she stepped out from the bedroom. Little did we know that she was already dying during the time that she was supposed to prepare for her chemotherapy.
Our son Juanito also received a message from one his cousins. He was told that her mom was already suffering in the hospital. For some reason, those alarming messages told me that this could be it. Yeyette’s time was up.
Just before twilight, My wife’s nephew Allen picked us up on his MPV from our place in San Pedro Tunasán. They had come from the hospital. With him were his girlfriend Jackie and sister Kate. I asked Kate her assessment of her Tita Yeyette. Will she survive? Kate could only answer me with a sorrowful gaze.
We arrived at the hospital just as the sun had set in the horizon. Upon entering the hospital room, I saw Yeyette in her most weak state. She could hardly move. When she saw me and our children, I could have sworn that she attempted to smile. But she couldn’t.
She also couldn’t talk anymore. She had lost her voice. The look on her eyes was a mix of both sickness and sadness.
At past seven in the evening, she lost consciousness. It was then when her agonal respiration began.
* * * * * * *
It was hard to recall the way I walked back to my wife’s room after the doctor told me of her hopeless condition. Was it in small strides? Did I try to suppress my steps to at least rehearse what I was about to say? It was as if I’m floating in a dream. I couldn’t believe it was all happening. But in a few moments, I found myself inside her room. Yeyette, still with mouth agape and eyes closed, was surrounded by our five children, her parents, and her sister and the latter’s children. Beside Yeyette’s death bed, I called their attention and explained to them in as clearly as possible what was about to happen to their beloved family member, she who was filled with so much laughter and song and positivity during her healthy years.
“So I guess this is it,” I said, with my voice unable to suppress its sorrow. “We should now whisper to her our farewells.” Her mother started to wail. Everybody broke down. I was struggling hard not to.
I just couldn’t believe that it was all happening. My soulmate of twenty-four years, my pillar, my strength, my frenemy, my old friend, the wind beneath my wings, my endless love… was about to leave me for Eternity (TO BE CONTINUED).
EL FILIPINISMO 