Carla’s lung mass kept on developing resistance to the drugs she was on, but luckily she usually had no symptoms save for some coughing. There were occasional side effects like fatigue but all were manageable. She married Bud in January of 2015. It was one of the most beautiful weddings I have been to. It was a solemn promise of love and a celebration of life. At this point, Carla was on her third line of treatment, Afatinib. She moved to Manila to live with Bud and start a new life there, having been promoted in her work. We figured that her being busy would take her mind off the disease since she has been so lucky not to be debilitated in bed by it. I was pregnant with my second child, a son, who with my daughter, turns out to be our sunshine in the darkest of days.
Medication after medication, test after test, clinical trial after trial, we moved. Life goes on. We did not allow cancer to bring us down. It was after all, just cancer. There was always a way. There was always a drug. I was always 2 steps ahead, making sure that there were at least 2 treatments next in line if the present one she was on fails. Bud was making sure we had access to everything. Money sometimes became a concern for us, because medical costs in the Philippines are high. We sometimes had to import chemotherapeutic drugs from abroad because it was not available here in our country. But for some reason, there was always a way. There was always hope. Carla was always levelheaded, and optimistic. She lived in the present. She did not show signs of giving up so I was thinking “Why would I?”
Then I get the call that no one would want to receive. Carla just had a seizure in the middle of the night and was brought to the ER. Scans showed that there was a mass in her brain. Bud and I were crying over the phone, because he thought he lost her. My dad and brother flew to Manila immediately and I followed shortly thereafter. Carla had radiation to the brain but was well enough to go home. Three months after, she was readmitted because her mass grew to about a fist size. She had fluid in her ¾ of her lungs and had difficulty in breathing. She was in pain every time the fluid was drained. Again, I made the call to the US asking my mom and my sister that if they had plans of coming home that year, this was the time. It was the scariest time of all of our lives. I thought I was going to lose a sister and there was nothing I could do about it.
Carla survived that close call and again our lives went back to semi-normal. We were always anxious about the next scan, hoping it would be an Up rather than a Down. Nothing can describe that sinking feeling of getting a result of progressive disease. In one of my dad’s consults, we found out that he had early stage Prostate cancer. Biopsy showed it was not a spread from the lung. That same day, we had a feast at home. We thought, if he survived a Stage III lung cancer, prostate cancer is nothing. A close friend once asked me “How do you get up from all that you’ve been through?” Being a caregiver, I answered, “Simple. You cannot fall down.”
At present, Dad is in remission of both his lung and prostate cancers. Carla is on her 8th line of treatment and stable, with no new symptoms. She recently attended the LUNGevity National HOPE Summit conference in D.C. in the spring of 2017.
I wear several hats every single day: mother, wife, sister, daughter, doctor, and friend. Days can be long and arduous. My body, mind, and heart feel like they’re constantly shattering and repairing themselves again. The unease of waiting for the next test and scan can be overwhelming at times. I try my best to live as normally as I can, for the sake of those who look to me for care, especially my kids. When I tuck them in bed at night, I worry for them and for their future. Thankfully, my husband has so often stepped in on my role as a mom when I have to be a sister and a daughter to Carla and Dad.
My patients cannot see that while I give them the hope of recovering from their illnesses and while I help deliver their newborn babies, I am constantly breaking inside. I am human. When I physically and mentally cannot be present for them, my colleagues are ever so willing to attend to them instead.
It is ok to wave the white flag and ask for help. Sometimes, we cannot just do it on our own.
Dying and death are always in the background. We are entitled to feel bad and betrayed. We are entitled to rest. Yet I tell myself, I have no right to be apprehensive, tired and worried, when my patients Carla and Dad have not given up. Our loved ones look onto us for support, love and understanding. Carla tells me one day, “the future is not ours to worry, and we live day by day”. Who can give up if your patient is the source of your comfort in your time of despair? Who can question the plans of the Lord when His grace is sufficient for us? God’s timing is perfect. Our family has always been reassured by God’s presence in so many ways. So even in the discomfort of our human hearts, His love and promise quiets our concerns.