Genetic testing puts on record that cancer runs on both sides of my family. My father, and a sister died because of it.
I had uterine cancer and colon cancer at seven years interval and going through this crisis in various stages from diagnosis, surgery, treatment, loss of income, and road to recovery was not easy.
Below is a vignette of that experience.
(PS: If you or someone you know is going through this ordeal and needs prayer, support, and encouragement, please feel free to let me know.)
How People Saw Me
by: Ruth Tindugan
The boss
I just told Judy I was scheduled for uterine cancer surgery. ‘You don’t look worried,” she said, her eyes questioning. I shrugged. How could she tell I wasn’t worried? I felt normal. Everything was the same: weight, appetite, energy– nothing had changed. I asked for a couple of weeks off.
“Three months,” she said.
The oncology nurse
She rechecked my wrist band, steadied my arm with one hand, while the other held a needle. Fidgeting on the brown, leather recliner, I braced for the shot, inhaled, and sobbed. The nurse patted my shoulder gently. “I’ll come back,” she said, pulling the green curtains to hide my space. A few minutes later, she returned, and silently ushered the intruder, hanging on the IV pole into my veins. Drip. Drip. Drip. I felt very tired.
The nurse assistant and the surgeon
I shivered inside the blue paper gown, and hugged my swollen, post-hysterectomy belly.
Tracy checked my vitals and exclaimed, “You’re looking good!” Her cheer was infectious and I smiled. Suddenly, she prayed, “Lord, please restore the health, joy, and peace stolen by the devil, that thief, from your daughter.” She went on, empowered, for about five minutes, and I felt as if my hair is being pulled, lifting me beyond the ceiling of the examination room.
I was astonished and when she finished invoking God on my behalf, I asked, “Do you always do this to the patients?”
“Not always, honey.” She winked at me and left the room as the surgeon came in. Dr. Chen greeted me with a smile that shone through her eyes behind thick glasses. She said the cancer had not spread, but of the two kinds I had, one was aggressive, so she’d order chemo.
“Any questions?” She asked. I shook my head. She stared at me, as if looking for something and finding nothing.
“Patients are usually nervous about this, but you look…at peace,” she said.
“I was just prayed for,” I said to myself, still surprised by someone’s faith.
The Hairdresser
Lily razored the remaining tufts of hair off my head. “You don’t look sick,” she exclaimed.
“Women on chemo come here looking wan, weak, and worn-out, except you!”
The bald face in the mirror looked funny. I laughed.
The Strangers
Months later, thick, platinum white, wavy hair cascaded from my head, like a mountain capped with snow. Men, women, and teens would stop me at the parking lot, grocery store, and other places, and they would say “Your hair is stunning!” It’s been twenty years, and my hair has thinned. But there are still times when a stranger would stop me and say, “Your hair is beautiful!”
