Saying goodbye.

They tell you all sorts of things when you’re a medical student at the hospital. They tell you, that no matter how routine or demanding things become, to see every patient as a whole person, somebody’s mother, grandmother, breadwinner, brother, soulmate, lover, child… They tell you that disease is a common part of life. That doctors aren’t deities who perform miracles. They tell you, matter-of-factly, that death is a part of life. That no one lives forever, and though every day people die, life still goes on. They tell you that everyone has to say goodbye.

They tell you over and over, and you accept these golden truths with unwavering faith, nodding in wholehearted agreement…

… until it happens to you.

Then, overturned are these immutable laws of the universe, your world turns inside out, and everything sounds like a lie.

When I saw the fear in her eyes and the frown on her usually pertually-smiling face, gaunt and washed ghostly white, I knew something was wrong. All this while, I think I always saw it coming, always knew these facts of life. As a medical student, seeing more of death and disease than the average person should put me in greater stead of handling these things. But when it happens to you, nothing really matters. Everything sounds like a lie.

How can this happen. Why is she hurting so bad. Why can’t they take the cancer out. Doctor, you’re not being fair- you’re supposed to save her life. God, where is she going to go when she leaves. What am I supposed to do. What would happen if God and cancer met and had a conversation. No, she shouldn’t have to die this way. It’s just not fair.

For all your effort spent studying medicine- the myriad of drugs and treatment options available- you just can’t understand why it can’t save the life of someone you love. You see limitations, not healing; travesty, not hope. All that logical reasoning just goes out the window. It goes out the window when it happens to you, to someone you love, someone you know who is someone’s mother, grandmother, child, wife, sister and child.

Lately, many friends dear to me have been losing people. We’re at the age where our parents are old enough to be diagnosed with vindictive diseases, grandparents old enough to die. I kind of knew it would happen, sooner or later, but something in my mind just blocked it out. Yet, somehow, those memories, few but rich, and that strong blood tie stitched into my being made the impact far, far greater than I expected.

This strong, strong woman, who never complained, never begrudged, who’d been through world wars and fights, struggles and betreyal, who’d singlehandedly raised ten children, one of whom brought me up… lived a life so rich and full of feist that it was maddening to see it end this way, with an anticlimatic thud, a sickening tug in the gut.

Seeing so many other previous patients in hospitals with the same diagnosis doesn’t make the truth easier to handle. It makes it harder, still, because you don’t believe someone you love so dearly should die the same way as the many others you saw wither away in such agony. No, not in that way please. You can’t take it lying down that the name of someone you love is reduced to a mere disease, a treatment plan, a do-to item on a doctor’s list. You want the doctor to perform a miracle, to reverse the cause. You believe people should live forever. She cannot go. I don’t want her to go. It’s just not fair.

All that logic goes out the window. It’s different when it happens to you. To someone you love. Nothing really makes sense.

Today, as I cringed at the sight of the many teenage couples holding predictably cliched bouquets bought at jacked-up prices, I began to realise how often we forget, that love is not an expression during an occassion but about the little things in everyday life- the way my parents try so hard to be quiet when in the morning so I have another extra half-hour of sleep, the way a cup of tonic is left on the table before they leave for work, the way they always come home on time for dinner.

And perhaps what truly made the news harder to bear, unbearable for a moment, were the anguished thoughts of irritation, shameful resentment and utter selfishness I bore toward someone who ought to have had more place, more love, more respect from me in my life. Why didn’t I show more hospitality, more warmth, more compassion? Why had I guarded my boundaries of comfort so jealously instead of putting someone else’s needs first before my own? Why couldn’t I love the way my parents have taught me to love? Why did I practise a love of convenience?

We think we’re being noble to put in our hearts to study medicine, especially at this time where we put everything aside to study for our exams, but what hypocrisy is exposed when we do so at the expense of spending quality time with our friends and family, those whose time with us is short and numbered. How can we claim to give people life when we don’t cherish them enough ourselves?

I am guilty.

The tears were unexpected. The volatile feelings of sudden grief, confusion and anger, punctuating the time after the news were unexpected.

It’s always hard to say goodbye.

And maybe this is part of growing up, part of turning twenty-two. Finally understanding, not merely intellectually but truly understanding our temporality and vulnerability, the meaning of our visit through this passing world. Finally understanding and seeing my hypocrisy for what it truly is, feeling the grief of its weight and repenting. Finally understanding how selfless true love is, how immature, silly and petty selfishness and resentment can be, and the importance of cherishing those around me, because they could be gone from me twenty years from now, two months from today or… tomorrow.

So don’t hold back if you love someone, even though you think it should be obvious. Don’t nit-pick or set rules or guard your terrain because if you love someone, you’d be willing to swallow your pride, willing to back down, willing to suffer for their joy. Don’t, because they won’t be here forever.

1 in 3 people die from cancer. No one lives forever. Everyone has to say goodbye.

I have to remind myself, that these are the facts of life. And through it all, the thicket of confusion, of questioning and of grief, reminding myself that God’s grace will abound in this time of challenge, that His love will be a covering for us all, a wing of comfort we can dwell under together. That life is transient, but we look forward to an eternal place where we can find hope and everlasting joy in.

It’s never easy to say goodbye. But we put our hope in God, and His grace will be more than enough.

” Each man’s life is but a mere breath…

But now Lord, who do I look for?

My hope is in you.”

– Psalm 39: 5b, 7