It was like a cruel joke: It was during my Palliative Medicine module that my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer and we were considering home-nursing care; it was during my Emergency Medicine module where we lost numerous patients every day that she passed away; it was during my Psychiatric module that my mother was battling the bereavement grief; it was shortly after my Orthopedics module that she fractured her wrist… and now that I’m doing my Neurology module on the brain, I find out that one of the children in my Sunday School class, whom I dearly love, has a brain tumour.
It cannot be removed. She is 7 years old.
Oh God, please don’t take her away.
You’ve always been such a good girl. You often volunteer in my class, you’re polite, and you very often turn your head around during class just to smile at me or make sure I’m actually watching you. I remember once, you came to tell me how young I looked compared to the other teachers and you were so amazed by that, that most of the teachers were mothers and I was so… young. And when I asked you how old you thought I was, you said TEN! TEN YEARS OLD!! and we both giggled ourselves silly.
One Sunday, you shared with me Lolly’s story. Your mother was telling that story to the entire children’s church and you volunteered to act as the sunflower. Your hands were your petals, and you were looking to the sun. Sunflowers always look heavenward.
Last Sunday, I went to the children’s church extra early. I wanted to give you a flower made by Zhang Qing. I wasn’t scheduled to teach that day but I just wanted to see you.
You weren’t there. They said “something cropped up” and I wondered what it was. Were you ill, had you gotten worse. I didn’t dare ask more. Because if I did, I wouldn’t know where to stop. What happened to you. How did they find out. What were your symptoms like. What does this mean. Why can’t they operate on it. What is the diagnosis. Is it a high or low-grade lesion. Does this mean chemotherapy or radiotherapy. When will you get well. Does this mean you are leaving us.
No. Please don’t go.
I blame myself somewhat. Because I saw your squint from the start. A squint is a divergent or convergent gaze in the eyes, what some people may unpleasantly describe as being “cock-eyed”. Another child and you in my class had squints and I had asked you both about it, about whether you had seen the doctor. Because a squint could mean having a harmless lazy eye which could be easily corrected by wearing an eye patch, or could imply a raised pressure in the brain because of a growth. I spoke to the other girl’s parents, and they assured me she was seeing a doctor. I remember that day when I tried to confirm your squint by getting you to play some “eye games” with me, which really were clinical tests, and you said to me, “How did you know I have a problem with my eyes? How did you know? Mummy took me to see the doctor already. They make me wear an eye patch.” I was worried I had hit a raw nerve with you but I forgot, you are still a child, and you only giggled it away. You were so tickled that “I knew”.
So I left it at that.
I didn’t know, your squint was a sign of something growing in your brain. It was a classic 6th cranial nerve palsy because of increased intracranial pressure. I saw it from the start.
And now they say you have a tumor in your brainstem that cannot be resected. How can this be. It’s so unfair.
So I was relieved to see you later at the adult service sitting with your parents near the pulpit. In the middle of the sermon, I came to sit next to you and passed you the flower, because I was worried you might rush off later. You really liked it. I held your hand.
“Are you scared?”
“Yes,” she said. “I was scared last week. I have a plaster on my head. They made me sleep from 2pm till 7pm. I was scared.”
That was the brain biopsy. That means they had to take out a bit of your brain to test the tumour to see if it is… bad. Is it bad? I didn’t even dare to ask.
“You dyed your hair?” I asked, stupidly.
“No, I’m wearing a wig,” you whispered very quietly in my ear. Silly me, of course. Of course they had to shave your hair for the biopsy. Of course it was a wig. Stupid me.
I looked into your face and saw your squint was worse. You jumped to sit on the floor by the steps and as you got up, you nearly tripped because you lost your balance.
Ataxia due to brainstem compression. We’ve been learning about brainstem abnormalities in the Neurology department for 3 weeks now. It causes one to lose one’s balance and sense of coordination.
I asked you for a hug and kissed you as I always, always do. You have always been precious to me.
Did you know that that morning, all the children at Sunday School were praying for you? We gave out colourful cards and all of us wrote our prayers and well wishes for you on those cards. I asked the children if they knew you were sick, and each of them understood. Those I asked were 6 and 7 years old, from our class, and they said they knew.
They used the word Cancer, the word we are never allowed to say at the hospital. We must say mitotic lesion or neoplastic growth. Or carcinoma. But we never say the word cancer. It is taboo. It is as if saying the word places a curse on someone. Did you know, we get marked down for using the word Cancer during our examinations- the word must not exist. But children do not care for euphemisms, and each of them believed God would heal you.
God, will you?
Please don’t make her suffer.
I’m scared, too.
After church I went for my flute lesson as usual and I played all the sad songs really well, and the happy ones badly. Some of my notes were shaky because my nose went sour and I was trying hard not to cry. I was angry with myself for feeling so sad, when it would be impossible for me to imagine what it must be like for your parents. I was angry for being scared, when I cannot imagine how it must be like for you. You are so brave.
I won’t forget your smile, I won’t forget the story you shared with me- it was the story of a girl named Lolly, who knew she could be secure in God’s love, no matter what the world threw at her. It was a story you liked very much.
Aaron is another 7-year old in our class. I remember he often sits next you. 2 weeks ago, I heard him say you were his “GIRLFRIEND!” He was so proud of it! He was beaming. And you were giggling yourself silly because you were his “GIRLFRIEND!” Worried that he would be crushed by the news, I talked to him today to find out how he was coping. But he was smiling, and he said, “I am praying for her.” And we both put fingers to our lips because it was our little secret that you are his “GIRLFRIEND!!”
“Don’t tell anyone, okay?” He smiled cheekily at me. You, Aaron, are such a charmer, the slick and smooth kind, precisely the kind of boyfriend I would never want to have. But I just laughed. And wondered what you would do to me if you found out I wrote about your love story here on this space! But I am proud of you, Aaron, because you like her for who she is and not how she looks- I don’t know many men my age who would see past a squint. And you like her still even though she is… sick. Is it true that boys treat girls better when they’re still boys? I hope not.
For all our knowledge and wisdom, life can hit us in the face. That day, was a stark reminder of our fragility in this life, and the frustrating limitations of medicine.
It cannot be resected.
Be strong okay, dear? Be strong and brave like Lolly when she met the bad witch, and the crafty fox and the evil rabbits. And when you are well and better, I can read it to you and you can be the sunflower again.
* Prayer request: Please, if you could spend a minute or two, pray for her.
