Losing You.

It was 4am in the morning. It started off as just a thought, but as it spiralled down an ever-increasing whirl of ruminations, it multiplied and became a consuming whirlwind of emotions. Suddenly, guilt, fear and anxiety grew big in the darkness and consumed me at once. I tried to close my eyes to go back to sleep but I could not. Tossing and turning, you awoke too and found me in tears.

 

I was beside myself. I had not expected this. In fact, my reaction befuddled us. It was only a day later, after I had processed those overwhelming emotions that I gained a little insight into that emotional meltdown.

 

You had just seen the doctor the day before that happened, and had received your medical reports. Your liver enzymes were normal. But you did have high cholesterol and a low bone density, both side effects of your long-term medication from your liver transplant. Your immunosuppressant drug levels in your bloodstream were high too, but your assigned physician (who turned out to be a friend of mine and who recognized you from a talk you gave last year at a fundraising dinner on my behalf) said, “It should be OK.”

 

It should be okay. I didn’t know what that meant. You were supposed to see a senior doctor but I suppose they were short of staff. So a registrar saw you instead.

 

That morning at 4am, I awoke, wondering what “should be OK” meant. I wondered why you had not been assigned to a senior consultant like the transplant coordinator had promised. I thought about why you had high cholesterol- I know it is a side effect of the drug but I wondered if perhaps I should have cooked more for you, if we should have eaten more at home, if my busy schedule had hindered you from exercising more than we already do. I wondered if I had been too relaxed in using so much cheese in my cooking, and making you your favourite pasta and lasagna… because you love cheese but I also know it’s full of saturated fat and might’ve contributed to your cholesterol- it must have been my fault.  I thought about your low bone density and suddenly felt crippled with guilt about not being more assertive about reminding you to take your calcium pills. I thought about what “should be OK” meant and if I should send your results to another colleague of mine for a second opinion. I thought about the contacts from the private sector I had and wondered if I should contact them to see if everything was truly all right.

 

That morning when I awoke from sleep, those whirling thoughts revolved around me, and gained speed and momentum as they spun, spun, spun out of control. By the time you found me, my face, wet with tears, and my body, shaking, I was beyond consolation. Your hug only made it more difficult for me to process the turmoil within me.

 

Each time you see the doctor, I realize what a challenge it is for me, to revisit the perennial question of whether I could imagine losing you. The fact is, though when I agreed to marry you I had been prepared to look after you should you develop cancer again and possibly be widowed early, the prospect of losing you to disease and a blood number scares me every time I revisit it.

 

On most days, this doesn’t bother me- it cannot and must not. My mind has accepted that your chest and tummy bear a huge ghastly scar; my eyes accept that you pop two pills a day, every day; my lips have grown accustomed to your gums, slightly swollen (another side effect), when we kiss.  On most days, I am fine. My mind cannot afford to take in the reality that you are living on stolen time so I don’t think about it. For my own mental well-being, I don’t allow it to bother me: I don’t google obscure journal articles about the negative side effects of your medication; I don’t keep obsessing about your blood results a year ago; I don’t nag at you and dictate what you eat or how you exercise. We road-cycle together, we run, we plan mission trips to rural slums, we live life the way we would if you had never had to be cut open and have your entire liver replaced because of some cruel mass that grew inside of you before you reached Grade ten in school.

 

Most days I treat you like a normal person. Like a healthy husband. I must. I have to.

 

But that early morning when I was jolted from sleep, I transiently lost all my composure. I forgot the time before you came to Singapore when you discovered that your liver markers had gone crazy and we both wondered if you were going to die, if for once, organ rejection was setting in… and I asked God to give me strength to accept that fact and still date you because I had believed we were meant to be. And you turned out fine. Everything settled down after I had reconciled myself with the fact that God was going to heal you. And He did.

 

But that morning I did not remember that. I did not remember that you have had 23 years of stolen time, and we have enjoyed 6 months of marriage together. I only wondered if you were going to leave me someday without me being prepared for it. I wondered why it was so hard to recalibrate my faith and courage this time, because I began to realize, that the more time I spend with you, the more I fall in love with you, and the harder, truly it is harder than ever for me to let you go.

 

Just thinking about it makes me cry now.

 

People don’t understand. They say, “Live a day at a time, Jia. No point worrying. See, God has healed him all these years. Cliff has been so healthy. Don’t think too much.”

 

They have a point. But they don’t understand. Now I understand why caregivers sometimes break down from thinking and wondering and ruminating too much.

 

The next day, I was still tearful at work. It wasn’t until I got home that you said something that made everything in my mind connect and be calm. At once, I became sane again.

 

“Wai Jia, why do you think you’re worried?”

 

“Because I’m afraid of losing you.”

 

“Where do you think God is in all of this?”

 

“I know my Sunday School (the correct) answer, Cliff. My Sunday School answer is that God is in control.”

 

“But I don’t want your Sunday School answer. Where do you really think God is in all of this?”

 

“I don’t know sometimes,” I confess honestly. “I am afraid He’ll betray me at some point and cause me pain I cannot bear.”

 

“Do you really think you won’t be able to bear it?”

 

“ I don’t know,” I say. Really I want this conversation to stop but I reply, “I eventually will, I think. I will be very sad for a long time and angry at God, but then I will be okay and understand that God loves us and I will write a book about your life and our lives together and everything will be okay again.”

 

“Wai Jia, I need you to remember God has given me life for 23 extra years. And my life is sustained through Faith in God. I am not here today because I saw the best doctor or because my blood numbers are on target. I am here because of God. We are together because of God. And I need you to see that, I need you to see my life is not about achieving the target range for my blood work. It’s about us depending on God’s Spirit sustaining my life. God is the sustainer of my life.”

 

And I cried in your arms because I knew it was true.

 

I had forgotten that- I had become tired and anxious and guilty and fearful because I forgot that God is God. He is bigger than all of our anxieties and fears and guilt put together. He is bigger than our lives. He is simply who He is and He, not myself nor any other high-flying transplant specialist, has control over your life.

 

“When He wants to take me, He will,” you said.

 

We’ve talked about this many times. You had joked you’d be watching me from heaven using i-Cloud on an i-pad. (Get it?)

 

“But if we keep living in fear, then what about our dreams to do missions in Africa or Nepal or wherever?” you said.

 

Suddenly it made sense and my tears stopped.

 

Suddenly I remembered that it was me who reasoned that it was better for you, for us to live full lives than to live our lives in fear. For all we know, I could die first, or you could die from a reason completely unrelated to your liver transplant or long term medication. And what then? Would we then have regretted not living a full life because we were afraid?

 

No.

 

We must not. We must not live in fear and run away from our dreams altogether. We must not live as though cheese were poison and avoid it altogether because for you, it is a taste of home. So you hugged me as I sat on your lap and you said it was going to be okay. That if you left earlier, God would give me strength and I would be strong enough to carry on without you.

 

Tears fell down my face, because I realized, that the more time we spend together, the more I fall in love with you, and paradoxically, the more I need to let you go, and cling on ever more tightly to God, and not to you.

 

So here we are, at our 6-month-2-week mark, together, living a full life with a sprinkling of cheese on top. I am learning, that to love you more and more, I must learn, to lose you, too.