Paradox Blog

Monday, August 30, 1999
Home, Milpitas

The story starts with the end...

The alarm went off at 6:45 as usual. We got up, prepared to go to work. It is a Monday morning like all the other working days. And yet, it is special this particular Monday morning. After almost six months, this is the first day that Patrick goes back to work. He still has feeding tube in his stomach. We packed four cans of formula for his feeding.

Have a nice day. Don't work too hard. It's almost like the first day going back to school after a long summer vacation. But it has been much longer, with the mixture of uncertainty and anxiety , than anyone's summer vacation.

Five Days Ago
Home, Milpitas

I went home for lunch, a habit I formed since I changed job and found out Patrick has cancer. The phone rang while I was slurring down my noodle. I picked up the phone, it was Patrick's ENT doctor.

"The biopsy result came back negative, " the doctor declared, "Unless there is anything else, I'll see him in a month."

I hung up the phone and told Patrick the news. Our eyes both turned wet. It is over. For now. Nobody guaranteed or promised us anything. For the next five years, Patrick will have follow-up exams starting with once every month for twelve months. The cancer might come back. It might not. Only time can tell. But now, after the intensive treatment for more than four months, the doctor could not detect any cancer cell. We pulled it through.

I am so happy, I murmured. We both are overjoyed. Life is gradually going back to normal. First thing first. Patrick can go back to work now.

Two Weeks Ago
Carmel, CA

We went to Carmel on a sunny Saturday morning. Since Patrick got sick, our outings were reduced to the minimal. Now he is feeling better, we decided to visit our favorite little town.

We drove the Boxter for the trip. Patrick bought the car last year. It was the first and only luxury item he bought for himself. After he found out he has cancer, he recalled this impulsive purchase.

He made the purchase because one day it occurred to him, what if he would never have a chance to drive a Porsche? Later, he called it an evil thought. In any event, we bought the metallic blue Boxter one bitter cold November night after the dealer informed us that it just became available and would be gone very fast if we do not grab it now. Patrick barely put a thousand miles to the car when he was diagnosed of cancer.

There were a lot of decisions need to be made when we learned about the terrible news. Besides the medical treatment, there were financial considerations too. One thing immediately came to our mind was whether we should keep the Boxter. I don't drive a stick shift. I don't like convertibles. If anything happens to Patrick, the last thing I would like to see is a Boxter sitting in my one-car garage.

We debated about selling the Boxter. Patrick was sad. He really likes the car. It is his dream car. In a sense the car has its symbolic meaning. We have no children. We live in a small old house. We work hard and don't have any expensive hobbies. The car is the most luxurious item in our household. It is a tangible thing that captures the good life that we thrive for.

We hesitated. Once the treatment started, all our energy was focused on fighting the illness. We never talked about selling the car again. Patrick even drove the car to his daily radiation therapy, proudly parked the little convertible at the designated radiation patient parking space.

Here we are. With the top down on Highway 1 while the wind blowing, well, just my hair. Patrick has been bald for a while. The coastal line is beautiful. We drove into Carmel, and had a leisure stroll on the streets.

Patrick bought me a necklace in this jewelry store we admired so much last time we were here. We are not going to wait until the next time, as we always did. All the beautiful things in life, tangible or intangible, we are going to enjoy now.

Four Weeks Ago
O'Connor Hospital, Santa Clara

Everybody was so friendly when we walked into the radiation department. This was Patrick's 35th, and the last, therapy. He was going to "graduate" today.

Mary, the receptionist, insisted to take us to the hospital cafeteria for coffee after the session. Patrick cannot have coffee. In fact, he cannot have anything through his mouth and throat. He has a stomach tube installed for a month now to help him maintain the basic nutrition through tube feeding. He can barely talk either. But he was in good spirits. He promised Mary he will come back to visit them.

As we walked out of the hospital, we gave each other a high five. I looked at my poor husband. After five chemo and thirty five radiation, he has been reduced to my weight, which is not a lot. He has no hair, no voice. He lost all sensation of taste with a very dry mouth. At the beginning of the treatment, we were told by the doctor that some side effects are temporary, while some might be permanent. How those side effects might affect our lives was not even a consideration. We went for the very aggressive treatment so that we could have some chance to win the battle. We gave our shot, we will wait and see.

It's time to recover. The healing is yet to begin.

Ten Weeks Ago
Kaiser Hospital, Santa Clara

I checked Patrick into the hospital. After a long administrative procedure, he was finally wheeled into the cancer ward. The doctor started the IV. He needs plenty of fluid, we were told. But he should be ok. He was just dehydrated.

By Friday evening, when the first drop of water was infused into his body, things seemed to be settled a little. We were both exhausted.

Every fourth Tuesday is the chemo day. We go to Kaiser for six hours infusion of some toxic medicine. After that, we go home, waiting for the side effects to sink in. The most serious ones are nausea and vomiting. Patrick just finished his fourth chemo. The first three were not too bad. He got nausea and would vomit for a couple of times, then he recovered. However, after the third chemo the radiation kicked in. With the side effects of both therapies, he was never fully recovered for the fourth chemo. After the infusion on Tuesday, he felt really weak and nausea. On Thursday night, he started severe vomiting. Until then, he had not been eating for three days. The only thing coming out of his stomach was acids.

There was nothing I could do. He threw up every couple of hours. None of the nausea drugs the doctor prescribed seemed to work, maybe because he threw them all up. I laid in bed in the guest bedroom, wide awake the whole night, listening to the horrible noise he made when he tried to vomit. There was just nothing I could do.

I called the hospital the first thing in the morning, trying to reach the doctor. When the doctor called back, he prescribed more nausea drugs. He also warned us about the possibility of dehydration.

The new nausea drugs did not work. Patrick could not take any water or fluid. He still vomited every two hours. By the afternoon, he looks ghastly and became weaker and weaker. I called the hospital again.

We were advised to go to the emergency room to get the IV or he might pass out. I got really scared. I called a pharmacist friend at Kaiser and asked him how I could get an ambulance. By then Patrick was too weak to get into my car.

He stayed in the hospital for two days. The whole experience has been the worst one compared with all the ordeals we went through up to that point. It tested both our physical and mental limitation. We never had any doubt, or I should say we were never given any chance to doubt, that we would not be able to fight this battle. But sometimes what happened to our body and mind was just beyond our wildest imagination.

Five and half months ago
Home, Milpitas

This is how it all started...

We came back from the airport Thursday night after a five-day vacation in Puerto Vallerta, Mexico. I was between jobs and decided to take one week off.

I threw the bags on the floor, and noticed there are several messages on our answering machine.

"This message is for Mr. Wong form Doctor Lal. Please call back immediately. This is important." The message was left on Monday. The doctor left another identical message on Tuesday. He did not disclose anything, but I knew immediately something was terribly wrong.

Patrick went to see the doctor the Friday before for a lesion in his mouth which did not heal for a couple of months. The doctor looked into his mouth, consulted another doctor, then decided to take a biopsy from his tonsil and his lymph node. We flew to Mexico on Sunday, figured it was nothing and the result won't come back for another couple of weeks.

My heart sank and I started to cry. I told Patrick to call Kaiser even though it was already after hours. Patrick called. Doctor Lal was already gone for the day. We insisted to talk to the doctor on call.

It took a while to track down the on-call doctor. It took even longer to force the doctor to retrieve Patrick's medical records. Yes, it is cancer. Yes, it has spread to his lymph node. No, he couldn't tell us more. We have to see the ENT doctor and have more tests done.

The next two weeks were surreal. We were in the hospital several times, going through all kinds of test. Patrick took a disability leave from his work, while I debated whether I should start my new job. We got a second opinion from another hospital, and collected all the information from the books and internet about his particular type of cancer. We informed all our family and friends.

When everything finally settled, Patrick was diagnosed of the stage four, which is the most advanced, cancer. The doctor decided to start the chemotherapy immediately with adjuvant radiation therapy. Surgery was excluded at this time, because it would be extensive and impair his speech and swallowing function.

One memory that always comes back, besides all the initial tears and disbelief and despair, was the morning after we learned about the terrible news. I remember vividly that I woke up the following morning, laying in the bed, looking around. Here is my bedroom, here is my bed, here is my husband. Everything is the same but everything is different. It was a disturbing feeling which haunts me even now.

My life, for good or for bad, will never be the same again.

Looking back .....

I stopped keeping a diary after college, which is more than fifteen years ago. Then, at a trip to Canada two years ago, Patrick bought me a journal which I carry to all the subsequent trips we took to record those adventures. The following is what I wrote on the flight back from Mexico. The trip was a nice one. But in the back of my mind, I've been thinking about the biopsy the doctor did before our departure. My mom died from cancer four years ago. If I learned anything from that experience, I know by taking the biopsy the doctor must have suspected something. Day 5, Thursday, March 11, 1999 I am writing this journal on the plane. Time flies. I can't believe how fast the past four days went. With all the burden in my heart, we are going home now. Patrick still has the pain in his throat, and now he feels it in his head too. A week from tomorrow we are going to learn the truth. What is life going to be is beyond me. What is ahead of us I don't know. Am I more prepared now than the beginning of the trip? I guess so. We shall see.