[ Note: Published in Inquirer, Holy Thur, 1998, re published in Young Blood 2.0]
[ Article writtten by Jose Ramon Albert, then known as Dom William Trinity Albert, OSB]
Ever since I was young, I have been warned by a host of people about cancer,
especially since our family has a long history of colon cancer. My family's
health history has even been called "the Albert curse" in local newspapers
and magazines.
My mother always prayed that I'd be spared from this curse. However, God
does not always grant us what we want. And very often, the work of God is
beyond our limited understanding.
It was in February that my struggle with cancer began. My physician was
worried about a mass in my abdomen that was detected by a CAT-scan. After
transfusing some blood due to my low blood count and performing a colonscopy,
he recommended that I undergo surgery.
The colonoscopy was already quite stressful since I was wide awake while they
were "scoping" me from below (in spite of the anesthetics they gave me).
Going through the prepaparations for surgery was also rough. I was not
allowed to eat or drink anything. Worse than this forced starvation was
the psychological roller coaster I experienced.
Seeing my visitors gulp the food in my hospital room down their throats
in a matter of seconds was fun and yet it also made me sad since I could not
join them in their enjoyment.
Realizing that I was now united with so many people in pain brought a new
understanding to the many prayers we monks say for them, yet I also understood
that I was also very different from them. For one thing, I don't have to
worry about paying my hospital bills and about my many needs since my
monastic community, friends and family took charge of these concerns.
For another, there were many people in pain for whom the nights were long
and lonely while I had the grace to have many considerate, patient and
loving care-givers to refresh my sagging spirit. God, during those times,
seemed both kind and unkind, both powerful and impotent, both present
and absent.
The fears arising from the uncertainties of undergoing a major surgery
only dawned on me when I was being taken to the operating room. Praying
the rosary while my fears were on the upsurge was a major help. It was
comforting to feel and know that Our Lady would be beside me.
Trying to keep my humor alive was another helpful coping mechanism. As
I stared at the big lights in the operating room, I told one of the nurses,
"Now I know how Nora Aunor feels!" When my anaesthesiologist told me that
he would put me to sleep, I said "Good night," even though it was only
three in the afternoon.
When I awoke from surgery, I found myself transformed into a "semi-colon"
with a host of medical gadgets to remove many impurities from my body
that might cause other problems. Moreover, my surgeon informed me that he
found not only one but two masses in my ascending colon and successfully
removed them both.
A week after my operation, the pathology report came and my mother asked
the surgeon if twas "M or B", meaning malignant or benign. She had
difficulty saying the word "malignant", which is synonymous to cancer
since the latter's too dreadful to say unless it pertains to the sign
of the zodiac.
Cancer, just like other life-threatening ailments, scares us because it
reminds us of our own mortality, of the time that we meet death face to face.
We live in the shadow of death, yet we constantly try to escape discussing it.
Death is just too much of a mystery. We are terrified about what lies
beyond death, that is, if there really is a life beyond.
As Christians, we have been taught that death is the beginning of a new life,
and so we should look forward to it. However, our faith is not always solid.
There are no absolute guarantees about life after death, about the
existence of God and about a host of other matters of faith, and consequently,
we fear death.
We cry when a loved one dies instead of rejoicing, and we would normally
find anyone who laughs in such a situation demented. We consider any discussion
about death as macabre.
No less than the new Doctor of the Church, St. Therese of Liseux, wrote about
this fear as she lay on her deathbed: "Am I fallling into an abyss of
nothingness?"
My experience with cancer has yet to end. I have to undergo chemotherapy
until August (to make sure that the cancer cells that may still be roaming
around in my blood will not cause new growth or spread to other organs).
Yet, I find it necessary to reflect daily on my experience with cancer
to preserve my sanity.
I have asked myself whether I have been angry at all with God. It is normal
(and perhaps healthy) to get angry in such a situation, to cry out to God
"why me?" Anger is no longer considered a sin these days (only what
we do with our anger).
However, it seems that I have managed to see my health condition in a
very good light. Perhaps my many struggles and pains in the religious
life have helped me see that God is very much present in my pains.
God did not cause my painst, and surely God cries while I am in pain.
But God is also wanting for me to transform my pain into something positive.
Three years ago, I received a startling letter for my forty-year-old
British advser, Laurence Baxter, who relayed that message that he had
lymphoma. He suffered no physical pain during his brave battle with
cancer. In one of his last letters to me, he recounted the many graces
that came with his pain. His relationship with his wife and friends
deepened considerably as he went through tough times.
He also gave a beautiful presription for coping with pain: "I pray
that you never ever have to undergo the kind of hardships I have gone
through. But if you do, it is important for you to see things with
the right perspective, to consider this experience as an opportunity
rather than as a disaster."
During Ash Wednesday last year, I received a sad note from his wife
Deborah. It said that Laurence did not get to read my Christmas note
to him.
As I consider Laurence's prescription for coping with cancer, I am
reminded, especially during this Lenten season, of Someone who was
abandoned, mocked, scourged and crucified many years ago. But, unlike
many prophets before Him, His suffering was not the end, but only the
beginning of His glory. As He resurrected, so too are those of us whose
cries reach to the heavens, given the promise of a new life. Thus,
while our pains do not go away, they are given a new meaning.
In Laurence Baxter, and in jesus, I see that we are not meant to end
up in pain and in death, for we are meant to become a new creation.
We are meant to experience the resurrection.
[ EXTRA NOTES: The author subsequently underwent 6 months
post-op chemotherapy, left religious life, and is now a public servant.
He undergoes regular monitoring. Last year, his prostrate enlarged, but it was diagnosed
negative for cancer. His dad Justo Albert, like many Alberts,
also had many colon problems; he died in January 12 1980.
His mom Amparo Gatmaitan was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 2007,
and bravely battled the big C up to August 12 2009.
Toots gives a lot of credit to Dr. Jombi Lichauco for recommending
that he undergo a CAT scan, which led to the cancer detection.
Jombi was also instrumental in managing the remaining life of
Toots' mom after she was diagnosed with cancer. ]
[ Article writtten by Jose Ramon Albert, then known as Dom William Trinity Albert, OSB]
Ever since I was young, I have been warned by a host of people about cancer,
especially since our family has a long history of colon cancer. My family's
health history has even been called "the Albert curse" in local newspapers
and magazines.
My mother always prayed that I'd be spared from this curse. However, God
does not always grant us what we want. And very often, the work of God is
beyond our limited understanding.
It was in February that my struggle with cancer began. My physician was
worried about a mass in my abdomen that was detected by a CAT-scan. After
transfusing some blood due to my low blood count and performing a colonscopy,
he recommended that I undergo surgery.
The colonoscopy was already quite stressful since I was wide awake while they
were "scoping" me from below (in spite of the anesthetics they gave me).
Going through the prepaparations for surgery was also rough. I was not
allowed to eat or drink anything. Worse than this forced starvation was
the psychological roller coaster I experienced.
Seeing my visitors gulp the food in my hospital room down their throats
in a matter of seconds was fun and yet it also made me sad since I could not
join them in their enjoyment.
Realizing that I was now united with so many people in pain brought a new
understanding to the many prayers we monks say for them, yet I also understood
that I was also very different from them. For one thing, I don't have to
worry about paying my hospital bills and about my many needs since my
monastic community, friends and family took charge of these concerns.
For another, there were many people in pain for whom the nights were long
and lonely while I had the grace to have many considerate, patient and
loving care-givers to refresh my sagging spirit. God, during those times,
seemed both kind and unkind, both powerful and impotent, both present
and absent.
The fears arising from the uncertainties of undergoing a major surgery
only dawned on me when I was being taken to the operating room. Praying
the rosary while my fears were on the upsurge was a major help. It was
comforting to feel and know that Our Lady would be beside me.
Trying to keep my humor alive was another helpful coping mechanism. As
I stared at the big lights in the operating room, I told one of the nurses,
"Now I know how Nora Aunor feels!" When my anaesthesiologist told me that
he would put me to sleep, I said "Good night," even though it was only
three in the afternoon.
When I awoke from surgery, I found myself transformed into a "semi-colon"
with a host of medical gadgets to remove many impurities from my body
that might cause other problems. Moreover, my surgeon informed me that he
found not only one but two masses in my ascending colon and successfully
removed them both.
A week after my operation, the pathology report came and my mother asked
the surgeon if twas "M or B", meaning malignant or benign. She had
difficulty saying the word "malignant", which is synonymous to cancer
since the latter's too dreadful to say unless it pertains to the sign
of the zodiac.
Cancer, just like other life-threatening ailments, scares us because it
reminds us of our own mortality, of the time that we meet death face to face.
We live in the shadow of death, yet we constantly try to escape discussing it.
Death is just too much of a mystery. We are terrified about what lies
beyond death, that is, if there really is a life beyond.
As Christians, we have been taught that death is the beginning of a new life,
and so we should look forward to it. However, our faith is not always solid.
There are no absolute guarantees about life after death, about the
existence of God and about a host of other matters of faith, and consequently,
we fear death.
We cry when a loved one dies instead of rejoicing, and we would normally
find anyone who laughs in such a situation demented. We consider any discussion
about death as macabre.
No less than the new Doctor of the Church, St. Therese of Liseux, wrote about
this fear as she lay on her deathbed: "Am I fallling into an abyss of
nothingness?"
My experience with cancer has yet to end. I have to undergo chemotherapy
until August (to make sure that the cancer cells that may still be roaming
around in my blood will not cause new growth or spread to other organs).
Yet, I find it necessary to reflect daily on my experience with cancer
to preserve my sanity.
I have asked myself whether I have been angry at all with God. It is normal
(and perhaps healthy) to get angry in such a situation, to cry out to God
"why me?" Anger is no longer considered a sin these days (only what
we do with our anger).
However, it seems that I have managed to see my health condition in a
very good light. Perhaps my many struggles and pains in the religious
life have helped me see that God is very much present in my pains.
God did not cause my painst, and surely God cries while I am in pain.
But God is also wanting for me to transform my pain into something positive.
Three years ago, I received a startling letter for my forty-year-old
British advser, Laurence Baxter, who relayed that message that he had
lymphoma. He suffered no physical pain during his brave battle with
cancer. In one of his last letters to me, he recounted the many graces
that came with his pain. His relationship with his wife and friends
deepened considerably as he went through tough times.
He also gave a beautiful presription for coping with pain: "I pray
that you never ever have to undergo the kind of hardships I have gone
through. But if you do, it is important for you to see things with
the right perspective, to consider this experience as an opportunity
rather than as a disaster."
During Ash Wednesday last year, I received a sad note from his wife
Deborah. It said that Laurence did not get to read my Christmas note
to him.
As I consider Laurence's prescription for coping with cancer, I am
reminded, especially during this Lenten season, of Someone who was
abandoned, mocked, scourged and crucified many years ago. But, unlike
many prophets before Him, His suffering was not the end, but only the
beginning of His glory. As He resurrected, so too are those of us whose
cries reach to the heavens, given the promise of a new life. Thus,
while our pains do not go away, they are given a new meaning.
In Laurence Baxter, and in jesus, I see that we are not meant to end
up in pain and in death, for we are meant to become a new creation.
We are meant to experience the resurrection.
[ EXTRA NOTES: The author subsequently underwent 6 months
post-op chemotherapy, left religious life, and is now a public servant.
He undergoes regular monitoring. Last year, his prostrate enlarged, but it was diagnosed
negative for cancer. His dad Justo Albert, like many Alberts,
also had many colon problems; he died in January 12 1980.
His mom Amparo Gatmaitan was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 2007,
and bravely battled the big C up to August 12 2009.
Toots gives a lot of credit to Dr. Jombi Lichauco for recommending
that he undergo a CAT scan, which led to the cancer detection.
Jombi was also instrumental in managing the remaining life of
Toots' mom after she was diagnosed with cancer. ]
