I have never
before felt so helpless and hopeless and hapless as today. I have never before
seen such fear and bravery and such kindness and compassion all together in the
one place. I spent the afternoon at the Children’s Cancer Centre at the KK
Women and Children’s hospital here in Singapore.
It was harrowing.
It was moving.
My hands are
trembling a little just trying to capture what I witnessed. I doubt that any
words I write will quite do the experience justice.
I shall
nevertheless try.
I feel compelled.
I don’t know why.
I was made bald
early this week. I was amongst quite a large group of people in my Company and
on the Island that voluntarily had our heads shaved to raise both funds and
awareness for the Hair for Hope Foundation. Like all the other volunteers I did
it because it is a good and noble cause. I was more focused on the raising of funds though - and I didn't give the awareness piece as much as it deserved.
The head shaving act was no big deal to me. I am not very pretty with or without hair and it will grow back.
The head shaving act was no big deal to me. I am not very pretty with or without hair and it will grow back.
I saw the video
presentation on the Hair for Hope foundation so I knew what the cause was all
about – but I didn’t really know.
I hadn’t seen it.
I hadn’t witnessed it.
I hadn’t seen it.
I hadn’t witnessed it.
But today I did - and it has shaken me
to the core.
I went to my
weekly acupuncture treatment the day of my balding and wearing my ‘Hair for
Hope’ tee shirt. At the conclusion of my treatment my delightful and quite
demure acupuncturist Dr. Jun meekly and politely thanked me for taking part in
the event. I told her it was my pleasure and it was no big deal and then began
a conversation about cancer and children. She asked me if I had known any children
with cancer and I told her that I hadn’t but I had two adult friends who were
currently battling the disease
Dr. Jun gives her
time at the Children’s Cancer Centre at the KK Hospital a couple of days a week
and she asked me if I would like to visit the oncology centre this weekend –
which was today. She told me that the unit has many volunteers and always has a
need for more – if only to read stories to some of the smaller children while
their parents received some respite. She thought that me being freshly bald
would also entertain the children – most of whom were the same.
Bald that is.
Bald that is.
Dr. Jun told me
that despite the advances of modern medicine – loss of hair and nausea were
still common effects of the intrusive and often painful chemotherapy treatment
that was required to fight the disease.
So along I went –
with Dr. Jun – today.
I learned much today
about cancer and myself – but amongst the knowledge I acquired was that
leukemia is the most common form of cancer suffered by children in Singapore - and
it chooses it victims indiscriminately. I met children today of many races and
religions – Asian and Caucasian and Indian – Christian and Hindi and Muslim –
all of them bald.
I met the mothers
and fathers and brothers and sisters and uncles and aunties and grandparents of
children who were brave but terrified. They were exhausted too. I saw brokenhearted
parents walking into bereavement sessions with counselors so kind and
considerate that all my petty worries evaporated in a moment.
They disappeared
into thin air.
I played for a
while with a bunch of little boy and girl baldies who laughed sometimes when I
made fun of my own bald head and myself. Their chuckles and giggles came in
between coughs that I could tell hurt their little lungs and I had to wear a mask
in some of the rooms so I wouldn’t compromise their tiny and fragile immune
systems. Dr. Jun gave me a good tour of the facility and the afternoon passed
by in a kind of a blur that even now I have difficulty in remembering all of
the detail.
I do recall her
telling me that the odds of survival of childhood cancers are increasing all
the time and with the advancement of bone marrow and stem cell transplants more
than one in two children with the disease will now likely recover and go on to
live healthy and happy lives. It was chilling though to think – no to know - that
of the fifty or so children I saw today twenty-five would probably die.
None were older
than ten.
At the end of the
afternoon I sat for a while with a little six-year-old girl named Libby who
looked so tiny and frail in her big hospital bed. I read her a story. Libby
has been undergoing chemotherapy for nearly three months. She was bald and
brave and she giggled at the funny voices I put on and I don’t think that she
could hear the trembling in my voice. I read her less than half the story about
Jack and the Beanstalk before she fell asleep and then I held her pale and minuscule
little hand in mine until her mum and dad came back into the ward after getting
a cup of tea.
I am sure there
was despair in my face when I hugged Libby’s Mum goodbye and I think I may have hugged her a little tight. When I shook Libby's Dad’s
hand I saw the anguish in his eyes and I desperately wanted to say it’s OK – everything will be all right.
I knew though that I couldn’t.
I knew though that I couldn’t.
Then I walked out
with a big and fake grin on my face and I said goodbye to the other kids while my heart broke into a million tiny
pieces.
I am not sure if
it will repair.
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