The give and take of cancer

Very little is needed by way of an introduction when a piece is as heartfelt as this. Beyond the Harvard education, the directorship at Tiffany & Co. in Dubai, and the vibrancy of 33 years of living, Gigi just wanted to thank her dad — the much-respected advertising executive Meckoy Quiogue. It was in the midst of his sudden death as well as her own cancer that she began to understand the meaning of life. This understanding was perhaps his parting gift to her and in writing with such clarity, it is a gift she has now chosen to share with all of us… 

There isn’t much about the experience of having cancer that anyone would want to remember.

A cancer diagnosis has a way of sweeping the ground out from under you and providing a cold, hard bitch-slap from the world to remind you that bad things really can happen to anyone. In a short time, the side effects of treatment can strip you of your identity and life as you’ve known it, as your hair falls away, your energy is replaced by nausea and fatigue, and as you, once independent, adventurous, strong, and capable must again depend on your family to help you with even the simplest of tasks, like bathing or changing a Band-Aid. Worst of all, cancer can taint once-hopeful visions of the future with a haunting fear of not knowing what kind or how much of a future you might have.

When I was diagnosed with cancer last fall, my loved ones would often comfort me by telling me that, God-willing, one day, “this would all be far behind me.” I spent the next few months of chemotherapy, radiation, and recovery desperately praying for that day to come.

It did, that is, until a few weeks ago, when my father passed away, and I realized that these terrifying, uncertain, painful cancer-filled months were the last that I would have left with him …

I remember calling Dad from the doctor’s office the day the biopsy results came in, knowing that, in spite of his own health issues, he would be a source of calm. I remember his mischievous laughter lighting up the hospital room where I spent my birthday. I remember sharing a hotel room with him during one of my treatments in Singapore, comparing the daily count of pills our doctors prescribed. I remember him confessing that night how helpless he felt when he witnessed my routine of post-chemo nausea and vomiting. I remember — and now often reread — his Christmas card, thoughtfully composed as always, in which he wrote, “It’s only in times like these when you realize how much you love a person, when you just cry at the thought of them suffering, especially you, who are and will always be my little girl.”

I remember his spirit, his laughter, strength, and love …

I can’t help but feel resentful at what cancer has put me through physically and emotionally and what it has taken away from me in time and life experiences. I feel guilt for the stress and the sacrifices that family members had to endure, the time, money, energy spent to stay by my side through this ordeal. I regret that my father’s short time left was spent worrying about me, doting on me, taking short, tiring trips to Singapore to see me, and mostly that his last birthday and Christmas were spent in a stranger’s apartment and hospital waiting rooms instead of another family beach vacation, making one last set of happy, beautiful fun-filled holiday memories to leave us with.

At the same time, how can I not feel grateful that we had this time together in the first place? Grateful that what happened to me gave my family and I the chance to spend more time together, time we would have normally spent going on with life as usual in our respective corners of the world, speaking briefly about once every few days. Grateful to have been shown so clearly about the great lengths a father, mother, brother, sister, and, for that matter, any loving family member or friend would go through so that I wouldn’t have to battle this disease alone. Relieved that my dad died knowing I was cancer-free. And most importantly, blessed. Blessed to have learned, through it all, not to take time for granted, to appreciate the little things a bit more, indulge in life’s pleasures a bit more, and try a little harder to tell my loved ones how important they are to me. Or better yet, to show them. 

The difficulties of the last year are still too fresh, the pain still too raw for me to say that I have emerged from them a wiser, better person. I still have ways to go. Down the road, though, I hope to be able to. As time goes on and as I continue to process these emotions, I realize that putting life’s greatest obstacles behind you is not about throwing every memory of them away and never looking back. While it’s easy to explain death and illness by saying that “God has a plan” or that “everything happens for a reason,” I know we must still find a way to accept life’s trials and forge ahead. However impossible it may seem, we must ultimately find a way to free ourselves from the trauma and pain, embrace the good that endures, and hold on to them more tightly than ever: precious time, friends, and family.

Laughter, strength, and love.

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E-mail tcbautista@arkeology.org.