The scourge!

Nenita Socrates wrote to me about her husband, who was afflicted with cancer. Her letter would not fit into this column, but this is the heart of her story, exactly as she told it:

"It is heart wrenching to retrace the tortuous road that Joe and I traveled for the last seven years. It is agonizing to recall the battering Joe suffered as cancer attacked his bones. But if sharing our experience will alert just one man and save him from the onslaught of prostate cancer, and spare just one wife from watching a loved one wasting away before her eyes, then my Joe shall not have died in vain.

When Joe was 60 years old he was examined for prostate cancer. He was cleared, but was advised to undergo yearly examination. He refused to do this… Joe and I went to the United States in 1994 to celebrate our golden wedding anniversary. Jess, out pathologist son, discovered Joe’s cancer in a painless blood test, called PSA – Prostate Specific Antigen. This test detects prostate cancer early, when complete cure can be effected.

"But Joe was 72 years old, and it was too late. He was in Stage D, the last stage of the disease. He underwent an operation, but the cancer cells had already spread to neighboring areas, so he would always harbor cancer cells. He was instructed to submit to monthly PSA, which he did… Six years after his cancer was discovered, a bone scintigraphy told us that we faced the terminal stage of prostate cancer, cancer of the bones.

"Many expensive medicines had to be bought in the United States. We saw our savings dwindling away… We tried chemotherapy, but it was too painful. We faced the inevitable. Joe had six siblings. Four died of cancer. And his mother died of cancer.

"Last year, in October of 2001, Joe suffered a stroke. When we went for medical consultation, Joe told me that he was manifesting a new embarrassing behavior – he was easily moved to tears.

"In Joe’s long battle against prostate cancer, we were blessed with the constant assistance of our daughter, Luchi, her husband, Herbie, their four children, and three house help who have been with them for years. They live across the street. We also have a caregiver, Lydia, who has been taking care of us for 37 years. When my three sons were medical students, she was taught the functions of a nurse. Most important, she loves us.

"In January of 2002, Joe started feeling constant pain. No appetite. Unable to get a good night’s sleep. Nausea. He lost interest in activities he used to love – reading, writing, watching TV. He began to lose consciousness, again, and again, and again. Pain killers no longer worked. He refused injections, fearing drug addiction. He described the pain as if rats were gnawing his vital organs. And Joe would ask me, often, to forgive him for being such a bother. He used to have a high pain tolerance. He would never allow any pain or discomfort to faze him. But bone cancer is the most painful malady known to man.

"His mental capability began to diminish. He was blessed by God with a brilliant mind. He was cum laude from the University of the Philippines, and finished a three year Ph.D. course in the University of Chicago in 30 months. Now he was talking senselessly, even incoherently. That mind, which once shone with brilliance, was slipping away. Moments of disorientation were becoming more often, and at shorter intervals.

"I treasured the times when he looked at me, standing beside his bed, extended his hand, and clasped it. He drew me closer, brought my hand to his lips, and said ever so gently: ‘I love you, Nita.’ I will always treasure this man who loved me unselfishly, who had always been my source of strength.

"He was hospitalized again in February, 2002. He underwent an operation. He was hospitalized again in May. He was fed through a tube in the nose. He hated this, and vowed never again would he agree to be confined. He made me promise that he would die at home, in our own bed. He felt utter exhaustion, weakness, discomfort. He could not succeed in assuming a position that would be comfortable.

"He had to be spoon fed, could no longer stand even with human support, or take one step. He relied almost entirely on the wheelchair. But early every morning he was wheeled around the subdivision to our church.

"He communicated with his eyebrows. I hovered over him, standing by his bedside. He extended his hand – which was surprising, because he could no longer make much movement – got my hand and kissed it, and said very clearly: ‘All my life, you have made me happy.’ Then he wept. He closed his eyes, and was asleep. That was the last time he talked with me. He tried, on many occasions, to talk, but no sound would come from his lips.

"I devised what I called a release plea. It went like this: ‘Joe, if the Lord is calling you, and the Virgin is extending her hand to you, put your hand in hers, and go with them. Trust them. Stop fighting. I will take good care of myself.’

"At 1 a.m. on June 6, 2002, God gave me a precious event, which I shall cherish forever. I lay down on my back, next to Joe, and placed myself as close to him as I could. With my right hand I clasped his left hand. Then I started talking about the life we shared together, about our nine children and 21 grand children. I thanked him for providing us all the necessities of life, for his tireless effort to improve our way of life, for his dedication to his family.

"I also told him that I was sure he knew that I always loved him with my whole heart. After a while, I carefully enunciated my release plea. Then I asked him to forgive me for the many offenses I had committed against him. I talked about our life, the hardships we faced together. Then, after a while, I said: ‘Papa, I need your reassurance. If you hear me, understand me, and forgive me, move your hand.’ He moved his hand! I felt it. It was unmistakenly a movement. I wept. And I kept on repeating ‘Thank you, thank you.’ When I passed my hand over his face, Joe was crying.

"The next time I looked at Joe’s face, he was peacefully sleeping. There was no premonition that this would be the last time that Joe and I would be lying close together, the last time I would be baring my soul to the man I love more than life, the last time I would feel a response from the person who, all his life, responded to my every need… Soc, my orthopedic surgeon son, pronounced him dead at high noon. I lost the person who made me whole, who gave color to my life. He went peacefully home to God. And I know he is waiting for me, there."