Dad's Battle with Cancer

Dad was diagnosed with cancer in October of 2007, just months after my wedding, when it had seemed as if there couldn't be a cloud in the sky.

It started with dad's complaint of frequent urination. When he went to the local micro-lab to investigate the cause, we all thought it may be a urinary infection, as that's usually one of the common symptoms. The lab results came out negative, but a PSA test was suggested. PSA, (a term we later became very familiar with) is short for Prostate-Specific Antigen. PSA is present in small quantities in the serum of men with healthy prostates, but is often elevated in the presence of prostate cancer and in other prostate disorders.

The test results showed 50, which was not good. The next step was consulting a urologist. But it still hadn’t dawned on us that it could be something serious. Dad’s visit to PSG Tech, to meet with the resident head of urolology was a black one. He said that this usually was the first sign of prostrate cancer, and asked dad to go in for a biopsy. We were still pretty optimistic, blissfully oblivious to the horrors of cancer. Dad called our close relatives and narrated the news. They were all quite apprehensive on hearing it. The day of the biopsy results, I was at work. I was pretty keyed up and anxious, but I had a sweet box ready, because I’d prayed and fasted that day, and I remember thinking, ‘Surely, this could not happen to us. Surely, the Lord won’t allow it. Hasn’t He sworn to protect us in Psalm 91? – “A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.” No, this was just a mix up, it could be something else, not cancer.’

And then the dreaded phone call which never came…. That itself was not a good sign, like the jury taking a long time to decide the verdict at a high profile trial. I remember dialing dad’s number with trembling fingers, bravely plastering a smile on my face to ward off the anxiety, the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, that something was really wrong. And then, I heard his voice – my life’s pillar, saying,

‘Yes ba, its cancer. The doctor confirmed it….Yes mom is upset, I’m upset too naturally, but we’re all in God’s hands. Let’s just commit it to the Lord, and leave it there. He knows what’s best for each of us. Let’s see what can be done next….You need not worry ba. Come home and we’ll talk.’

That’s the way he responded to everything, all the trials, the faceless monsters that attacked him in life – like a rock- silent, unmoving, calm, yet steadfast. I can still feel the tears roll down my numb cheeks that day, the terror that held my hand in its cold fist. ‘Dad has cancer. Dad has cancer, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God!’

That day the house was silent. We all sat around in the family room and prayed, with tears, with hearts full of unanswerable questions, with dim faith. Then came the slew of phone calls from relatives and friends, the explanations, the well meant advice, the exclamations of sorrow that did nothing to calm us or alleviate our fears, but rather confirmed them.

The next thing we did was visit a well-known urologist in Coimbatore. The uro-surgeon there flatly suggested surgery. A prostectomy, or surgical removal of the prostrate gland was ruled out, as the tumor was too largely spread within the prostrate gland to guarantee its safe removal. Instead, an orchiectomy (removal of the testicles) was suggested. Prostrate tumors feed on testosterone produced in and circulating from the testicles and the pituitary gland. The easier the availability of testosterone, the faster the tumor grows, the farther it can reach. Thus, eliminating the source of the tumor’s nutrition is like eradicating the tumor itself. Without its source of nourishment, much like any other parasite, the cancer cells ultimately shrivel up and die. Sounds like the perfect solution, doesn’t it? But there were risks involved.

We met the resident Chief of Urology, who gave us to understand, that surgery did indeed present certain risks, kidney infection, recurring urinary tract infections, this besides the hospital stay, the inevitable medication that followed, the pain after surgery, and accompanying psychological disturbances and changes. Other side effects were hot flashes, osteoporosis and breast enlargement. Sort of puts a damper on the picture, doesn’t it? Of course, all this does not guarantee that the cancer will indeed die. In some cases, it does, but in other cases, the cancer cells morph or mutate to adjust to some other food source within the body if deprived of testosterone. And if the cancer cells have already spread to the bone tissue, then surgery is wasteful, and ultimately of no use.

‘What are the other options?’ We asked, and were told of LH-RH or hormone therapy, otherwise referred to as ‘medical castration’. It involved depriving the cancer of testosterone by controlling testosterone production, with the injection of a hormone named Lupride Depot into the blood. It did not present as many risks as surgery did, but was expensive; and it also, did not promise a cure. ‘What are the side effects?’, we asked. Emotional disturbances, depression, breast enlargement, and pain, it depends from person to person…we were told.

Then it came down to net research. Dad and I would go through the net, blogs, medical research sites, etc. We read about many cases in which orchiectomy was associated with incontinence, and in some cases, mental degradation. Also, our research on hormone therapy revealed some alarming finds. Many claimed that they had reactions such as violent emotional behavior and adopting feminine characteristics.

It was a case of doomed if you do, and doomed if you don’t. 

‘How long do we have to decide?’, we asked. 

One doctor said, ‘You have to act now!’ 

Another said, “The sooner you act the better.” 

Yet another said, “take your time and decide coolly.”

Dad’s case was further complicated by a hernia in the prostrate region, which had resulted in the gland swelling up. It gave him occasional discomfort, but no pain as such. But surgery was still a risk, as there was a chance of the cancer entering other tissues during the procedure.

It was like a bad dream that you hope to wake up from, but can’t. We usually hear about stuff like this on Oprah, or read about it in the paper, or hear about it from friends who know someone who knew someone who had it. But we never dream that it can come to us – this silent predator, the greatest killer the world has seen – ‘cancer’.

For a while, I think we all lived in denial. It was sort of a defense against the utter helplessness, the unpredictability of it all. Like ostriches, we buried out heads in the sand. We talked with dad about hormone therapy, but he was against it. “I’ll handle it. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”, he said. And surgery was a complete ‘no’. “I don’t want a knife to touch this body. If I have to go, I’ll go in one piece, as I am now.”, he said.

Dad loved life, and lived it to its fullest, each moment, each day. But in all his life, even with trials and difficulties beating him down, staring him in the face, or even dancing on his head at times, he never had abandoned his faith in God. He always said, “Why do people make God the last resort? Why can’t they go to him first?”

Chemotherapy, both oral and NS was ruled out, as one of the compounds in chemotherapy was a steroid, and dad was steroid intolerant. Plus chemotherapy was usually recommended in those cases where the cancer had entered the blood stream or body organs. So dad opted for a suppressant drug. The doctors suggested hormone therapy in time. 

Mom and dad were due a trip to Mumbai and Delhi. They decided to start therapy when they returned. A couple of months later, the cancer monster was like an underlying nightmare, like mice in the house which you can hear but can’t catch, or termites in the wall, that you don’t exterminate because you don’t see them until after they’ve holed up in some comfy part of the home and tunneled through all the wood surrounding it to get there.

Dad checked his PSA regularly. If it stayed below a certain point, the doctor had said it was ok. A lot of things transpired in the meanwhile. We shifted houses, my husband Shadrach and I got a separate rental place, adjoining mom and dad’s; Shadrach’s grandmother’s sister, also ill with cancer came to live with us; we went on tour, I had a miscarriage, and the list goes on of course. It was an eventful and stressful year.

When dad and mom had returned from their trip to the North, dad had gone in for a bone scan, which sadly revealed that the disease had already progressed and entered the bone tissue. The doctor said that since the cancer had already been in Stage III during the initial detection, it would already have been present in the bone. This then meant, that any other course of action to be taken could not cure him or better him, but only prolong his life.

Over the year, dad had tried alternative therapy – homeopathic medicine and naturo-therapy, like eating herbs, fruits, and vegetables that help the increase of anti-cancer immuno genes in the body. He also took a daily dose of wheat grass, which is a proven immuno drug. Beside this, dad had abstained from foods which aggravated the carcinogenic elements in his body; All this and ceaseless prayer. There were people that had been cured in this way. Dad was not one of them though. That's just the kind of karma life throws our way. 

It was when I recovered from the trauma of my miscarriage, in the February of 2009, that I began noticing how thin dad had become. How worn, and drawn, and dissipated he looked. A friend of mine had come over for a visit. I brought her over to see dad, and that was when he broke down for the first time. 

“The pain used to come and go,” he said, “but it doesn’t go anymore ba.”

It had started with not being able to climb into the bus. Dad came home one day and said his hip hurt. We took an X-ray and a fracture was ruled out. 

“It could be a muscular catch”, the doctor had said, “put a hot water compress on it, and it’ll be ok.” 

And it did. The pain went away. But dad never rode the bus after that.

The next thing was being unable to straddle the bike. So dad, began sitting side seated. After a while, he wasn’t able to board a bike. And we had to go around in autos or taxis.

Then, he felt tired when walking long distances, and dad loved to walk. This was a great strike on his self esteem – his not being able to walk all he wanted. We regulated his walks to certain distances in the vicinity of our home. He seemed content with this, content that he was allowed even this much in his condition.

Next, he found it hard climbing steps. Our terrace was off limits for dad. And even the 2 steps in front of the house were maneouvered with great difficulty.

Dad began staying indoors more. He read the paper by sunlight on the porch, and seemed to enjoy the sun on his back. It soothed the pain some, he said. I’d take him out to stand on the construction sand in front of the house when the sun was high. 

‘It felt good’, he said, ‘tingly’.

It was heart wrenching to watch him limiting himself. He had always been an active man, over-active almost. He was used to getting things done fast, and it irked him when others were slow and inefficient. He was usually irritated when things didn’t get done on time. And the pain contributed to his anger.

It worsened. He began getting catches in his legs. Mom would stay awake and massage him, when the spasms came. She gave him hot water bags for the pain, and I could always smell liniment or tiger balm in his room. The pain increased gradually, and then the spasms reached his back. He couldn’t get up in the morning. He would try, slowly rise, and then get thrown back on the bed, crying in pain, as he fell. Mom was always watchful. She would reach out to him and comfort him, and help him get out of bed each day.

For a while, he refused support, and then inevitably he had to give in. This strong independent man had to relinquish his independence, his dignity, his self esteem, in the face of the cancer demon. But he comforted himself saying that many people did not even have others to lean on, no one to depend on. But he had us, and for that he was grateful, and he told us that everyday.

I found myself staying at home more. I wanted to be with dad, share in his pain, his grief. Taking care of him became a redeeming service. It helped me deal with my own grief of losing a child, of losing a hope. And so, I’d be there in the morning to help him get up, to help him wash and bathe, to make his cup of tea, fetch him the paper, share the latest neighborhood gossip with him.

Mom was trying to deal with accepting his condition. It hurt her to see him in pain, and she grew withdrawn and depressed. I hoped my being there to help made a difference to her, and gave her some time to adjust to the situation.

When the pain became too much, our local doctor suggested meeting a renown oncologist at Ramkrishna hospital in Coimbatore. And so we went to see him. By this time, dad was in tears each time he was asked to lie down and get up again. The hospital visit commanded scans, X-rays, and a whole gamut of blood tests. We stood around killing time, with anxiety laden faces. We saw people who had gone bald with administration of chemotherapy, people in wheelchairs some with hopelessness written plain on their faces, people with tubes extending out of their throats, people on stretchers just waiting to die. There was a whole wing dedicated to pediatric oncology – children below the age of 10, some even in infancy, affected by cancer. It was too painful to see them walk around knowing that some of them wouldn’t even live to be 20.

The oncologist there suggested radiation of the spine, lower back, and right leg, as they were the most affected. Radiation kills the cancer cells in the affected area of the bone, and is the only useful tool in cases of brain and spinal cancer. Chemotherapy was out of the question. Dad was put on a hormone drug called Tabi/ Calutide, along with a monthly injection of Lupride Depot, and a bone strengthening injection – Zometa or Zoledronic acid. Zometa cost Rs. 15,000/- per injection. But by God’s grace, we were introduced to its Indian substitue Zoletro/ Zobone of the same composition costing Rs. 2,000. It was guaranteed protection against fractures due to the bone damaging effects of cancer. 

There was another type of radiotherapy we were told about, called Strontium therapy. The difference between ordinary radiation and strontium therapy was that radiotherapy using the latter could be pinpointed at the exact spot the cancer was situated on in the bone. This promised a greater chance of bone renewal, and guaranteed the killing off of 99% of the cancer cells in the affected areas, as opposed to normal radiation which targeted the circumference of the assumed affected bone mass, exposed with the help of scans and X-rays. But this was advised against as the side effects were numerous.

And so began the daily hospital visits, being marked out for radiation, lying on the radiation table hoping the next day would be better than this. For a while the pain got worse. Dad was prescribed painkillers that didn’t help. He had bouts of diarrhoea and nausea every morning, and lost nearly 5 kgs during therapy. It hurt every time he got out of the wheelchair and lay down for therapy, and every time he rose. I can still see his solemn face pinched in pain, trying his best not to let the tears show, sinking into the pain, allowing its black waves to wash over him.

My husband and I accompanied him to the hospital for these visits each time. With each successive session, the pain seemed to reduce some. And by the end of the therapy, dad was better than before. We noticed the old gleam in his eye and even a slight spring in his stumbling step. Gradually his digestion returned to normal and his pain was almost non-existent, except for the occasional feeling of strain after being particularly active. The cancer demon was asleep….for a while. Although we daily lived in fear of when and how it would resurface.

Still, there was prayer, that mighty comfort of the hopeless. And we prayed dad back to recovery slowly. He seemed to have accepted that he had to live with cancer and continued with his daily routine. He could not climb stairs or go for long walks of course, but he did make small trips to the neighbourhood petty shop. He could not carry more than one kg weight, so he bought back light stuff. He loved to surprise us with sweets like laddoos or candy after lunch.

He was advised not to travel long distances, and not to strain himself with too much sitting. He had to lie down every few hours to rest his back. We drove him during his monthly visits to a nearby clinic for the injections, and to the hospital for follow-ups. A lab guy came over for monthly blood collection and testing, and his PSA and blood count were closely monitored.

Things began improving after a while. Dad’s PSA level was dropping lower, which was a good sign and showed that the cancer activity was minimal. His haemoglobin levels increased, his immune system improved, he began gaining weight, the familiar glow in his cheeks returned, and his sunken eyes once again grew bright and hopeful. For a long while the good times rolled. Mom made him his favourite dishes. He bought a car so it would be easier for him to travel to church and get around. He began writing letters about his experience to our relatives and friends, and sharing with them about the mercy and love of God, the truth about Jesus Christ, and the signs of the times. Old friends and family called and visited, and this gladdened his heart.

Dad began the day with prayer. He prayed for our family, for all our dear ones, his friends, ministers and ministries around the world; he prayed for lost souls, for the sick, for the deprived, and for special petitions. And ended his supplications with thanksgiving in faith. He had a love for spiritual literature, so mom and I would visit the local ELS store and grab up the best buys during their vacation sales. Dad would pour over these books and eagerly devour them. He rejoiced in the written testimonies of people who had suffered agonizing illnesses and had still stayed true to the Lord. He loved books about doctrinal discourses and historical references to Bible facts, biographies of well known Christian ministers, and even books that made you think about faith, healing, love, and sorrow.

To those visiting our home, dad was a testimony of Christ, bearing his suffering with fortitude and patience. He smiled when he told them he had cancer, laughing away the horrors of his battles every night. And most of them respected him for the quiet and dignified manner he bore his illness. And many wondered at his faith and strength. And when they expressed their surprise at it, he always gave all credit to the Lord. 

“It’s not me, it’s God who keeps me going.”, he used to say.

Birthdays and anniversaries came and went. Dad would open his gifts with the wonder and joy of a child. His excitement was infectious; his booming laughter contagious. He loved sweets, and mom would dutifully surprise him with this or that sweet dish on special occasions.

Dad began to meditate more. He dedicated most of his time to Bible reading and prayer. He would sit and share with us his discoveries and thoughts, some new gems He’d uncovered in the Song of Solomon, or some rare treat of scripture the Lord had revealed to Him from the Book of Psalms. And we listened as his eyes sparkled with joy on telling us all.

Now underneath this blanket of routine and stolen time, was the ever present uncertainty of life, the fear of having our angel snatched from us at any given moment, the glaringly disturbing fact of mortality that haunted us, even as we smiled and laughed the days away. It ate at us bit by bit, gnawed at our optimism and faith, like a shadow following us in the twilight, or a cloud, dark and heavy with rain, adding to the sultriness of the season.

A year had passed by like the flash of a camera. And before the lens had snapped shut and opened again, it was 2010, and Dad’s latest blood test lay on the table before us. Our trembling fingers laced the sheets, our eyes dark with sorrow. His PSA stood at 500 + and his blood count had dropped by halves. The cancer demon was back. And how would it go this time? Would the pain start up again? Would Dad become invalid as so many of the men in the stout biographies we’d read. Our minds could not hold the horror of our thoughts. And so we stopped thinking altogether.

The annual full body scan was done and this revealed full skeletal metastases, even on the skull. This meant that the cancer had ravaged Dad’s whole skeleton frame and was eating slowly into his bone, rendering it weak and brittle. It was like termites in the timber beams of old houses.

I had heard about something called Ozone therapy. In the advanced state of cancer, Ozone treatment was used as rejuvenation therapy, to decrease pain, renew the body’s immune system, and lend a certain amount of strength and freshness to the sufferer’s organs. In cases of full skeletal metastases, the administration of ozone through the blood could decrease the chances and speed of the cancer cells infiltration into the blood stream, decrease pain, and offer a state of over-all wellness for a while. We made some calls. The treatment was available in Pune and Bangalore. We had family in Pune, and so opted for a clinic there. The doctor there was known to friends of ours, and dad could stay at his sister’s. So it was off to Pune with mom and dad. The treatment cost 25k, and we were down to our last nickel with the flight tickets believe it or not. Dad’s savings were almost all gone, what with bills for radiation, medicines, injections, and the monthly trips to the clinic.

The treatment consisted of alternate ozone and Vitamin C administration. Dad was started off on a nature cure diet which consisted of fresh fruits and vegetables, especially those rich in Vitamins D and C. He was also put on homeopathic pills for pain and haemoglobin increase, and spent his days in Pune recuperating with freshly squeezed gooseberry juice and good books. As the treatment ended, our friends from churches in Ahmednagar and Pune, Maharashtra and one of Dad’s old pals came to visit. When the day to pay the bill came, they joined together and footed it. Dad called and spoke to me and I could almost see the tears in his eyes as he told me, 

“It’s all paid for ba. God provided”.

This was a laughable phrase to some. ‘God provided.’ They shook their heads and rolled their eyes meaning, “It’s not God that provided. It’s Mr. and Mrs. So and so.” But the funds kept coming from relatives and well meaning friends. As the old saying goes, “What goes around comes around.” I’d like to think that all the good turns dad had done in his life were coming back to him now in this stage of helplessness and desperation- the little churches and ministers he had helped, the old people he had served out of compassion, the friends he had sheltered and loaned money to, the good deeds he had done, not out of necessity or piety, but out of a heart of gold testifying to His true Christian faith.

My husband, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and I, met up with dad and mom in Pune. We went on to Mumbai with them where my uncle had arranged for our stay in the home of one of his friends. I had had grand plans of taking dad along with us to all the places we had loved to roam about together in Mumbai. But dad was not what he had been before. And now I noticed, the lines around his laughing eyes, the wrinkles on his once smooth brow, his shoulders drooping as if from some heavy weight on his back, his voice tremulous, his palms pale and white. And I came face to face with the fact that we were running out of time.

Once back in Coimbatore, the effects of the Ozone therapy lasted only a couple of months. Dad was still on a nature cure diet. He was still taking his homeopathic medication which eased the pain and stiffness in his joints some. Mom’s kitchen was an ocean of health food – vegetable soups, sweet lime and pomegranate juice, shredded carrot, tomatoes in curd, wheat grass and chicken broth, ragi porridge, and hot lemon concoctions. And in spite of it all emerged the dreaded face of our enemy once again.

The pain which had been much like a nagging uneasiness in the bones, had now grown into a gnawing ache. The meds and juices seemed like naughty children who were playing when they should have been doing their home work. So it was off to the hospital again. Our doctor in Ramkrishna gave us 10 minutes of his time. He looked dad over, did the routine examination, asked the routine questions, and then discussing the fact that chemotherapy was not a viable option in dad’s case, and radiation was not possible again, suggested surgery again.

“But Doctor, surgery at this stage? Is it really useful?” 

And then I saw his hopeless gaze, and knew that he was throwing around words, gauging our reactions, wondering how to gently leak the news to us. And then there were those words, just like in the movies. 

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing more we can do.” 

God! How I hated those words!

So we changed doctors, we changed hospitals. I went to another one called Kuppuswamy Naidu Hospital well known for its cancer research. The oncologist there went over the case and then suggested nuclear medicine that had just passed the experimental stage. It was a radio isotope costing Rs. 10,000/- that would be injected into the blood stream to help lessen the intensity of the pain. The whole process took about 15 minutes, but had no guarantees. The results greatly varied from person to person. For some there was no pain for months, for others the effects lasted for days or hours, for still others – there was no betterment. The injection could only be administered once in the patient’s life, and came with no guarantees whatsoever. Still, it was worth a shot. So we tried it. And it didn’t work.

By this time dad was started on blood transfusions as his blood count kept slipping. His heamoglobin had recently been 8, then slipped to 7. We kept admitting him in hospital for a day, searching for donors, driving over to the local blood bank, paying Rs. 850 for one unit of AB+ packed blood cells booked the previous day, then back to the hospital with a frozen pack in a plastic bucket, mom talking dad through the day, reading to him with one eye on the blood tube checking the speed of the flow, telling lame jokes that would make him either laugh or wince, till the transfusion was over and we could go home. We must have collected 30 of those buckets, I guess.

Dad still laughed. He still played chess and carrom with the next door neighbour’s kids. He chatted on the phone for hours with old friends, revived his dying hobbies of coin and stamp collecting, wrote letters of Christian exhortation and admonition to all he knew, scribbled secrets in his diary, and prayed fervently to his God.

Time passed. Dad wore a back belt and used hot water bag compresses for the pain. His nightly companions were the Bible and his bottle of Tiger balm which he kept applying wherever he had pain. Soon, all dad’s clothes smelt of balm. His vests were stained with the ointment. His eyes were filled with tears as he offered silent prayers to the Lord who had conquered sin and death.

Then our doctor called. He had a new oral chemotherapy drug, minus the steroids used in usual chemotherapy. They could help control the cancer and fight the pain but would decrease his blood count, which meant more blood transfusions. So we went in for it. We bought the tablets. And with each successive dose, dad’s pain grew less. And the side effects were minimal, so we were a bit relieved. But his RBC count dropped alarmingly in the first month, and we had to have two transfusions in the same month. In the second month of treatment, dad had a lot of wretching and nausea, especially in the mornings. We were told it was a side effect he just had to cope with.

But it had become harder for dad to cope, to deal with the illness that was eating away at his self-confidence and independence, literally draining the life blood out of him. The days were dark. Dad changed. He wasn’t able to control his emotions most of the time. Little things angered him tremendously like leaving the light on in the bathroom or yelling at the dog. When his outbursts grew too much and we chided him, he broke down and sobbed. He was prone to bouts of moodiness, violent fits on anger, and paranoia. This person who had been my pillar of strength now brooded in the ugly depths of depression. Sometimes he was deliberately mean or stubborn. At other times he was a picture of patience and gratitude. It was unnatural – having to deal with seeing my father, my role model, the guide of my youth, being torn in two this way; having to face his outbursts and put downs for things as simple as helping him pick something up, or not giving him my complete attention; And at other times having to reconcile with the fact that his anger sprung from a deeper hopeless sorrow, and had to be tolerated and soothed.

It was not always easy though. The smallest things could start him off. He chose to misunderstand us when we assisted him or explained things to him. He was irked by his own dependence on us. And his helplessness made him doubt our motives. He felt that he was being ignored, or insulted, or spied on. The disease that had coursed though his marrow now preyed on his mind. And we watched, as slowly the man we loved turned into someone we did not even know.

Dad grew worse. His legs had swollen up, and he had problem urinating. His blood count dropped frighteningly, and this caused an overall energy low. He lost weight, his hair thinned, his eyes turned white, he suffered from constipation, from loss of appetite, from continual stomach complaints and nausea. We took him to a urologist for his urine complaint on the advice of his oncologist, and he was catheterized. He had to wear a urine bag on his hip as the tumour had expanded and was pressing on his urethra. The doctors all said there was no more hope, and that it was better for dad to live out the rest of his days in the comfort of his home than being shuttled from one hospital to another.

Dad’s oncologist said there was no use giving dad another blood transfusion. The disease had entered his blood and his blood count would keep dropping. We would be keeping him alive indefinitely only to suffer the pain of surrender.

Amazingly after his last scan, the doctor’s said that dad’s PSA had dropped to below 20, his blood count stood at 9, and none of his internal organs had been damaged by the cancer. This news was a relief of sorts.

Dad had suffered from bipolar depression, which made him intolerant to certain drugs such as steroids and steroid compounds. Such drugs cause a condition called ‘hypomania’ in people suffering from this condition. This is what had happened in dad’s case. It could have been a drug administered as an anti-allergen after a blood transfusion, or a drug present in the donor blood. This was why dad went through extreme highs and lows of emotional disturbances. At times he would be limitlessly energetic and stubborn, criticize others, and fight to wash the dishes. At other times, he would turn silent, unresponsive to affection, his eyes turned down in deepest sorrow.

Through it all though, he managed to perform his daily duties with assistance of course, pray his daily prayer, read his Bible, tell us he loved us every day, and express his regret for not doing enough for God’s service.

It was after this brief span of mania that a silent surrender came over dad. He communed all the more with God while on his bed. He hadn’t energy for much else. He became once again, the dad I used to know- the dad who encouraged me to stand for what I believe, who taught me to ride my bike, shared my love for cotton candy and chocolates; my counselor when I was in a rut, my fellow conspirator when it came to eating out and escaping mom’s eye, my confidante when I was indecisive, my leaning post when I was too tired to go on by myself. The memories flooded back to him, and his wandering mind returned to the present.

When the pain could not be controlled by medication anymore, the doctor recommended morphine patches. We had to tape them onto the part of dad’s body that hurt the most. However this gave him only temporary relief, and although the effect was supposed to last for 72 hours as it said on the label, for dad, it would wear off in a few hours time.

We even tried giving him morphine shots, but in one of his lucid moments dad asked us not to do so anymore because he said although it helped take away the pain, it also took away his reason and sensibilities, his ability to speak clearly, and sometimes gave him hallucinations.

Those last days with dad were like looking at the path of a shooting star in the sky. Dad told us he was going on, and that the only thing he regretted leaving behind was us. And then he wept. I remember telling him it would be better to be with the Lord, and that the Lord loved and wanted him so much more than us.

Even till the last minute, even through his dark days of mindless depression, dad did not give up his faith in God. Like the Job of old, he maintained that his conscience was clear, and that he trusted that God knew what he was doing. He never ceased to believe in the Lord’s unfailing love, or His power to heal and redeem. And in His death as in life, dad left us a legacy of faith that would not die, like a candle flickering in the winter chill but never going out.