Stuttering: Oracle

For more than 50 years of our marriage, I long have accepted the fact that we can not bear kids. We never settled to adoption or "science-induced" reproduction. We have held our love for each other to last for more than a lifetime and accepted that maybe God has a reason why we never had a child and we are ok with that.

I remember when she was diagnosed with stage II cancer of the larynx, she never shed a tear upon hearing the results of the work up. She still held herself with grace and elegance in dealing such while I slowly break and crumble inside. That the love of my life, my strength and my reason would be taken away from me. As I never knew what stage 2 means. For me, cancer equates death.

I was furious. I wanted to know why or how one cannot bear an offspring yet her body is able to bear millions of malignant cells that's eating her body. It felt like my world cracked in between and buildings of rocks and cement started to fall down and crumble. Life sometimes sure is a little fucked up.

I was reassured by the doctors that hopefully, the abnormal cells would respond to the chemotherapy treatment. She held my hand and gave me a smile that she knew would calm me down.

I hold on to the little strength left in me and gave my best reassuring smile to my wife every chemo sessions. She hates it when worry creases to my face and stops me when tears pool in my eyes.

I held her back during those moments where she vomited everything out. I hug her when she screeches with pain during cold midnights. Her sweet voice started to get hoarse. Her body which was once my sanctuary, my clearing, my altar lost its tone, its muscles and layers of fat. She was skin and bones yet she gave me her sweet weak smile everytime I look at her and I would hug her everytime for I never wanted her to see me cry.

She knew. Of course she knew I cry. Everytime. She's the one dying yet I am weaker than she is.

Her pathway of food became obstructed as the tumor cells expanded inside prompting an alternate way to provide nutrition on her weak body. They placed a tube on her tummy where milk is passed through.

Months after, the tumor grew and spread out the rest of her body. The doctors said that palliative treatment is the only thing that we can do. And at that point, I saw her cry.

The disease took her ability to speak. Her eyes speak a thousand words yet her hands weakly tried to scribble them out. And I remember when she had written this:

"It's not death that brings tears to my eyes. I have long lost such fear. But knowing that I will be leaving you alone in this life is the worst suffering I ever had. Knowing "that" everyday is more painful than the therapies and the needle pricks and operations I had.."

She had lost her ability to speak yet her expression of love was too palpable, too overwhelming that even after some time, it was still strong enough for me to endure the loneliness and the sadness I feel everytime I remember her.

She died peacefully on a quiet sunday morning. When all we can hear are birds and the swaying trees. It was our anniversary that day. And she left me with a faint smile in her face.

Sometimes I think she also knew that, that would be her day. Everything was calm. The weather was perfect. No untoward symptoms. No pain. And as if she just fell asleep and dreamt of something beautiful.