The last ‘suffer’

A common picture hung in every Catholic home is of Jesus Christ having his last supper with his disciples before his crucifixion. In my case, our last supper together was also my grandfather’s last “suffer.”

Two days after we celebrated the most wonderful time of the year, tears flooded our home. It was truly devastating although we already accepted the fate of my late grandfather—we embraced the reality that he was already on the brink of death and only a miracle could save him. Unfortunately, a miracle did not happen. He passed away on Dec. 27.

Although he passed a few years ago, the picture of his four-month suffering is still vivid.

It was in the latter part of August 2020 when he was diagnosed with colon cancer. I was the first to know that the excruciating pain he endured for weeks was not merely constipation. When his doctor informed me about the malignant tumor in his intestine, my world stopped for a minute. I could not breathe properly, I could not hear what the doctor said, I could not speak because I was not prepared to hear all these things.

The doctor suggested removing the lump as soon as possible but he also gave no assurance considering the age and health of my grandfather.

It seemed that I was floating on air while walking back to my grandfather’s ward after talking with his doctor. Thousands of thoughts were in my head as I tried to grasp everything that we were about to face.

I collected myself before I twisted the doorknob of his room. I was welcomed with his genuine smile, but I was sure that behind that smile was a torment gradually devouring his life. It was hard to conceal the pain, but I tried to hide my sadness with a smile. I was praying and hoping that it was only a bad dream. It was difficult to respond to his question, asking me for an update on his laboratory tests. I knew that he was hopeful that day. He was expecting that he was fine, and everything was normal.I did not want to ruin that hope because I knew it would give him a reason to fight, that is why I made the hardest decision in my life—to lie. Yes, I lied. I fooled him by telling him he would be fine. I saw a spark in his eyes that manifested his will to live and a genuine bliss knowing that no lump was found inside his intestine. The smile he showed broke every piece of guilt and reluctance I felt that day. However, I could not contain my emotions so I quickly went to the comfort room to cry.

I stayed inside for almost five minutes before I decided to go outside. I saw my grandfather asleep. The picture in front of me tortured me. I couldn’t imagine that the man who devoted his life and raised me as his own would soon be gone. Still, I decided not to succumb and to hold every inch of hope although I knew that hope was not certain.

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We spent four days in the hospital before he was discharged. We decided to keep the truth from him and let him think that he was already fine. It was painful seeing him laughing heartily, knowing that there was something inside his body—a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Nonetheless, we were grateful that we still had time to forge meaningful memories while he was still with us. That was a promise I made to myself, a promise to savor every minute with him and not squander even a second; a promise to give him the best memory to treasure even in the afterlife.

The happiness we expected did not happen. Instead, his life became a big misery. He endured too much pain and his body became thinner day by day. It was not what I wished for. I saw how he suffered and how the disease was gradually killing him. Although he was not expressing the pain, the torture he was battling every day was vividly painted on his face. In just a few months, the cancer took everything from him—he couldn’t move or talk, and it stole his most precious thing: laughter. Our home was filled with echoes of torment and it was the sound of Christmas we listened to while waiting for midnight to bloom.

We knew that despite the struggles, he wanted to survive and live. I could see it through his gloomy, teary eyes—they expressed the things he wanted to say. The pain he felt ended on the night of Dec. 27, 2020. It was the day that darkness devoured the light of the starry night and the sky started to shower. The sound of the torrential rains outside was like the sound of the agony inside our house. I held his cold hands and saw how the last breath reached its destination. The supper we shared was also his last.