heartyspoonful

Then There Was Cancer

Brain cancer. Once we heard the doctor utter “cancer” there was dead silence in the room. It was as if the word vibrated in the air and the echo didn’t end. The doctor, of course being a doctor, explained the whole ordeal for what seemed to be hours. I couldn’t hear anything anymore at this point, the word “cancer” was still ringing in my ears. Like a school bell warning students it’s almost time. It felt exactly like that, I suppose, the warning that my dad’s time was almost up.

It’s been almost two years now since we found out. At first, we thought it was just a benign tumour hitting the part of his brain that affected his motor skills. Having seen one too many episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, I figured some smart neurosurgeon, who may look like McDreamy would just slice my dad’s skull open and do his thing. At this point, I was still hopeful. There were no tears yet, no hands raised to the sky whilst screaming “Why me? Why my dad? Why our family?” No random loud sobbing in windowless audit rooms. No unfinished salads and blank stares. No public display of despair. Not yet anyway. But those moments will come. They were just stuck in traffic.

One day, of course, the rays of hope gave way to stormy reality. My dad started to limp and then gradually, he needed a cane to walk, then he was just sitting on a wheelchair. The tall man I’ve loved my whole life no longer towered over me. The man who joked that he won’t let go of my arm when he walks me down the aisle would most likely never even have the chance to walk again. Nor will he even see me get married. The wheelchair was bad, but what’s worse was my mum finding my dad crouched on the floor, unable to breathe and shaking. That was the turning point. When everything went downhill. My dad spent months in the hospital. Every day, I visited. Every day, I struggled to get out of bed in the morning to face what lay ahead because I didn’t like what I saw. It was painful. It was ugly. It was, unfortunately, our sad reality.

When we were able to finally take my dad back home, he was already bedridden. He has lost control of the left side of his body and his right side would continue to lose its strength. For almost two years now, he hasn’t done much and not because he doesn’t want to. But he still makes jokes on good days. He still teases me and he tells my mother he loves her. He pouts his lips when he wants her to give him a kiss. He tells me tales of his childhood, of how he fell in love. He still listens to the news and is saddened by the state of our world today. He’s fully aware of his surroundings. Ironic isn’t it? It’s brain cancer, yet his mind continues to bloom and his body deteriorated.

There are good days. Then there are bad days. Days of tears. Days of anger. Days of blame. Days of complete helplessness. Days of hope. A melting pot of emotions. I can never predict how one day would turn out; I just brace it with all the might I’ve got, with all the might I have left in me. I’ve been told countless of times by well-meaning friends how “strong” I am, how brave, how I’m such an inspiration. I just smile when I hear this sort of remark, but other times, I want to hurl and scream and shake them senseless. I’m not strong. I’m not brave. I’m not an inspiration. There’s a lot you don’t see. There’s a lot of internal panic attacks and complaints and cries for help. To be frank, the number of days where I would’ve preferred to go in a quiet corner somewhere and rock myself into total oblivion outnumbers the days where I felt ready to take on the emotional ride that never misses to pick me up the moment I wake up. But all this, you see, it’s a conscious decision. I choose every single day to battle the tremors of paralyzing vulnerability. I choose to be a warrior, but I give myself permission to cry and breakdown. I’m only human after all.

One of my darkest hours was when I lost my patience with my dad and I involuntarily told him life would be better off if he were already gone. The moment that came out of my mouth, I cried. The look of shock and hurt on my dad’s face will forever be ingrained in my brain. It took forever to forgive myself. I felt ashamed and ungrateful. I called myself selfish. I told my friends and my mum, waiting for them to judge me, waiting for them to tell me I’m no different than a mindless ax murderer. The judgment never came. What I received was hugs and comforting words. My mum asked me calmly if I at least said I’m sorry to my dad (I did profusely) and then she locked me in a tight embrace and told me it’ll all be okay. Yes, it’ll be okay. One day.

It could be worse. I could’ve abused drugs, drink and sex. But I didn’t. I could’ve simply disappeared into the unknown. I could’ve ran away from my responsibilities. I  could’ve turned into a selfish bitch and put my wants and needs first. Of course, I realised I’m only made of flesh and blood. I’m also not on my way to sainthood. I left a little piece of selfishness on the platter. I was willing to sacrifice or at least to put my dreams on hold for a while to help out at home. I did it from the bottom of my heart, but not without great difficulty. I continued to yearn to cross off goals on my list. I wanted to accomplish so much. I thought, “Hey, I’m in my 20s. Why do I feel like a woman in her 50s?” There was a voice inside me that whispered I’m not a living my life. That same voice also injected some green juice of envy whenever someone my age was doing great things. “Why not me?,” I kept on asking. When will it be my turn?

Then, I look at my dad and I figured I’ll never get these years back. My time with him has almost run its course. The sand continued to pour down and there was a loud ticking. There was a countdown of sorts that announced any day now. Any day now and it’ll be over. Any day now and everything will change.

You know what’s beautiful? Realizing that love does conquer all. At least, that it’s a possibility. My mum sacrificed so much of her life for my dad. She could’ve walked away from it all or taken the easier way out and shipped my dad into some home. But she didn’t. She decided she wants to take care of him, that she wants to be hands on. She accepted that her world is only going to get more difficult, that she’ll probably be impatient and even helpless at times. But I see her look at my dad and I see the love there. It continues to burn strong. She’s keeping her vows - though sickness and health, until death do they part. She’s selfless and braves the storm so beautifully.

We have a routine now. I can’t stay too late at work so I can help out at home before my mum passes out from exhaustion. I spent a few hours just chatting with my dad, recounting the good ol’ days and answering his inquiries about my plans for the future. He usually drills me about dating… as if on top of everything else I have time for that. Saturdays are my complete days with him. My mum runs her errands and usually spends some time by herself. We don’t have a nurse on weekends who comes around to help so of course, I needed to learn everything. It’s not beautiful. It’s hard work, dirty, painful, tough. Emotionally, physically, mentally taxing. Exhausting. Someone relies on you for everything. And I mean, everything.

Don’t get me wrong, it would be nice to have someone to care for me, too. But building a relationship with the chaos in my life at the moment continues to prove to be an impossibility. I dated this guy, who complained over and over again that I didn’t make time for him over the weekend. Sure, perhaps I should’ve tried harder, but really? Saturdays left me worn out and all I wanted to do at night was sleep. I didn’t want company, I wanted my warm covers and a good book. Sunday was the only day for everything else: errands, preparations for the week, a bit of work, a bit of quiet time. I squeeze in a few hours for company, but no, not the whole day. I don’t have that luxury. This is my sacrifice.

Self-pity, I’m continuously learning, is like wrapping yourself with a ticking time bomb and then jumping down a skyscraper. It’s pure suicide. It kills you inside. At first, people around you try to be understandable, but, let’s be honest here, the more you feel bad for yourself and the more you complain to others, the less likely it is they want to be around you. So why put your relationships at risk? Self-pity never helped anyone. It takes you five, ten steps back. You go in endless circles. It makes you selfish because you start to think you have it worse than everyone else. Your friend going through a tough breakup? Big deal, she’ll replace that boyfriend, but you can’t replace your dad.

I went through a phase of wallowing in self-pity. I bathed in it. I drank it. I swam in it with the sharks of dejection. I cancelled plans. I stayed in my room, listening to the saddest music I knew (Both Sides, Now by Joni Mitchell was on repeat for days). I cried and in between sobs, I, like Iago before me, delivered countless soliloquies, proclaiming myself the unluckiest girl in the world. It was a toxic time. But pity from others can only take you that far. At first, when someone consoles you, it feels good. It’s like a tight hug. After a while however, words begin to feel rather used, like an old pair of your favourite shoes that you know you have to throw away already because, come on, the sole is falling off. You need a new pair. You need a new perspective.

It was a long process, and it still is. I still feel bad for myself sometimes, especially when I think I’m being left behind by people my age. I’ve questioned “Why me?” out to the universe many, many times over. Why my dad? Of all people, why him? Why our family? We never harmed anyone. We’re just citizens of the world. We pay our taxes for crying out loud. But even with all these angry questions thrown at nobody in particular, reality is still reality. It doesn’t change nor do these questions add any value to our lives. So, I tell myself to leave the self-pity party. It overstayed its welcome in my life. Sure, I give myself a few minutes of defeatism once in a while, but I check out early. I mindfully choose to dance to the sound of laughter and the giggles of my dreams.

Truth be told, when friends and well-meaning colleagues ask me how my dad is, I find myself uttering an automatic answer: “He’s doing all right. He’s okay. We’re all just fine.” And I plaster a huge smile on my face. I don’t want to burden anyone with the sad details. With my close friends, I break down in front of them. I tell them how haggard we all are, but I choose what I relate because no one wants to hear the details. Not really. I’m beginning to think this is one of the reasons why I’m deemed to be strong. This is the attitude I’m projecting out there, it’s hard, but we’re doing our best and here’s a toothy smile to prove it to you.

Professionally, this is where the struggle lies. What do you do when your career doesn't factor in personal issues? When you have to keep out your personal hell to survive at work? When you have to draw a line and lock your personal problems away for the next 8 to 10 hours? I became very bitter, the unhappiest part of that machine. I rolled my eyes a lot whenever I heard the politically correct replies of my superiors. I felt alone, used, abused. Like an itch I can’t help but scratch, hating my job took over my thoughts. Any enjoyment was stripped away from me. Feeling fulfilled with the results of my hard work became a thing of the past. The days were long, especially when I came home wanting to spend some quality time with my dad, but knowing I needed another hour or two to finish up some work. Days dragged on and on. Mornings were difficult. I just wanted to nap in the afternoons. Nights were where I looked for solace. Don’t get me wrong, I do my job well. That didn’t change because it’s my professional responsibility. What this whole ordeal taught me, however, is to be kinder. I support those who work under me. I’ve fashioned myself as Mama Hen looking after my chicks. I look after myself because no one else will do it for me, but I look after those who need help, too. Why? Because I know the feeling of being vulnerable and it’s not pretty.

The kitchen became my place of worship. I baked like I’ve never baked before. I took photographs of all the food I made and posted them on Instagram. It was my hobby. It made me feel normal for some unknown reason. I baked for friends, for co-workers, even for random people I didn’t really know. In the process, dealing with my dad’s cancer led to a weight gain. Not by a lot, but by enough that I felt my eating disorder creeping in. It’s ugly head was beginning to sprout back to life. I couldn’t go back to that dark place. It took years of recovery to accept my body just the way it is. It took years of self-acceptance to finally stop the abuse. It’s taking years for me to love myself just the way I am. It didn’t help when I was told repeatedly that I looked fuller. My face was a full moon. I didn’t fit into most of my clothes and I knew I had to size up. Eight pairs of trousers I wore to work were left unworn because I couldn't zip them up. Dresses were too tight and I felt like a pig in a blanket. I didn’t dare to wear jeans. I cried, I cried a lot.

I wasn’t used to the curves I began to see. I felt my hips and thought, “Were you always there?” My ribs began to play the game of hide and seek. My thighs seemed heavier, my arms felt like thick sticks of marshmallow. My tummy was soft and pillowy. My cheeks were like steamed buns, tempting to pinch. I was welcomed by what seemed to be breasts. I wasn’t used to it all. My dresses were loose and I avoided certain constrictive fabrics. I justified it as my new style, though, really, it was all for concealment. I deleted old photos, refusing to be reminded that once upon a time, even a double zero petite was big on me. My mum told me I looked healthier, physically at least, but my mind was playing tricks again. I was afraid of going on that road again, of being strangled by the strong self-destructive power of an eating disorder. It took what seemed like forever to finally cut ties with this mental disease and I wasn’t going back.

Like a bad ex-boyfriend who turns up when things are finally looking up, that’s what eating disorders are to me. I had verbal tennis matches against my eating disorder, like a nail-biting match between Nadal and Federer. Set point now. I couldn’t lose, I’ve lost too many times already. Self-acceptance was slow. I avoided mirrors. I bought sack dresses that didn’t fit well to hide what my eyes refused to see. But, through it all, I fed myself. I nourished my body. I respected it. I honoured it. I gave it what it wanted and didn’t deprive myself, which would’ve been easy after years of restriction. I became an expert on that subject. I tried to calm my mind, reassuring it that all will be all right in the end. Here’s my body, it functions well, it’s strong and able. Sure, it looks different now, but it continues to fight. Isn’t that enough?

I went to war with my eating disorder because there was so much more at stake. I couldn’t be a burden to my parents. My dad, who was already crippled by cancer, worried about me as it was. He could sense my powerlessness and self-doubt. I didn’t want to be another tumour destroying everything on my path. I also needed to be strong physically to help take care of him. There was no place for frailty. So I shushed my eating disorder. I told it to go to its room for a timeout. It wasn’t easy, it isn’t easy. I still hear its wild temper tantrums, but I know better to ignore it. Don’t give in.

Through it all, I continue to be grateful. I’m not where I want to be, but I’ll get there. Deep in my heart, I know it. I’m working on it. Every single day, I wake up and I set a purpose. I’m a work in progress and I don’t believe anyone really turns into a finished product. We’re made of our raw materials and we just add more or remove parts we don’t need anymore along the production line. I refuse to let my life turn cancerous, destroying my spirit and seeping my energy away. I’ll only have this one life and I want to colour it, to nourish it, to keep it healthy.

My dad calls me his “little fireball.” My brother was always the quiet one, the one who keeps to himself and creates his art. On the other hand, I was the child who inquired about lots and lots, the natural chatterbox. I want to look for that little girl again, with big, bright eyes and ready to conquer the sea of possibilities. I want to be that girl who brushed up her wounds when she fell and got right back up. Unrelenting, unwavering, headstrong. Wouldn’t it be nice to caption my life as #winning? Yes, it definitely will be. 

Photo credit: Lattes & Layers

Maybe it's because banana bread was the first recipe I've ever learned. Nostalgia is a powerful, powerful driver. Maybe it's because I just really like bananas. I really do. Shame on you if you haven't figured that one out yet. Maybe it's because I love to experiment. Maybe it's all of the above. 

I can't help but try out different recipes for banana bread. I already have my favourite, one that I make all the time and that everyone loves. Still. I'll present another one to you. 

When I accidentally bought soy yoghurt*, I knew I would have to mask the taste in order to finish the whole tub. Yours truly was rather lazy to walk back to the store to return that most ghastly thing. I suppose there was a light bulb that just turned on when one of my co-workers mentioned he replaces eggs and butter with greek yoghurt when he bakes banana bread**. So, finally, I wouldn't need to throw out that sad soy yoghurt. No one at home wanted to eat it. But, hey, if it's incorporated with bananas, flour, sugar and, ahem, some love, perhaps it just might be the next best thing. 

Putting my thinking cap on and a rather festive apron, to the kitchen I went. Come here, you unloved tub of soy. 

Vegan Banana Bread

Serves 8-12 

We ingredients:

Dry ingredients:

Growing up in the Philippines, Halloween was simply a concept one read in books and watched in films. Nothing more. Though we eventually lived in a community that did celebrate Halloween, funnily enough, houses weren't decorated with bats and spider webs and fake mummy's. Instead of a scarecrow, a neighbour's lawn would boast the Nativity scene. You know, as any normal person would do. On September 1st. Trust me, if you don't have Christmas lights up yet or a Christmas wreath adorning your door, man, you better get your sh*t together. 

We were always late. I think my family was more of the "Let's get through the next three months first" type so no one was really excited for Christmas until Advent starts. My mum took over the Christmas decorating as my brother and I sat in a corner and tried not to disturb our determined Mama Claus. Then it finally looked like the North Pole in the middle of our living room, but until I saw the Christmas tree surrounded by gifts, little ol' me wasn't feeling the Christmas cheer yet. 

Though now, all grown up, I'm far less interested in the gifts (no, truly, I prefer the kitchen on Christmas day), the same old feeling has stayed the same. I don't listen to Christmas songs until a week before Christmas. Is that nor normal? I cringe when city streets are adorned with Christmas lights and wreaths the day after Halloween. Chillax, people. (Wow, I sound like the Grinch right now.) Mind you, I adore spending time picking out thoughtful gifts for family and friends. I make handmade cards, but if I fail to do so, I spend hours picking out the best holiday cards. Being a busy careerwoman (who, stop right there, lady) hasn't helped at all. So no, Christmas cheer has yet to catch up to me this year. 

After a few morning runs surrounded by lawns decorated with Christmas paraphernalia and after (accidentally) hearing She & Him's Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, I decided to let my cold heart feel the warmth of Christmas. Of course, as I mentioned above, my first stop is to let the Christmas cheer into my kitchen. Recipe testing is the best this time of year! And all for a great reason: I want my family and friends to know I love them via the Christmas treats I'm making. Manual labour here, people. (Psst, if we're friends and you don't receive a vegan basket this Christmas, either I don't love you enough or, you know, I just forgot. I'll make it up to you, you hungry tummy.) 

Since my mum purchased a bunch of plums last week and I've only managed to eat three in total throughout the week, I decided to try out a warm plum cake. Now, I rarely ever bake with fruits. Sure, I'll top my morning oatmeal with loads of fruits, but plum? And cake? Totally new to me. I did some research (or my mum's response when I asked her if she knows any good plum recipes, "Google it!") and came upon this recipe and decided to give it a go. (Note: The recipe below already includes my modifications. You can follow the link to the original recipe if you want to check it out.)

Vegan Plum Cake (adapted from Vegrecipes of India)

Makes 8-12 slices

Ingredients: