Fifteen years ago today, life for me as I knew it ended. I’m
not being dramatic; it’s just a statement of fact.
Two months earlier, I’d just begun my first properly paid
(before that, I’ done some casual English tutoring for a church aunty’s nephew)
part-time job as a Woolies checkout chic. That fateful morning I’d been
rostered down for a shift however presented with a wicked headache. Mother the
registered nurse had popped me two Panadol and said go upstairs and sit over
the loo. I’ll come find you after ten minutes and if you’re feeling better by
then I’ll drive you to work but if not, I’ll ring work in sick for you. Ten
minutes later she’d ascended the stairs and entered the bathroom, only to find
me collapsed by the toilet bowl puking violently up. O_o Mother immediately
calls triple zero; something’s definitely very wrong. She also rings Aunty A,
who lives fairly close to Sunnybank Hills Shoppingtown and asks her please to
go to Woolies, find some staff member and explain that Emily can’t come to work
today; she’s collapsed inside the bathroom and an ambulance has been called.
Unfortunately emergency services aren’t very responsive;
they think a headache isn’t *that* bad. But mother’s insistent: she rings again
and again until an ambulance is finally dispatched.
The closest hospital to where I live with an emergency
department is the QE2. Once there, a quick scan reveals the problem. “Your
daughter has a brain tumour.” Someone tells my shocked mother. This time,
mother rings Pole’s mum, Aunty Catherine, and asks a huge favour of her. See,
my dearest dad had just returned to HK to visit relatives! He’s got four older
sisters but mother only remembers the phone number for the youngest sister; she
rings Ping Yee and asks her to please call my 4th Aunty and let her
know that dad’s gotta come back to Brisbane like, NOW. Aunty Catherine rings
dad’s sister and says sth like, “Hi, you don’t know me, but I’m one of
Michael’s friends in
4th Aunty relays this message to my dearest dad
and he’s on the next flight home to
Upon diagnosis of the brain tumour, I’m sent home one week
to await the operation of its removal. On the morning of the operation, I hike
upstairs to my room with my favourite teddy Bear Bear and tell mother I’ve
gotta do this once in case sth terribly wrong goes during the operation. I also
write down my bank PIN number for her, saying, “I’ve only got just over two
grand there but if you need it, it’s yours for the taking.”
The first operation was for the removal of the brain tumour.
Tests reveal that it’s mostly benign, meaning I’m very lucky to not require any
chemotherapy/radiotherapy. The second operation’s to insert a drain into my
brain and tummy; whereby the excess brain fluids (don’t ask me, I never even
knew the brain had fluids, much less excess fluids XD) got
redirected to my tummy. Only that shunt wasn’t permanent; two weeks later the
surgeon goes into replace the drain and that’s when things turn pear-shaped and
disaster strikes. Somehow, the surgeon ‘accidentally’ nicks the tumour site and
causes a MASSAIVE bleed, giving me a stroke! o_O He stitches me back up and
pumps me full of morphine (dunno why: since I’m unconscious, why would I
require pain relief?), only that turns out to be a bad move. The next day, when
the parents come visit me (once I fell ill, both parents immediately resigned
from work to look after me fulltime; my grateful thanks to random church
aunties and uncles who’d leave them cooked meals on the doorstep and our lovely
neighbour Uncle Alan would always take his mover across the road to our house
and mow our front lawn too after mowing his) and mother hits the roof,
screeching doctor, how come my daughter’s ENTIRE BODY’S covered in a rash?! The
doctor goes oh she’s allergic to huge doses of morphine; I’ll change
painkillers. That inept surgeon goes back in a fourth and a fifth time to try
and rectify the problem that he caused but to no avail; finally, finally,
a female surgeon’s brought in from somewhere and she patches me up. By then,
though, I’ve been totally screwed over. The surgeons tell my stunned parents
that I’d never even STAND again, let alone walk, that the most I’d manage would
be to transfer from the car to my wheelchair and the wheelchair back to the
car.
Three months after all those operations, I’m finally
released into the rehab ward, where I spend the next YEAR rehabilitating from
my brain injury. This post isn’t about BIRU; suffice to say it was a horrible
experience and I’ll never forget the afternoon when I was finally released from
that terrible place forever back on May the 23rd, 2008.
Back home, obviously I’ve been left rottenly disabled. When
the five year anniversary of this brain injury arrived, I was actually visiting
relatives in HK. Back then, I thought, well, I’m still horribly disabled.
Wonder why God hates me so? Like, He’s never told me what I did/didn’t do that He
found so egregiously sinful that He thought it just to destroy my life for?
Never mind, I’ll keep working hard and persevering at all these blasted,
stressful therapies I do day in, day out. Hopefully by the time the 10th
anniversary rolls over I’ll have fully recovered.
Alas, that wasn’t to be.
Unfortunately, it looks like the moon will be blue tonight
and the sky will fall in toms before that happens. >< *sigh* Seriously,
if it were just me that was affected, who’d honestly give a sh*t? Obviously I’m
less than one grain of sand in the vast desert and less than one drop of water
in the mighty ocean. Alas, that’s not the case. Since I’m my parents only
child, it’s my responsibility to look after and provide for them when they get
too old to work, but how the eff can I possibly do that when the cruel and unfaithful
God has left me so fricking disabled that I need a little help with the most
basic, simple of things like showering and dressing? Yes, I hate myself for it.
>< I hate God more, though, coz if He’s not the One that did this to me,
He’s the one who let it happen. No difference. Dad’s never said a word about
it, but mother constantly bitches at me that all my peers, they’re starting
careers, building families and preparing their parents for retirement while she
and dad are still working their butts off having to look after me. When I’m
feeling snarky myself I’m tempted to snap back that yes, my dearest dad does
hold down a fulltime job, but you only work two little half-days each week and
the rest of the time you’re upstairs resting! But I get her point, hey … *sigh*
But again, what can I do about it? Pull the covers over my
head and deny that even the world exists? That’s obviously not gonna work, but
many mornings when I wake and realise what I have in store for me that day I
just wanna do exactly just that.
So just allow me this one day to grieve a life wasted and
lost. Had not the cruel and unfaithful God decided to so wantonly destroy my
life fifteen years ago, I’d actually be a contributing member of society and
not just a burden to society. But not to worry: I’m sure I’ll be back to my
normal cheerful self tomorrow, ready to take on the world. *tremulous smile*
Cheers~
Oh, next post here … prolly my birthday wishlist, due March the 1st!
