I am sad and tearful when I think that my Gunda is no more. I know what has happened but my head and heart are having a hard time accepting, believing. Most of this year, brother number 1 was not in a good way. In and out of hospitals for his protracted prostate condition. And radiotherapy, chemotherapy, and immunotherapy sessions for his lung cancer that had metastasised and/or spread to his other organs. The treatments/medicines helped as well as took a toll on him.

Despite the not-so-good prognosis, brother number 1 fought on. He said he’d kick cancer. He said he’d live to 70, then upped it to 73. I believed him. I wanted to it be true. Every time I was with him, I reminded him of his promise. I reminded him that he had the mental strength to overcome adversity, which he had a fair share of during his lifetime. 

Brother number 1 was determined to get better. And, he seemed to be doing alright or as well as could be expected. When he attended my mum’s 90^th birthday celebration, at his 67^th birthday party and during his wife’s 62^nd birthday do in September and October.  He was walking, talking, eating, and attending to his personal needs/care.

Late October/November was the start of the downward spiral, about a year since he was diagnosed. He spent more time in hospital than at home. Yes, home was where he wanted to be. He wanted to lie on his electric-operated hospital bed, which his family strategically placed by the floor-to-ceiling-high windows in the living room, so he could look out at ‘his’ lake, and watch the sunset. He wanted to be home with his wife and two children. 

Unfortunately, episodes of scarily high vitals required urgent medical attention and intervention. Each time he was admitted to the hospital, he was given intravenous antibiotics for on-going infections, saline drips for hydration, blood transfusions to get his blood count up, and morphine to manage pain. His breathing became more laboured. Through the many tubes and transfusions, brother number 1 repeatedly told everyone including the medical staff, he wanted to go home. Palliative care took over from oncology. His condition deteriorated. Brother number 1 was given three weeks. The palliative doctor assigned to him explained the situation, and everything that the hospital could do/was doing to keep him comfortable. He returned home on Sunday, Dec 3.

On Dec 4,  sister number 3, my husband and I, took my mum to visit brother number 1 at his condominium, 34 km away in Subang Alam. Not an issue under normal circumstances.  However, my mum hadn’t left her condominium since 2021, which was the reason  brother number 1 came to visit her for Deepavali, one day after he was discharged from hospital on Nov 11. For the journey, we had to pack into the car, an oxygenator, an oxygen tank, and a wheelchair. We wheeled my mum in her wheelchair while she was hooked on to the oxygen tank via the lifts to the car. Transferred her from the wheelchair to the car, and ensured she had oxygen supply for the journey, to and back. Our mum felt queasy, unwell and exhausted having not travelled in a very long time, and from the emotionally draining nature of the visit.

That said, it was the right decision as it gave her the opportunity to spend time with brother number 1,  who welcomed her with a big happy smile when he saw her. Although he drifted in and out of sleep, he still managed to tease her by calling her by his trademark endearments, yes, endearments – ‘stupid, bloody fool and shut up.’ To anybody outside the family, these would sound most unusual and utterly rude. But these ‘endearments’ have always been his way of showing his love/familiarity/connection with our mum.

On Dec 5, sister number 3 and I visited brother number 1 and family. His son and daughter had taken time off from work to watch over their dad. As did brother number 2, who moved in with them. He was on morphine and fentanyl for pain management. His breathing was rattly. He had stopped eating and drinking for a while. He could not speak clearly. He drifted in and out but nodded and acknowledged  when we spoke to him about familiar things/food and shared events. His every movement was an effort. Just before we left, he opened his eyes and gestured to us as if to ask whether we had eaten. Sister number 3 and I looked at each other, laughed and said to brother number 1 ‘like mother like son’ as that’s our mum’s standard question any time of the day or night. At 6.53 that evening, he breathed his last, with his loving family by his side.

Its hard… You will always be in my heart, Gunda.