A Thousand Little Deaths

by Vicky Pinpin-Feinstein

  In the first few months after the cancer diagnosis, I was simply unable to overcome the debilitating panic, despite my doctor’s confidence that the thyroid cancer was, as he put it, “not only treatable but curable.” The surgeon who operated on me, who I not only admired for her dexterity at surgery, but also for her compassion and understanding as a human being (she insisted on visiting me at the nuclear medicine unit), said the same thing. She even claimed, “If I had a choice of a cancer, this is the one I would choose. Perhaps, I would even prefer it over an extreme case of diabetes.” The endocrinologist who administered my treatment at the nuclear medicine unit of the hospital also said as much. He said, “The treatment is almost an afterthought, or anti-climactic if you will, when you compare it to the seven or so weeks you underwent on a low-iodine diet, waiting for your body to be starved of iodine after which you were fatigued and suffered from headaches and all that.” There was no reason to doubt him. He was a well-respected thyroid specialist who was asked his expert opinion about Supreme Court Chief Justice William Rehnquist’s thyroid cancer by The Washington Post. Yet, my brain stubbornly refused to believe any of them. It was not that I did not trust them. But my persistent, on-edge psychological state drowned out all rationality. Any lucidity I once possessed was now hopelessly obscured.

  It came a point when having my monthly medical check-ups were so nerve-wracking that I disallowed the nurse from closing the door in the windowless examination room, due to my claustrophobia. My doctor offered to put me in touch with another cancer specialist upon seeing my deepening anxious state. In his opinion, if he was the source of my anxiety, we could remedy it by me going to another doctor. He added that he wouldn’t be offended. I refused. He had come highly recommended by my family physician, someone I trusted and felt confident in all medical matters. Still, I labored. The visits felt like I was waiting for a death sentence. The check-ups revolved around palpating my neck and then taking blood samples and the ensuing lab work that would reveal the results of the cancer marker. After each visit, more anxious waiting followed. A week would pass before the clinic would call me to say if the test was fine or not. In between, I agonized over the thought that this might be the time when they would tell me that the cancer was back. When I looked in the mirror, I could not recognize the person I had become. My face seemed frightened most of the time. It was gaunt, pale, and gray. I had lost weight. I had no interest in eating, I never felt hungry. But my doctor warned that I must eat. So, I forced myself even when food was stuck in my throat and refused to go down. Then, one day, in a very desperate moment, that little voice of long ago came back. It told me to seek help and not to give up. Help came during a particularly exhausting day. I was waiting for the overdue result of the thyrogen test. I was beside myself, not knowing whether to call the clinic or to wait until they called me. It was an excruciating period of waiting. On top of this, the therapist I had been seeing was out of town but left word that another therapist was covering for her, if I needed one. I did. The substitute therapist asked me a series of questions and then after some thought, asked me if I would consider hypnotherapy. She briefly explained what it entailed. I then told her, with all the conviction I could muster, that I was willing to try anything. I felt helpless and desperate; but nonetheless, something inside me felt it was time to replace the fear and anxiety with sanity and humanity. She then gave me the name of a hypnotherapist. I called him as soon as I hung up the phone. I saw him for the next few weeks, with each session being recorded so that I could listen to it as many times as I wanted. It gave me some relief but not enough. He did tell me that I also needed to see a regular therapist, which I did. I saw her at the same time I was going through cancer treatment.

  Several months after I began seeing her, I was talking about my past and of my childhood one day, when something alerted her to what I just said. All of a sudden, she looked at me intently and then said,

  “Excuse me, but did you just tell me that you were sent to prison as a political prisoner when you were fifteen?”

  “Yes?” I said quizzically raising my eyebrow, wondering if I had said something wrong.

  “And then you followed that with your saying that you had to report to the military camp every other day and then every two weeks, or something like that for five years?” she continued to ask.

  “Yes,” I said again, puzzled at the way she was repeating what I told her.

  “And now, you see your cancer doctor every four weeks, and each time you do, you become very anxious, and all that?” she further said.

  “Yes,” I repeated. She must be on to something here.

  “Let’s stop right here, if we may,” she said. “I would like you to see a psychiatrist I work with on a regular basis. I want you to reconsider your decision not to take medication for your anxiety and panic. I think that you really need something to help you right now. I want you to see him and with your permission, I would like to discuss your case with him. I now have a good idea about what is happening to you, but I would like you to see him first and then we can all confer.”

  She proceeded to give me his name and encouraged me to book an appointment as soon as possible. I did so. At the appointed hour, I was my increasingly nervous self as I waited for the psychiatrist. His office, on a leafy street in the Chevy Chase suburb of Maryland, was a pleasant and light-filled room decorated with warm colors that were meant to calm and to soothe. The doctor asked me to confirm what my therapist had shared with him. After I did, he explained in a tone suffused with an equal dose of thoughtfulness and compassion, that what I was suffering from is called ‘delayed post-traumatic stress disorder.’ He said that the monthly visits to my doctor to monitor the cancer marker had triggered the original trauma I had suffered. That trauma, he explained, was my arrest at fifteen combined with the weekly reporting to the military camp for years. He recommended that I take a low-dose anti-anxiety medication to help me cope with my cancer doctor visits as well as hashing through the trauma issues in regular psychotherapy sessions. I had resisted any kind of medication up to this point. I was convinced that I was already getting my fair share of medicine with the cancer treatment; I did not need to pump my body with more. After an initial reluctance, I found myself agreeing as the doctor explained his reasoning. I was exhausted from the intense feelings I have at every waking moment. His gentle demeanor, plus the soft and kind voice he had when talking, indicated that he was committed to helping me.

  From that point on, I began my journey towards understanding the effects my incarceration had on me and of trying to rebuild what had been destroyed. Incarceration, to me was like a stubborn, crusty mud, staining one’s black rubber boots. You need a hose to spray the mud off and as you do, you will begin to see the hardened mud soften and then turn into dark brown water sloshing off the boots; and soon the dirt is washed off completely, though it will take time to experience that refreshing sight of clean footwear that you are only too willing to put back on your feet. I must have needed loads and loads of water to wash off the hardened pain and social vilification. It was a torturous journey in merely figuring out what was wrong. I knew I was finally free of it when I was able to go back to the scene of the crime on a trip back to the Philippines. My therapist and I had worked very hard to reach that point. The ‘aha’ moment came when I began thinking that I was tired of being in favor of the “against,” and was ready to be in favor of “for.” Not against myself but for myself. Not against those who sent me to prison but rather for understanding what made them do it.

  My recovery was slow. But one of the things I found as I went through it was something about grief and trauma best expressed by someone who had lived it. This voice comes from the mother of one of the victims aboard an airplane that was bombed and crashed over Lockerbie, Scotland in 1988. Her name is Suse Lowenstein. Her words became a salve to the slow healing of my wounds. When asked about the grief she suffered, she said,

  “I happen to be a great believer in denial. You
can’t do it all at once. It’s just too much.”

  Yes, I agree that it was way too much. There were many times when I could not take it all. The process of healing felt like tiny trickles of water dripping from a leaky faucet. My mind only divulged what I was ready for, never rushing me when I was not ready, even when I was anxious to get it over quickly. It is what happened in the writing of this book. Writing has taken a long time and there were times when I could not touch it for weeks, and sometimes for months, because it was too much. My mind and my spirit were simply not ready.

  When trauma and its effects take up residence, it is a formidable task to unseat them. At its most vicious, trauma hovers around like a reckless assassin, ready to pounce. One takes cover whenever and however one can, until out of frustration, the assassin leaves. As I went through each hiding, I was inexplicably aided by that tiny voice, the one who often spoke to me during the most painful and desperate periods of my life. Some would say this voice was my conscience. Others said it was something else. Whatever it is, I simply call it the voice. When a jolt appears, I waited for the voice to speak. I listened. I learned that despite my desperation, I could be called upon to do something and do it well.

  One unforgettable moment when that voice spoke happened in a conversation I once had with my then fifteen-year-old-son. I had just picked him up from his school, one cold winter evening, after he finished his driver education class. As was usual, I asked him how his day went. I knew there was something on his mind as soon as he quickly told me his day was fine.

  “Listen, mom,” he began. “There were college representatives visiting our school today. Also, a military recruiter was there. He said that there is going to be an information meeting on military recruitment in a few days. I am thinking of attending it.”

  As soon as I heard what he said, I angrily said,

  “Don’t tell me you are attending. Really, what are you thinking? Join the military? Really? Why would you want to do that?”

  “I did not say I was going to join the military. I was just going to attend the meeting and find out what it is about.”

  “Even then,” I insisted. “Why would you even consider doing that?”

  My son grew quiet and I could see he was hurt by what I just told him. But despite this, my anger persisted. At the same time, I was ashamed about how I behaved. Once I sufficiently calmed down, I apologized to him for being so unreasonable. Like the soft-hearted and loving young man that he is, he accepted my apology though I could tell I hurt his feelings just because of the uncalled for intense opposition that I displayed for something he considered to be so harmless and trivial.

  Later that night, I found sleep elusive. I got up and went downstairs and began thinking about the conversation I had with my son. It then dawned on me why I reacted so negatively. Here, he was at fifteen years old, taking an interest in the military, though not seriously as he told me, yet I could not separate this from what I as a fifteen year old has suffered under the Philippine military. I did not even have the sensibility to distinguish between the U.S. military and the one that inflicted my suffering in the Philippines. I became alarmed at the thought and it was then that I decided that I was going to do whatever it took to change things for me as well as for my son, who I have unintentionally hurt because of my own demons. This realization to change things and the journey towards doing so, in time, became a pleasant discovery.

  Grace Notes

  “There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, the expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium… And be lost. The world will not have it.”

  — Martha Graham

  It was a sunny and pleasant summer day. My husband and our two sons were at the house we rented for our annual holiday in the Catskill Mountains in rural New York. The Catskills played a big part in my husband’s boyhood summer experience, and, we continued the tradition with our young children in spending part of our summers there. The trip was made more special this time as two of my sisters were able to join us; my older sister, Cynthia, who had flown in all the way from the Philippines, and Timmee, who often joined us, taking the bus from New York City. I was thrilled to show my older sister, Cynthia, this beautiful part of America that held so many pleasant memories for my husband, our two boys, and me.

  The house we rented was right next to a bridge over the Delaware River. From there, one could view the green expanse of trees dotting the river’s shores as well as spot the occasional bald eagle, which would be signaled by its distant cry. We had just finished kayaking on the river and also had done a bit of fishing. When we got tired and hungry, we went back to the house.

  My sisters and I sat down around the table that was nestled by the kitchen’s bay window, a place where we could look out over the trees and the river. Cynthia had brought some goodies from the Philippines; dried and salted watermelon seeds and dry roasted corn nuts, seasoned with lots of crunchy garlic. As we ate the seeds, corn nuts and other snacks we had brought from home in the DC suburbs, the three of us began telling stories, particularly those we remembered from our childhoods.

  “Do you remember when we would sneak out of the house and walk through the rice fields, and we would get muddy all the way up to our knees?” Timmee asked.

  “Oh, yes, I remember,” I replied. “I was so scared that we were walking so far away from home, thinking that we would get lost. Or that Tatang would really get mad at us for doing things that we were not supposed to.”

  Cynthia looked at us, hardly believing what she was hearing.

  “When did you guys run away like that?” she asked.

  “All the time,” Timmee said.

  “But especially during the rainy season when we could hear the frogs, oh my god, they were so loud, they kept us awake at night. But when we heard the frogs singing, we knew that there would be lots of tadpoles in those muddy rice paddies.”

  “Yes, that would be why we went there, wouldn’t we?” I added. “We were always trying to catch those tadpoles and those little fishes with our bare hands, while we tramped in the mud, and then wondered afterwards how we could sneak back into the house without Tatang or the adults seeing us, covered with mud and our clothes all dirty. But then we would quickly walk past the house and head for Juliet’s house, where we washed up since her mother did not mind what we did.”

  Cynthia continued to look bewildered. She considered herself to be the big sister, the babysitter to all of us, and had a hard time accepting that we kept sneaking out of the house and going to forbidden places without her knowledge.

  “Wow, I was supposed to take care of you guys. Where was I?” she asked. She had always been the type to take care of people and still does. Maybe that is why she became a doctor. She prided herself in doing her job well at all times and as children, she took seriously her task of taking care of us when our parents were away.

  It was then that we talked about how, despite our having fun and wandering through those fields, we also knew that we were courting trouble especially if we stayed there as dusk approached. We discussed how scary those times sometimes were. Then out of the blue, I thought of asking my older sister what she remembered of the events that happened in 1973. I did not know why, but at just that moment, I felt the time was finally right to ask her what she thought, what she experienced, and more importantly what she knew about my parents’ reactions about the whole thing.

  “So, tell me,” I began. “I never heard from Ima and Tang what they really thought about what happened to me. We never talked about it. The only reference I remember from the two of them about it was that they would remind me to report to the camp so that I would not be in further trouble with the military.”

  My mother had died barely two years after I was detained. Tatang died in in his eighties in 2005.

  “What was it like for them when they found out that the soldiers picked me up at
school? How did they take it?” I continued. Instead of answering me directly, she said,

  “The day I found out you were sent to military camp, the first thought I had was why her? Why not me? I honestly thought what a great honor it would have been to be arrested, to be sent to jail for one’s beliefs, for pushing the envelope, so to speak, against injustice, corruption, malfeasance, and raging against the rot that the whole country was mired in. I was honestly envious that you managed to get yourself arrested and I didn’t. Perhaps, this does not make sense to you because why would anyone want to be arrested? But I believe then and still do that it was a badge of honor. An honor to oppose Marcos’ dictatorial hold on the Philippines.”

  As she said these words, her voice began to crack.

  “But then, of course, I also had to think about what it was like for you. How were you treated there? You were only fifteen and what did you know? Why did the school principal allow the soldiers to take you away? When I thought about this, I became really angry. Then I spoke to Ima and Tang when I got home that day. Tang was very, very upset with Ms. Arceo. He was cursing at her, wondering why the hell she allowed the soldiers to take away her fifteen-year-old daughter, particularly from the supposedly safe haven of the Benedictine convent school. Where were the nuns, those fierce, disciplined German nuns who founded the school and who should have been there facing the soldiers. He was very angry, but then he also told me how so very proud he was of you. He was proud that you stood for your principles. He said this fully knowing that someone might hear him and that he could get in trouble.