A Christmas Mourning

There she was again, standing still in her own small compartment. Looking at me with those blue unusually big eyes crowned with thick eyelashes. I always wondered how a cute little face could hold such huge eyes. Her rosy cheeks pulling up to emphasize the permanent smile plastered in her red lips that were curiously smaller than the bottom of a pen. Her right hand suspended in the air in that stationary wave.
It was a look that would engage every child; captivate every kid.
She was Mimi, a life-sized doll—every little girl’s dream. But it was not that smile I wanted to see; not those eyes I longed to look; not that hand I wanted waving at me. To me, that countenance only haunted.
It never failed: a glimpse of her sent shivers down my spine. Not the kind of shiver one might feel watching a horror film. But one that accompanied anxiety, regret, the sense of loss.
In another time, that portrait could have delighted a child. A child who might not have been able to resist those eyes. The child would have run to her and hugged her close never meaning to let go. The child would have played with this inanimate being as if it were a sister.
Christmas was looming. Soon it would be here again. And with it would come the pain--of remembering, of losing.
It had been five years now since I had Mimi Doll.
Two weeks before Christmas, five years ago, I saw Mimi on a shelf at a toyshop. I took one glance at her and I knew she would be perfect. Little Kat would love her. Kat had been longing for a little sibling to play with. She was excited when Derrick came. Except that she couldn’t play with Derrick yet. Not the way she wanted to. Derrick could not yet talk properly, let alone walk. He was, after all, only a-year-and-a-half old. Yes, Mimi would fit the scene perfectly.
I had bought the huge doll but hid it from Kat. I wanted to give it to her on Christmas. I wanted to surprise her. To see the childlike glee in her face and the spark in her eyes. To hear the joyful shriek in her voice as she hugged her new playmate. On Christmas morning. If I had only known better…
Mimi would be an ideal playmate for Kat. This huge Blondie might not be able to talk back to Kat, but at least, our little girl could talk to it and do whatever she wished to do with it without fear of hurting it or being hurt by it. And with Kat’s special condition, she should never be hurt in any way.
Kat had been diagnosed of ALL—Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. It is a kind of cancer in the bone marrow that commonly hits children. She had been undergoing chemotherapy for six months.
We were so excited since she was supposed to be given her last shot in December. But two days before that long awaited date, Kat complained of much pain in her stomach. It got so painful; her mother rushed her to the hospital despite the rain. We thought it would be just like her usual visits to the hospital. But we were wrong.
When Kat’s mother told us the news that the doctors would perform a surgical operation on Kat, we were all shocked. We wanted the doctors to tell us there were still some other ways—ones that wouldn’t put our little angel in more pain than she had already been suffering.
But there seemed to be no better option. And we were afraid of what might have happened if the surgery wouldn’t be performed.
For hours we waited for the operation to finish. Outside the operating room, we chatted freely, trying to pacify the tension within. As if doing so would make us forget… would bring Kat back to us in her usual bubbly self. We wore a calm façade, trying to foil the turmoil deep down inside, pushing away the nagging thought that the worst might happen.
And when the operation did end, although the doctors had warned us about it, nothing could prepare us for what we saw: the Kat we had never seen before. Her limp body lay in bed, a large tube inserted in her mouth, and some other smaller ones pinned to her limbs. Her eyes closed. We listened intently as the doctor spoke. Hanging on to every word, we waited for that one phrase of assurance that never came. Not one in the family spoke.
But no word was necessary. No tear could express what was inside. We all felt the pain, the fear. But among us, one person bore it all—Kat’s Mommy. She felt the most pain. And then the sob…and the uncertainty. “My daughter will be fine, won’t she? She will be home for Christmas, right?” Her voice and sobs echoed through the thick walls of the hospital. Oh, I would never forget that look in her eyes.
Still we clung on. Hoped. Never gave ourselves chance to think of the worst. Never once did any of us thought all would come to this. Even when the doctors had said it was Leukemia, we all had thought this would come to pass.
It was four days before Christmas—Kat’s favorite time of the year. We thought…hoped Kat would be home by then. I could imagine the look in her eyes when she would see Daisy Doll. And she would see Mimi Doll. She should.
But it was not meant to be. On Christmas Eve, while the city buzzed with the spirit of the season, the house was deafeningly silent. For the sake of the other children who were anticipating merriment, the family celebrated the holy day as normally as possible. But even the children could pick up the tension, the anxiety. Even they knew something was missing—someone was not there with us. Kat’s absence was too tangible to be ignored.
And while the rest of the family was in the house, celebrating Christmas, at the hospital, Kat’s mother didn’t sleep. Her heart doing somersaults, not with excitement but with anxiety and fear. While the rest of the city went bustling for last minute holiday shopping, or simply merrymaking, Kat’s father hustled around the city for available blood to be transfused into his only daughter. On Christmas morning, the children gathered round the tree, excited to gather the gifts that bore their name. After the gift giving, there was a pile of gifts that were unopened. It was too much of a reminder that someone was not there.
Thus, Christmas came to pass. We hoped the New Year would fare better. We hoped we all would be together the way we had always been during such a time.
But again, it was not meant to be. December 30, over ten days since Kat was first brought to the hospital: after seeing how bruised Kat’s little body had been, we finally let her go. The doctors had tried to revive her, pumping life into her small body until Kat’s Mommy could stand it no longer, and screamed for them to stop hurting her little baby.
Thus, Kat left. It was surreal. Could it have been possible that the first to go in this family was only a six-year-old girl? Mommy’s ‘bestest’ friend, gone? Who would receive the gifts under the tree? The gifts with the tag “For Kat”? Who would embrace Mimi now?
New Year: a time when families should be together. The whole family was together, but not as we had hoped. We were all at the funeral parlor, with Kat among us--lying in a metal box.
That had been five years ago. Now, Kat’s no longer with us, but her memory remains.
It’s time to let her go. Kat’s already happy with her Maker. And it is time for us here to move on. And it’s time to let go of Daisy, too. And the prospect saddens me.
Somewhere, someone will smile at the sight of Mimi Doll. Even if it won’t be our Kathleen, she will have the smile that we will no longer be able to see from our one dear girl who once was. The twinkle in her eyes wouldn’t be that of our Kat-kat’s. But it will be a twinkle of anticipated joy.
The girl will be happy. And Kathleen will be, too.
Goodbye, Mimi.
So long, Kathleen.

My Uncle Manong

I can’t remember anymore the first time I met him. But my memory of him consists of huge smile, loud voice, and big bills.

Mama called him, ‘Manong’ so I would call him, Uncle Manong. At first, I really didn’t know what his real name was. I just took it for granted that his name was Manong. It wasn’t until high school that I realized his name was really Cresencio. But by then, I got used to him as Uncle Manong. Besides, Cresencio was a mouthful.

When he’s in the house, nobody could fail to notice him. He was usually loud—talked out loud, laughed out loud, even his whispers were like stage whispers. Even in sleep—his snores are loud. But there was never a dull moment when he was around.

We would be excited and always looked forward to his visits. And why not, he would never leave without giving us an orange (P20) or pink (P50) bill in our hands. Our parents never gave us any amount more than one peso coin. To us, he was like Santa Claus.

When I was growing up, he struck me as a very active healthy individual. I never saw him grimace in pain or heard him complain sick.

When I became a teacher, I would bump into him in some conferences and athletic meets—at age 60 at that. Beyond that age, he would be present during special occasions of any clan gathering that he would be informed about—funerals, weddings and reunions. Even when he started being forgetful, he was still his old active self.

Oh, he was very energetic that kept us younger generation wondering if we would ever be as active as he when we reach that age, or if we would ever reach that age.

Then, in the middle of this year, he came stayed with us while seeing a doctor about a lump in his nose that interfered with his breathing. He even demonstrated, “O, lain na ako tingog tungod aning naa’y gabara sa ako ilong.” Indeed, his voice was different.

A series of tests confirmed he had an advanced stage of cancer that had possibly spread to some parts of his body. He had one session of chemo and we thought he was actually going to get better. But then, one night he had a fever and we took him to the hospital where he stayed for a month.

After a month or so of being poked by needles and tubes my Uncle finally cried enough! He complained he was tired, and insisted he go home to Mangagoy. His children and his wife couldn’t do otherwise but obey his wishes.

He was then taken home and cared for by his children. After a month, his children bade him good bye.

It was both a sad and joyful moment. Joyful because he would no longer be suffering. And sad, because we are surely going to miss this loud jolly energetic Santa Claus. Why do you think it took me over a month after his passing to write about him?

In the line of cancer

There are only three of them left now. The other three passed on. One because of sickness--diabetes and all its complications; the other two, because of sickness--of people who think they are not worthy to be kept alive.

While my mother is trying to keep herself cancer-free, my uncle is in our house trying to recuperate from his own cancer. He has just had his first chemotherapy session with my mother's doctor. Just then, my cousin got in touch with me telling me the sad news--her mother, my Ma's sister, who had just undergone a surgery on her thyroid, was found with a lump on her neck. After the biopsy, it turned out to be cancerous. Her doctor advised radiation. It was a sad news amidst something good that is happening to my cousin. She was due to go to Canada in the middle of September. But then, the doctor just gave my Aunt some medicine first and scheduled her radiation in November yet. My cousin left as scheduled, though with a heavy heart, for leaving her mother in such state.

So now, the three remaining siblings fight the same battle, although in different degrees, and different ways. The upside is that they each have a family who love them and support them in the middle of all this.

Parallel episode

“Aguy! Kasakit sa akong tiyan.”
My head snapped up to the owner of the pained voice. Time seemed to stop. My heart beat wildly; my breathing was nonexistent. I went cold.

“Maó man siguro ni ako kamatyan.”

That was my Uncle who has just been diagnosed of nasal cancer. He’s 72, and until now, was leading a very active, very healthy lifestyle. After having been diagnosed of cancer, he was prescribed a lot of medicines including prednisone.

Hearing those pained words, I was transported back in time when the same words (well, almost, since it had been said in Tagalog) were uttered by a girl of six with fragile body who had also been diagnosed of cancer—acute lymphoblastic leukemia—and was also given a lot of medication including prednisone.

“Mommy, ang sakit-sakit ng t’yan ko,” she used to cry to her worried and helpless mother.

She used to have stomachache all the time. It occurred to me that if a 72-year-old strong and able man could not stand the pain, how much worse could it have been to a little girl in such a delicate shape?

I still remember that fateful afternoon. It was raining hard. Her Mommy hailed a taxi to take her to the hospital. I expected her to be there for a day, then she would be home for Christmas. But that was not meant to be. The doctors decided to do a surgery on her stomach to see what was bothering her. My sister, trusting the doctors, and thinking of nothing but only the best for her only daughter, consented. My sister brought her crying child to the operating room, waited outside for what seemed like an eternity, only to see later her only daughter come out of the room with tubes all over her. Her daughter was not able to talk to her again. Ten days after, we lost her totally. Her frail little body couldn’t take the assault of the knife.

It was practically the stomachache that actually took my niece from us.

Now, hearing those same words, witnessing the same reaction from another person—an adult—left me cold. It occurred to me that the pain must have been caused by the medicines introduced into her very young body. My mind raced, and just when I thought I had forgotten and forgiven, all the pain of losing someone I love came back. And then, the anger.

It is a pity, really. I am not a mother, but I am so much affected. Every time I remember my young niece in that state, I still cry even after five years. I can’t imagine what it is like with her mother who was also her best friend.

If there is one thing this experience has taught me, it was never to give my full trust to a doctor: certainly, never to rely too much on him. Even if he is the most expensive doctor in the most expensive hospital in the city.

One has to be equipped with all the details. Exhaust all the alternatives, study possibilities, research about the possible consequences of a process, listen to the patient. After all, she or he is the owner of that body. The doctors want an immediate result, for a lot of different reasons--from showing the care givers that they are doing something, shutting off the insistent parents, getting big amount (which they get regardless of the result of their operation), to maybe sincerely wanting to help.

What I feel was wrong with the system at the time my niece had her ailment was that doctors didn’t exhaust all other alternatives. And a worried Mommy couldn’t think clearly when in distress. That is why the people around them should be doubly alert. If possible, be a devil’s advocate. Sometimes a villain is necessary in a scene so that other possibilities can be explored, and probable consequences examined.

It’s no use crying over spilt milk, so they say. What has been done can never be undone. The dead couldn’t be brought back to life. But then, there are still many who are experiencing what we have experienced before. And I just hope they could come up with what they feel the best decision—and one that they won’t regret later on.

And for this family, I hope we can finally find it in our hearts to forgive and forget and move on with the rest of the living.

Her Passing

Before we even have the time to absorb the news about my Uncle having cancer, we have received news that my Auntie, who has just finished her chemotherapy for breast cancer, passed away this morning.

I contacted my cousin to find out the truth, deep down hoping this was all just false alarm. Maybe some gossip that is misunderstood and not properly relayed. But then, all my hopes fly out the windows when my cousin confirmed it. She said it was all so sudden. Her Mama just had difficulty breathing, and then she passed. My cousin said her Mama did not seem to suffer much. She just lay there, and went to eternal peace.

I am hesitant to tell my Mama about her. Auntie came to my Mama after the former had had her mastectomy to ask who Mama's doctor was. She had known Mama had breast cancer and had finished her chemotherapy. So she went to the same doctor that treated my Mama. They had the same treatment (at least, I think they did). But she had to travel hundreds of kilometers from Agusan to Davao City to have her chemo.

One time she traveled alone, and she felt nauseous in the bus. She panicked. She didn’t know anybody in the bus. It was a blessing that one of her former students was also a passenger. After that, she didn’t dare go to Davao all by herself.

She finished all her six sessions of chemo despite some delays. Her doctor prescribed tamoxifen. The last time I saw her, she was up and about, talking about her plans of traveling and other stuff. And that was almost five months ago. So I was utterly stunned when my sister told me this morning that Auntie has passed away. Of course, I was afraid, too. She had the same disease as my Mama, she had the same doctor, the same treatment, and now she’s gone.

I’m really going to miss her. She was very accommodating, very thoughtful, always smiling. Every time I got stranded in San Francisco, Agusan, it was with her that I would stay. With her gone now, there’s this big empty space she is leaving behind. I could say maybe this is best for her. But there will always be emptiness. I can just imagine how her children might be feeling.

So to her family, my prayers of peace and healing.

And to Auntie, rest in God’s eternal bliss.

And Then There’s Another

First, it was my cousin’s cervix, then, my niece’s bone marrow, then, my Mama’s breast, my Mama’s cousin’s breast, and finally, (or so I thought), my Papa’s brother’s colon. And just when we thought the shopping was over, my Mother’s brother’s nose came next.

Blast it! My uncle has got cancer—and one that is rare—nasal cancer. And he is 72 years old, for goodness’ sakes! Grabe na jud ni!

He had difficulty breathing. He could not eat properly, because swallowing the food was an effort. So, together with his wife and his daughter, he traveled all the way from their place to Davao to see his doctor. There was a mass in his nasal cavity, and the doctor performed a biopsy. The result: tumor. Malignant. His doctor advised surgery and then cobalt. They start clearing him for the surgery. He’ll be observed for a week to find out if his lungs and heart are up to it. And in a week’s time, they will dig.

I had always seen my Uncle as strong, agile even restless. At 70, he was still actively involved in the school he used to manage. He still taught, and was a member of the Board of Directors, and an insurance agent on the side, not to mention his activities in the church. He still traveled for business or pleasure or both. He was very healthy. Until now, that is.

I could say maybe it was old age. But then some live to be 90 and they don’t have cancer. Well, I guess, we all have our own way of dealing with old age. Or is it the old age has its own way of dealing with us? But then, their environment back in their place is also a suspect. When I think of their place, I think POLLUTION. Everywhere you go in that place, you smell no fresh air just fresh factory smell. At any time of the day. It is a pity really since that place is considered the most “progressive” in the province. When I go there, I could not prepare my respiratory system enough for the onslaught. So I would have to do quickly with whatever business I might have and then go.

On the other hand, they say cancer has no known cure yet, and there is no certainty as to its real cause.

I just hope my Uncle can deal with this ordeal the way he has faced all the other trials he had to face before.

And God bless him and his family.

Shingle bells!

My mama has shingles! She has cancer, a cough that doesn’t seem to want to part with her, and now she has shingles!

Three days ago, Mama complained about some rashes she felt on her back. I thought it was some insect bite, or an allergic reaction to something—she has been having so much allergies lately—although I hadn’t encountered such kind of rashes before. She said it was bothering her and it ached, especially when it was hot--and it was always humid. I told her not to scratch the spot so she won't cut her skin, and she said she did not. So I rubbed some ointment to alleviate the burning sensation.

The next day, however, there was another set of the same rashes on her chest, and the ones on her back ‘grew’ and became lesions with fluid in them. They looked like chicken pox, but they were confined in specific parts of her body—on the right part of her back, and on her chest. Although at that time, the ones on her chest were still red rashes. I was afraid it might complicate things for her since she has cancer and she’s taking some medicines. So I told her to see a doctor. She said she planned to see a dermatologist the next day. But I feared the skin disorder might be a reaction to femara she has been taking, so I looked it up on the internet. And there, I saw, it was shingles. At least all the symptoms fit. So I sent message to her oncologist describing to him Mama’s condition, just to verify. He confirmed it, and told me to have Mama see him for further check-up and prescription.

The next day, off my Mama with my sister went to her oncologist, and she was given acyclovir tablet and acyclovir ointment. Immediately, she started with her medication. This morning, though, I caught her preparing for bed. I thought she had fever but she said was just sleepy. The previous night, she hadn’t been able to sleep. Her shingles bothered her. She couldn’t find the right sleeping position. Her lesions would become painful when they touch anything, let alone be crushed as she lay down. I had told her to sleep on the waterbed, thinking the coolness of the bed would help her sleep. Obviously, it didn’t. Even as she was about to lie down, she changed her mind, saying, she still wouldn’t be able to sleep. So I took a washcloth, wet it with cold water and pressed it into her lesions. It relieved her a bit.

Now that night is here again, all I can do is hope Mama can sleep soundly.

Confusing treatments

Bad mystery movies can be quite distressing. It gets you on edge one moment but keeps you in the dark, and in the end, it proves to be nothing but a disappointment.

This business of searching for a cure for cancer can be like that. Not having known any answer, you get a bit excited when you stumble on something that appears to lead you to the truth, only to find yourself more confused than ever.

Maybe the situation would be different if you were a doctor. At least, you get to look at the actual condition of the patients, and you get to see the “physical evidence”—that is, the cancer cells and everything else that might be useful.

But if you were just a lay person like me, who relies only on the “findings” of those who studied the disease, you have one heck of a hard time studying all the studies, analyses, and findings of the “experts”. You know why? Because these “experts” have different ways of looking at things. They have different approaches, different beliefs, different practices. So it is no wonder then, that they come up with different answers. It would have been okay if their findings are on the same direction—well, they’re not. Some conclusions even contradict one another, to the point that these experts attack one another’s theories and claim that his theory is the right one.

Take mammogram and biopsy, for instance. I’ve read in some literatures that these are the basic steps in diagnosing cancer. But then, other literatures would say mammogram may lead to breast cancer, and biopsy may spread cancer. Which should I trust, then?

Once I browsed the Net for some recipes for my cancer warrior Mama. I stumbled upon some recipes that have soy and milk and yogurt. Well, I had read some days back that these ingredients are not suitable for cancer patients.

Whew! This is really a test of my wits.

Sometimes, in my frustration, I would feel better I was better off not having read any of these stuff. I might not have gotten my brains all tied in different knots. On the other hand, there really are things that I have found useful in my search.

Well, I guess you just have to keep your power of discretion intact and use it whenever necessary. For after all, nothing is guaranteed in this life. You just have to make the most of what you learn and pray for the best.

In Search for the Cure

I am obsessed by cancer. Ever since it came into our lives, I am pretty much preoccupied by it.

I would buy every book about cancer—particularly breast cancer—that I see. Every time I open the internet, I would surf sites about cancer, even though I originally intended to research on some other topics. I have exhausted our printer of its toner printing information about the darned disease. I would glue my eyes on the tv for some shows that tackle the illness. Anything, in the hopes of uncovering its mystery, and discovering the possible cure.

And then, I would lecture my findings to my sisters and mother and whomever I happen to talk to—boring them stiff.

Well, cancer has taken one of my own, and I guess, maybe I just don’t want anyone else be taken away. Sometimes, though, I wonder, if I am just overreacting. Or shall I say, “over-worrying” on something that is not really a big deal. Or, spiritual-wise, maybe my faith in my God is not strong enough to entrust to Him the fate of my cancer-stricken mother.

But then again, I have heard it said “Do your best for God will do the rest.”

cancer in my family

I’ve heard about cancer before. It seemed so scary to have such a disease. Just the thought of having the doctor tell me that I have one would be enough to make my skin crawl. That’s why at the school theatre before, we used to be told by our acting workshop facilitator to imagine that we had cancer if he wanted some intense emotion out of us.

Yes, that’s what cancer used to be to me: a motivation to get some emotion; a situation set by some authors of romantic, sentimental novels; an issue in soap operas and movies to generate heart-wrenching scenes. It is something real—painful, a death sentence. But it is one that happens only to other people: not to me, not to any of my family.

Until one day, I heard news about my first cousin having an ovarian cancer. Our Aunt told us the doctor gave her only six months to live. We were shocked! It was so near—cancer was in our own blood! We were so scared, and it hit us: cancer is real—really!

But then, my cousin delivered us all from such “unnecessary” fear. She proved her doctors wrong. She underwent chemotherapy, and the six-month limit became six years, even sixteen, and more. Now, she is in Switzerland—happy and very much alive!

And so we thought, cancer is not that scary, after all. And the incident was forgotten in the most remote recesses of our minds.

And then a little over five years ago, my sister’s five-year-old daughter complained sore in the different parts of her body—her mouth, then, her arms, and then her legs, her head. We thought she was just making ‘lambing’ trying to get her Mommy’s and Daddy’s attention. So her Mommy took her to the hospital. And from there, she called us and told us the news—her little girl had ALL—Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Our world stopped. But after the initial shock, we went on with our lives trying to live the normal life we were used to, although deep inside was the fear of losing a dear angel, and the pain of seeing a little girl hurting. But since we had a cousin who survived the disease, we were hopeful and lived like nothing was wrong. After all, cancer was curable, and she was only 6 years old! Nobody dies at six! But then, our hopes shattered when after six months, we lost our little angel. Her frail body was no match for the persistent crazy cell slowly sapping out her strength. Our worlds fell apart.

Two years later, my cousin, a daughter of my father’s brother, called to tell us that one of my uncles has prostate cancer.

We again felt the pain that had barely healed, and prayed he survive the ordeal.

Barely a month after, we again felt the familiar pang of fear. My mother felt a lump on her left breast. We prayed so hard it wouldn’t be cancer. But a week after, when the results of the biopsy came out, our hopes died down when the doctor confirmed what we had feared: Mama had a breast cancer—stage 2 B.

Memories of our young angel came back rushing. And this time, since we had precedence, our fear doubled. We should be ‘knowledgeable’ already about this disease, but we were again clueless. We didn’t know what would happen next, and it was this uncertainty of the unknown that was terrifying.

Her doctor was so confident and assuring, but knowing that nothing is certain in this world, especially at Mama’s age at 69, we struggled with dread everyday.

She had her mastectomy—successfully so. And it was followed by six sessions of chemotherapy, which she was able to complete on schedule. We were able to breathe more smoothly after that. Her doctor then put her under hormone therapy and gave her tamoxifen. And then we celebrated her 70th birthday with a bang!

Almost two years through tamoxifen, her doctor discovered a lump at the upper part of her operation. The proceeding biopsy reported “suspicious invasive ductile carcinoma.’ The phrase was disturbingly familiar. The doctor once again advised another operation to take the lump out for further biopsy to know for certain what it was. Another operation later, the doctor, for the second time confirmed: the lump was malignant—her cancer had recurred.

We were given options: a more intensive round of chemotherapy; or a stronger hormone therapy. Considering her frail body, and after confiding with her family, Mama opted for the latter.

Now, she is under femara, and is taking some food supplement including transfer factor plus.

We keep praying for her healing. After all, nothing is impossible with God in our midst.

Cancer and Family

Breast Cancer, Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, Colon Cancer, Cervical Cancer. They crept into our lives uninvited, unwelcome, unwanted. But they were there, just the same, so we just have to learn to deal with them.
Having such a disease is a suffering, but seeing somebody close to you experiencing the woes of such disease is no picnic either. It is no fun watching your mother or uncle, niece throw up after struggling with the food they once couldn’t resist. Or listening to their moans of pain and not knowing how to help them. Or being at the receiving end of their erratic temper and stretching your patience knowing it was their disease acting and not the real person that they are.
But all this would be doubly tough on either the patient or the caregiver if each were alone in the struggle. And this is where a family’s support is most needed. And it is during this difficult time when one usually finds out one’s real family—ones that are bound with you by blood and those that are linked with you through the same experiences, going through the same path that fate has designed.