Nick Pichay's Stigma, Stigmata
Major poet and playwright Nick Pichay's raging against the dying of light. Here's his piece:
Stigma, Stigmata
by Nicolas B. Pichay
On 28 February 2006, I was diagnosed with colon cancer. This was exactly six months and two weeks after I underwent a triple heart by-pass operation. I was 45 years old then, and with the biopsy coming out positive, I felt like someone marked for assassination. Rare is the man or woman who receives a cancer diagnosis in calm aplomb. As soon as my soul realized the situation, my mind zoomed in all directions like an Independence Day firecracker exploding and careening into a kaleidoscope of fear, anger, hope, and then surprisingly, celebration.
At first, I noticed a heightened, paranoiac observation of the ordinary. It is no longer a meal, but maybe “my last meal”. Not just a conversation, but the possibility (in the future, with people gathered at the wake, thinking on hindsight) that it was my “most important last words”. Waving good bye to a friend—a seemingly ordinary action learned by a baby’s innocent act of mimicry and repeated over the years in the course of socialization—suddenly acquires spine-tingling nuances. But surprisingly, other than the morbid, I discovered that intimacy with death has another emotional but familiar effect.
Twice confronted by death’s proximity, I woke up to a world transformed into an inimitable, precious, and fragile place—what poet Rolando Tinio aptly described as a “crystal universe”—where everything takes on the nature of a very shiny, rainbow gilded breakable soap bubble. Colors are brighter, hugs are warmer. Each day burns itself into vivid, sensoramic technicolor memories. I become ecstatic one moment and then sad the next. You might have once been familiar with this feeling—the first time you fell in love. Could this be the reason why the French refer to an orgasm as petite mort, a small death?
Having cancer has become so prevalent in the modern age. In my close circle of friends, Mimi and Rose’s mother and I were diagnosed with various kinds of cancer within three months from each other. Much can be said about the cause of cancer. But as to its effect, I hazard a guess that if having cancer were an art form, critics would have officially declared it as an exciting genre. Like performance art, the horror movie or your favorite telenovela, the participants around a cancer story have formed expectations on what the definitive narratives must contain. For example, no story is complete without the scene where the doctor, with the CT scan plates in front of him, break the news to a stone-faced patient and his family. A cancer narration lacks a punchline without a rundown of the breakdown scene. Or, is there a cancer story not populated with prayerful friends, doting relatives, or the incompetent resident who is unable to properly insert an intravenous needle? My favorite, of course, is the timely appearance of the mysterious generous donors who come to the rescue in the nick of time to contribute for the payment of the medical bills. All these have become the stock characters of the genre. I am pleased to have made their acquaintance, mannerisms and all.
The knowledge of a possible impending death—unlike the suddenness of an accident or the vulgar directness of a coronary thrombosis—brings with it a haze, a presence, an unavoidable grandiloquence about it. I am magnetized to imagine myself in place of others living in another time. The situation cannot escape an 18th Century European opera end-of-Act-II moment, say, where the courtesan, in the height of her beauty, coughs her lungs out producing a speck of blood on her white, lace handkerchief. Instantly, she and the audience recognize this code: the tuberculosis has set in. Romantically referred to as consumption, it was a disease as incurable and untreatable then, as some forms of cancer are now.
Although mortified by manifestations of decay, I’ve observed that people, after knowing that I’m on chemotherapy, generally seem to develop an interest in the changes in my body. “Am I losing my hair? Do I experience nausea and fatigue?” They examine my darkening extremities, look closely at the pallor of my face more keenly than my oncologist. The brave even trace their fingers through the snaking scar on my chest and abdomen as if figuring the escape route on a map. Friends who are bolder delicately inquire about the blisters in my penis. They wonder politely if I can have normal sex again after it heals. (And I reply, “What is “normal” sex?) But their interest, I suspect, goes beyond the clinical. We can trace our awe of pain from the initiation rites in our tribal roots. How much is man’s capacity to bear? Instinctively, we reserve a place of honor for those who can stand up to hardship. A long suffering mother, a wronged mistress, a boxer in the ring, survivors of catastrophic events, and others who have similarly passed a test of physical and emotional endurance all share various levels of admiration and respect. Suffering, when made public, seems to serve as a magnet for sympathy and esteem.
But the personal battle to survive cancer has a special niche. The arbitrariness of disease marks it differently. Moreso when there is no reason to be sick. No logic in the attack. In my life of moderation, I never smoked; regularly ate my greens; and engaged in dutiful exercise. And yet I’ve been stricken with not one, but two deadly diseases. Under the circumstances, the manifestation of cancer becomes a misterio—a stigma or a stigmata? Depending on the perception, cancer is seen either as a reward for a life of blessedness or a punishment for a life of excess. Cancer leads the sufferer to a road to sainthood or the front gates of derision.
But if cancer is a prize for holiness, what does that say about heavenly justice? From this premise, can one make conclusions relative to the general longevity of cardinals and popes? On the other hand, if it is were some species of retribution, how is it that people who have been tagged to various scams and scandals—whose acts have wrought havoc to the lives of powerless innocents—have not excruciatingly died of it? Shouldn’t their various acts of perjuring themselves to the safety of an acquittal deserve some form of irrevocable destiny? Cancer of the tongue, perhaps? These thoughts cross my mind as I lay sideways on a cold metal table while the doctor, with the help of a thin tube, inserts a microcamera up my ass. Groggily, I look at the monitor and see the inside of my colon. I am amazed by the technology and, under the influence of drugs, find myself on a strange trip. “Look,” I say to an imaginary friend, “What a beautiful sight! The intestines are like some creature from inner space.” I think other thoughts to distract me from the slow bloating inside. If cancer is the physical manifestation of the wrath of the giant Om, why are dirty politicians and crooks alike still alive and well and living in palaces? At this point, Dr. Jose P. Rizal, the national hero, appears as a hallucination. Wearing a white lab gown (instead of his usual black overcoat, but still with his bowler hat) he studies the development of our history since his death as if examining x-rays held against the light. He looks up from the evidence and confirms his findings. “This country is suffering from a social cancer.” In this dream, I ask, “Has the cancer grown? Is it terminal?” And finally, “Which cancer is worse, mine or our country’s?” And Dr. Pepe Rizal answers in the manner typical of the medical community, “Who knows?”
Under heavy sedation, I transform into St. Sebastian, captured in that characteristic pose—half-naked, arms raised and tied to a post, with arrows sticking out of his white torso and leg—and despite the pain caused by the giant acupuncture needles, still looking sensuously beatific, eyes heavenward, standing contra-posto. Bravery is the virtue I am supposed to uphold as I fight this cancer into remission. Although I know, I am no saint, not even close to being a martyr. I look at my agony, not as a chance for heroism, but as my sweet dance with death—a many splendored thing. How else can one describe being alone on the operating table? Aware of the sharps and the clang of metal medical equipment that will be used on me, there is no escape. I welcome fear with a hug I reserve only for intimates. I anticipate the care I will receive from relatives. I bask in their love. With friends, I will celebrate each day with the joy of knowing that hope is a bridge being built everyday. And with God, I hold up my right hand, two fingers forming a V: Peace! But the best thing about being treated for cancer is the blessing that there, in the interruption of normal life, one is forewarned. Most of all, having received a notice of possible eviction, having cancer gives one the chance to write the dying scene.
Stigma, Stigmata
by Nicolas B. Pichay
On 28 February 2006, I was diagnosed with colon cancer. This was exactly six months and two weeks after I underwent a triple heart by-pass operation. I was 45 years old then, and with the biopsy coming out positive, I felt like someone marked for assassination. Rare is the man or woman who receives a cancer diagnosis in calm aplomb. As soon as my soul realized the situation, my mind zoomed in all directions like an Independence Day firecracker exploding and careening into a kaleidoscope of fear, anger, hope, and then surprisingly, celebration.
At first, I noticed a heightened, paranoiac observation of the ordinary. It is no longer a meal, but maybe “my last meal”. Not just a conversation, but the possibility (in the future, with people gathered at the wake, thinking on hindsight) that it was my “most important last words”. Waving good bye to a friend—a seemingly ordinary action learned by a baby’s innocent act of mimicry and repeated over the years in the course of socialization—suddenly acquires spine-tingling nuances. But surprisingly, other than the morbid, I discovered that intimacy with death has another emotional but familiar effect.
Twice confronted by death’s proximity, I woke up to a world transformed into an inimitable, precious, and fragile place—what poet Rolando Tinio aptly described as a “crystal universe”—where everything takes on the nature of a very shiny, rainbow gilded breakable soap bubble. Colors are brighter, hugs are warmer. Each day burns itself into vivid, sensoramic technicolor memories. I become ecstatic one moment and then sad the next. You might have once been familiar with this feeling—the first time you fell in love. Could this be the reason why the French refer to an orgasm as petite mort, a small death?
Having cancer has become so prevalent in the modern age. In my close circle of friends, Mimi and Rose’s mother and I were diagnosed with various kinds of cancer within three months from each other. Much can be said about the cause of cancer. But as to its effect, I hazard a guess that if having cancer were an art form, critics would have officially declared it as an exciting genre. Like performance art, the horror movie or your favorite telenovela, the participants around a cancer story have formed expectations on what the definitive narratives must contain. For example, no story is complete without the scene where the doctor, with the CT scan plates in front of him, break the news to a stone-faced patient and his family. A cancer narration lacks a punchline without a rundown of the breakdown scene. Or, is there a cancer story not populated with prayerful friends, doting relatives, or the incompetent resident who is unable to properly insert an intravenous needle? My favorite, of course, is the timely appearance of the mysterious generous donors who come to the rescue in the nick of time to contribute for the payment of the medical bills. All these have become the stock characters of the genre. I am pleased to have made their acquaintance, mannerisms and all.
The knowledge of a possible impending death—unlike the suddenness of an accident or the vulgar directness of a coronary thrombosis—brings with it a haze, a presence, an unavoidable grandiloquence about it. I am magnetized to imagine myself in place of others living in another time. The situation cannot escape an 18th Century European opera end-of-Act-II moment, say, where the courtesan, in the height of her beauty, coughs her lungs out producing a speck of blood on her white, lace handkerchief. Instantly, she and the audience recognize this code: the tuberculosis has set in. Romantically referred to as consumption, it was a disease as incurable and untreatable then, as some forms of cancer are now.
Although mortified by manifestations of decay, I’ve observed that people, after knowing that I’m on chemotherapy, generally seem to develop an interest in the changes in my body. “Am I losing my hair? Do I experience nausea and fatigue?” They examine my darkening extremities, look closely at the pallor of my face more keenly than my oncologist. The brave even trace their fingers through the snaking scar on my chest and abdomen as if figuring the escape route on a map. Friends who are bolder delicately inquire about the blisters in my penis. They wonder politely if I can have normal sex again after it heals. (And I reply, “What is “normal” sex?) But their interest, I suspect, goes beyond the clinical. We can trace our awe of pain from the initiation rites in our tribal roots. How much is man’s capacity to bear? Instinctively, we reserve a place of honor for those who can stand up to hardship. A long suffering mother, a wronged mistress, a boxer in the ring, survivors of catastrophic events, and others who have similarly passed a test of physical and emotional endurance all share various levels of admiration and respect. Suffering, when made public, seems to serve as a magnet for sympathy and esteem.
But the personal battle to survive cancer has a special niche. The arbitrariness of disease marks it differently. Moreso when there is no reason to be sick. No logic in the attack. In my life of moderation, I never smoked; regularly ate my greens; and engaged in dutiful exercise. And yet I’ve been stricken with not one, but two deadly diseases. Under the circumstances, the manifestation of cancer becomes a misterio—a stigma or a stigmata? Depending on the perception, cancer is seen either as a reward for a life of blessedness or a punishment for a life of excess. Cancer leads the sufferer to a road to sainthood or the front gates of derision.
But if cancer is a prize for holiness, what does that say about heavenly justice? From this premise, can one make conclusions relative to the general longevity of cardinals and popes? On the other hand, if it is were some species of retribution, how is it that people who have been tagged to various scams and scandals—whose acts have wrought havoc to the lives of powerless innocents—have not excruciatingly died of it? Shouldn’t their various acts of perjuring themselves to the safety of an acquittal deserve some form of irrevocable destiny? Cancer of the tongue, perhaps? These thoughts cross my mind as I lay sideways on a cold metal table while the doctor, with the help of a thin tube, inserts a microcamera up my ass. Groggily, I look at the monitor and see the inside of my colon. I am amazed by the technology and, under the influence of drugs, find myself on a strange trip. “Look,” I say to an imaginary friend, “What a beautiful sight! The intestines are like some creature from inner space.” I think other thoughts to distract me from the slow bloating inside. If cancer is the physical manifestation of the wrath of the giant Om, why are dirty politicians and crooks alike still alive and well and living in palaces? At this point, Dr. Jose P. Rizal, the national hero, appears as a hallucination. Wearing a white lab gown (instead of his usual black overcoat, but still with his bowler hat) he studies the development of our history since his death as if examining x-rays held against the light. He looks up from the evidence and confirms his findings. “This country is suffering from a social cancer.” In this dream, I ask, “Has the cancer grown? Is it terminal?” And finally, “Which cancer is worse, mine or our country’s?” And Dr. Pepe Rizal answers in the manner typical of the medical community, “Who knows?”
Under heavy sedation, I transform into St. Sebastian, captured in that characteristic pose—half-naked, arms raised and tied to a post, with arrows sticking out of his white torso and leg—and despite the pain caused by the giant acupuncture needles, still looking sensuously beatific, eyes heavenward, standing contra-posto. Bravery is the virtue I am supposed to uphold as I fight this cancer into remission. Although I know, I am no saint, not even close to being a martyr. I look at my agony, not as a chance for heroism, but as my sweet dance with death—a many splendored thing. How else can one describe being alone on the operating table? Aware of the sharps and the clang of metal medical equipment that will be used on me, there is no escape. I welcome fear with a hug I reserve only for intimates. I anticipate the care I will receive from relatives. I bask in their love. With friends, I will celebrate each day with the joy of knowing that hope is a bridge being built everyday. And with God, I hold up my right hand, two fingers forming a V: Peace! But the best thing about being treated for cancer is the blessing that there, in the interruption of normal life, one is forewarned. Most of all, having received a notice of possible eviction, having cancer gives one the chance to write the dying scene.
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