Kebabs Aren't Cancer

 What he called normal was already not.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t soften it.
Just looked at the scan and said,
“It’s late-stage.”

That was the whole thing.

I think there was a chart in his hand.
Or maybe he was wiping his glasses.
Either way, I remember not looking.
Not asking.
Just thinking about the drive home —
and how I hadn’t eaten yet.

They’d found a tumour the size of a fist.
I didn’t ask whose fist.

They said it probably started years ago.
That it had been growing quietly,
patiently —
while I was sucking back teh tarik with dinner,
ignoring the blood in my stool,
joking about it like it was sambal that bit back.

Truth is, I knew something was wrong.
For years.

Not in a dramatic way.
No pain that made me fall to the floor.

Just... patterns.
Bloating that hung around longer.
A gut that went from sensitive to outright pissed off.
Once, I didn’t crap for six days.
Six.
Looked pregnant.
Then passed black.

My doctor said maybe I was “sensitive to spice.”
I said I’d been eating cili padi since I had baby teeth.

They laughed. I laughed.
We all moved on.

I kept eating like my body was a bin.
Maggi goreng at midnight.
Roti bom twice a week.
No water. Just soda.
A smoke after.
Sometimes two.

I thought it was normal.
Or stress.
Or my body just being weird.

What I didn’t think —
was that normal could rot.

It got worse.
Stopped dating.
Stopped sleeping properly.
Stopped going anywhere I didn’t know the toilet layout.
Kept mints in my pocket like a talisman.
Switched to black underwear so I wouldn’t get caught out.

Life shrank.
Quietly.
Pathetically.

And I let it.
Because I didn’t want to know.
Didn’t want them poking around.
Didn’t want them telling me I’d done this to myself.

They sent me for a colonoscopy after I passed out at work.
I’d ignored the referral three times before that.
Still have them in a drawer somewhere —
folded next to an old birthday card.

The cancer had already spread.

My mum died the week they gave me the results.
She’d had a mass in her breast for god knows how long.
Never told anyone.
Said it was just a “cyst.”
Didn’t want to cause trouble.

We were the same that way.

Now I sit here, hooked to a bag.
Counting out pills for the week like they’re Skittles.
Eating flavourless porridge.
Sipping warm barley from a cracked plastic mug.

A life so small I could sweep it into a dustpan.

You want a moral?

Here it is.

Kebabs aren’t cancer.
But pretending they don’t matter might be.

–––

These stories aren’t rare.
They’re just rarely told early enough.
Most decline begins in silence —
a skipped check-up, a cough you dismiss, a breath you pretend is fine.

He didn’t need saving.
Just a warning sooner.

––– Pause Here –––

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
Most illness doesn’t start with a bang.
It starts when silence becomes habit.

Lingzhi isn’t a miracle.
It’s a habit.
A quiet, daily way to care for the body —
before silence becomes suffering.

Lingzhi is a traditional food taken to support general well-being. It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease. For personalised advice, please consult a qualified healthcare practitioner.

#SubHealthStories #HealthIsAHabit #HappyHealthyLingzhi