Where Life Meets Death, Learning to Carry Life’s Weight with Compassion

My name is Tan Kwee Yen, though most friends call me Karen. For the past 23 years, I have been a Family Care Consultant — walking with families through the most tender and difficult moments of saying goodbye.

People often imagine many things about this profession. Yet at its core, what we do is simple: with compassion and professionalism, we help the departed and their grieving families complete a dignified and heartfelt farewell.

Life has no take two. Just as we welcome a new life with love, shouldn’t a farewell, too, be held with gentleness?

Some believe that those of us who see death every day must have grown indifferent, that we no longer fear or grieve. In truth, it is both—and neither.

An ordinary person may only experience the loss of a loved one four or five times in their lifetime. But for me, death arrives every single day. I have heard the sound of too many cries, and I have witnessed the many ways a life can come to an end—through accident, illness, despair, or regret. Each departure carries a story that breaks in its own way.

And so, rather than fearless, I find myself afraid. Not because I know too little of death, but because I know it too well. I know how fragile and uncertain life can be, how suddenly it can be interrupted. And when I look at my young child, I know—my journey is not yet meant to end.

At 42, I Was Diagnosed with Nasopharyngeal Cancer

One morning in 2022, as I was washing up in the bathroom like any other day, I suddenly spat out a mouthful of blood. It was a lot—bright and fresh.

I immediately told my husband, then made an appointment with an ENT specialist. At the hospital, the doctor inserted a scope into my nose and said he had found something that didn’t look good.

The moment I was confirmed to have nasopharyngeal cancer, my mind went completely blank. Forcing myself to calm down, I asked the doctor: What do I need to do?

The doctor explained the upcoming treatment process and precautions very professionally. As I listened, I realized every word he said was something I had already heard countless times from grieving families in my line of work. None of this was unfamiliar to me.

That was when I knew — receiving proper treatment was the only choice I had.

The blessing in disguise was that my cancer was caught early, somewhere between Stage I and II. I let out a huge sigh of relief. All the worries I had gathered from searching online instantly melted away.

In that moment, I felt grateful for my profession. I spend my days walking alongside different families, hearing them say over and over again, “If only it had been discovered earlier”. So whenever I notice even the slightest sign in my own body, any discomfort at all, I seek medical help immediately.

This time, the treatment plan required 35 sessions of radiotherapy and 7 rounds of chemotherapy, lasting a total of 7 weeks. Before starting, the doctor repeatedly reminded me of the potential side effects, the difficult symptoms, and the fact that if I gave up halfway, the cancer cells would return with even greater force.

Many people believe cancer is a kind of retribution. I’ve also heard patients complain: I didn’t do anything wrong — why me?

I once discussed this with my husband. He thought I was slipping into negative thoughts and was ready to comfort me, but I shook my head and told him:

” Why not me? If it isn’t me, would I wish it on someone else instead ? “

So many people, when illness strikes, ask Why me?—as if life owes us fairness.

But must every hardship always fall on someone else? Since it has come to me, I choose to face it with as much grace and clarity as I can. Perhaps this is the lesson life has given me to learn.

Is cancer something to be ashamed of?

I threw myself into the long treatment journey, almost like going back to school—reporting to the hospital every Monday to Friday without fail. Chemotherapy was anything but easy, yet I never revealed my struggles in front of my sons.

By the thirtieth session of radiotherapy, both my body and mind began to collapse. Everything the doctor had warned me about started happening—my neck developed ulcers, I could no longer swallow any food, even drinking water felt like swallowing shards of glass. My husband blended all my meals into liquid, and I forced myself to swallow them, terrified that if I grew too weak, the doctor might halt the treatment and all my efforts would be wasted.

When I finally completed the thirty-fifth session, I happily took a photo with the machine that had accompanied me for weeks, and thanked all the medical staff.

Back home, the pain inside my body became unbearable. To keep my children from seeing me suffer, I checked myself back into the hospital, where I was given morphine for relief.

Through cycles of pain and perseverance, I managed to defeat the cancer cells in my body and eventually returned to work.

Since resuming work, I often share my cancer journey with those around me, always reminding them to see a doctor at the first sign of illness. But over time, I noticed something troubling: when others around me were diagnosed with cancer, they chose to hide it, quietly disappearing from our daily lives.

I never quite understood why.
They couldn’t understand why I could speak about my experience so openly either.

But I often wonder: Is having cancer really so shameful?
When we fall ill, don’t we need understanding and companionship even more? Why must we hide ourselves away?

Before cancer, I considered myself hot-tempered, constantly living under pressure to do my work well.

This near-death journey taught me to let go, to trust my team, and to respect the choices of loved ones. For cancer patients, being constantly urged to prepare for death only brings resistance—after all, no one fighting cancer wants to imagine themselves failing and leaving too soon.

How much impact does illness have on family?

During my nasopharyngeal cancer treatment, I never wanted to show my children how much I was suffering. Each time I came home from treatment, I would smile at my two sons and say, “Mommy is fine.” Even after I beat cancer, though the scars and side effects remained, I didn’t want them to worry.

One day, my twelve-year-old son suddenly asked me, “Mommy, are you really cured?”
I then learned that his classmate’s mother had passed away after losing her battle with cancer, and the father abandoned the child, leaving him an orphan. Curious, I asked my son what kind of cancer the mother had.

But he suddenly cut me off:
“Mommy, don’t say it anymore. I don’t want to hear the words ‘Mommy has cancer’ ever again.”
His eyes turned red instantly.

At that moment, I fell silent.
I hugged him, reassuring him again and again that I was fine. He kept looking at me, needing to confirm it over and over. Only then did I realize the depth of the impact my illness had left on him.

Later, I gently told my son that one day I, too, would leave. But he resisted, and pleaded, “Mommy, not so soon. Can you only go when you’re old?”

I held back my tears, not letting them fall. But deep down, I knew—if one day I were lying on a hospital bed, looking at my defenseless children, what would they do? I wasn’t afraid of the pain of illness, but I was terrified of the fear I saw in my child’s eyes.

Whenever I saw the obituary of a woman close to my age, I couldn’t help but look for the cause of death. If she left behind young children, a wave of unspeakable sorrow would rise in me. As a mother, I couldn’t stop myself from imagining: If it were me, what would happen to my children?

Through all these years, I’ve avoided taking on cases involving the death of children — not because I lack ability, but because such scenes would too easily tear open the softest part of me as a mother. That pain, I know I cannot hold, and I fear breaking down in my professional role.

I’ve been in this profession for over twenty years. Some say I’m lucky, never once receiving a complaint. But to me, true “luck” is not about having zero complaints—it’s about never becoming numb, never letting professionalism overshadow my humanity.

The essence of being a Family Care Consultant is not just about precision in rituals and procedures. It’s about whether we still have the capacity to pause, to truly see a family’s pain, to hear the regrets they cannot voice. Most of the time, families don’t need a solution. They need someone who will simply listen, who will quietly stand with them.

Over the years, I have witnessed countless farewells — people piecing together memories through tears, even the most stubborn hearts learning to let go at last. Each time, I remind myself: never let “experience” dull my compassion. True professionalism means a greater ability to empathize, to hold, and even, to give.

As a mother, I have come to understand the weight of loss.
As a Family Care Consultant, I choose to walk with every family, and help them hand over unbearable pain — slowly, gently — to time.

(Editor’s note: This article is based on the author’s oral sharing, written by The Interview’s reporter.)

This Original article first appeared in《 The Interview 》. [ Click Here ]