For my tuahine: a love letter to my sister, whānau and Tokyo

The word cancer is a frightening one, and you, my 12-year-old sister, had it. Your shitty vision was the result of a cancerous brain tumour forming on the pituitary gland, right by your eyes.

Mum and Dad have always held an ‘Ah, oh well!’ attitude towards all things in life. This classic, nonchalant Kiwi approach somehow made sense – until it didn’t. I don’t think anything can prepare you for your child having cancer. That kind of thing happens to unlucky people, the kind you might consider when dropping loose change into a bucket outside of a supermarket.

We were propelled into a sob-story movie in real time. Hospital visits. Doctor appointments. Surgery. Chemotherapy. Do you remember those awkward support-group sessions we would go to together? Where we would sit in the corner with each other, both so timid and shy, feeling like characters in a film we never auditioned for? 

Those memories play out in my mind sometimes: moments like opening Dad’s iPad one morning to find a Wikihow article titled ‘How To Deliver Hard News To Family Members: 11 Steps (With Pictures)’ (classic Dad). Then when your luscious chocolate locks began to thin, I would catch glimpses of your scalp through what remained. Your hair had a life of its own, scattering itself in every nook and cranny of our home. Mum would clean it up, only for it to reappear the next day.

We all gathered around in the backyard that one afternoon and shaved what remained of your hair. Dad had a haircut while he was at it. 

I remember Mum and I searching online for funky hats and bandanas, anything to get you excited about your brand new look. I would show you photos of pretty girls with bold buzzcuts. It was our intentional effort to reintroduce a sense of femininity into the life of a 12-year-old girl navigating the uncharted territory of illness.

“What about this purple cap Jorja, should I grab it for you? Or would you prefer a different colour?” Mum asked.

You would grin and nod at our numerous hat suggestions.

In the midst of adversity, we all discovered that “Ah, oh well!” isn’t a magic spell that makes everything okay. It was a shield we’d wear until life threw us a curveball that required more than just a shrug.

I am 21 now; you are 19. You got through your cancer; you are okay. The aftermath still lingers though: you live with constant health issues that will remain for the rest of your life.

You and I have moved away to different cities for university. I know your past has you riddled with anxiety. How hard it must be to go through something like that then get propelled back to an ordinary life as if nothing had happened. Struggling with connections, struggling to be understood. How exhausting must it be having to explain to everyone why you are the way you are. 

I have attended a handful of 21st birthday celebrations the past year, and many of those friends have siblings with the same age gap as you and I. 

I hate it when they do speeches. I hate it when their younger siblings speak in front of everyone and reveal tales of stealing their parents’ vodka together, or throwing ragers when their folks were out of town.

I can’t help but feel like we were robbed of those shared rites of passage into womanhood. Much of that time is stained with tinges of sadness, hospital visits and bland hospital cafe lunches: those pies and blue Powerades that you couldn’t stand even years after your treatment.

I also think of the unspoken dissonance between us. 

I didn’t have speeches at my 21st birthday. Instead, I travelled to Tokyo for a month on my own – the world’s most populous city – to take part in a writing workshop.

Between the towering infrastructure and sea of people, I was just a speck. It was a feeling I came to embrace; Tokyo’s energy wrapped around me like a warm hug I didn’t know I needed. 

You would love it there Jorja. I can imagine you lighting up at the sight of the 12-storey stationary shops and the adorable paraphernalia scattered wherever you look.

Over the course of my month in Japan, I had at least two boys ask me to go to a love hotel with them: one an annoying guy from Melbourne, the other a very beautiful but racist Italian who has never worked a day in his life. He told me he adored monkeys as a child, so his father took him all the way to Rwanda to see them in the wild. Don’t worry – I declined them both. 

I also consumed at least three packets of cheap konbini cigarettes (don’t tell Dad!) to replace my crippling vaping addiction that you love to tease me for. And on my 21st birthday, my new friends and I booked a karaoke room and accidentally ordered 90 tequila shots. The night ended with a $1300 bill and one of us plummeting down the stairs of Shinjuku station. Though she had a slight concussion, she was okay.

In between various peculiar encounters, my time in Japan was nothing short of precious. My days were woven with journalism and Japanese classes, while nights found me nestled in my guesthouse indulging in konbini treats with my friends – writing stories while our conversations flowed late into the evening. In the in-between moments, we wandered the city and visited jazz bars, izakayas, parks and art museums.

On one of my last evenings here, Mum sent me a message: a photograph of my 21st gift from our uncle. It was a Maori carving in the gift of a key – a 21st tradition in our family.

The carving shows a fishhook, representing abundance. A whale tail, representing family (whānau). The design on the back of the carving shows four pillars, also known as Te Whare Tapa Whā. They represent wellbeing: mental wellbeing (taha hinengaro), spiritual wellbeing (taha wairua), physical wellbeing (taha tinana) and the centre of one’s wellbeing (tana whānau).

I pondered on each pillar of my life greatly. It felt a little bit like a full-circle moment: a convergence of my past and present. I have always grappled with longing for a simpler path – a life where our taha tinana and taha hinengaro remain strong and steady. A life of health and happiness and normalcy that never wavers. 

On my last day in Japan, I packed my bags and bade farewell to the family we had lived with for the month: Nana, Yuta and their vivacious, adorable four-year-old daughter Anna. After coming home from long days of writing and language classes, I would spend my evenings playing games with Anna and reading her Japanese books I could not understand.