Our Barcelona holiday

So we set off for another year-end vacation. Barcelona, over Christmas and returning on eve of New Year day. It is the first time in recent years that we could nail down a common time when everyone in the family are free to go together.

When the kids were still schooling it was easy enough to plan for holidays. The year-end school vacations presented the best opportunity for all to go. Holidays together were great for family bonding 24/7. But now, with my elder boy on tight work schedules, and the other two in college, we have not had much luck in packing the entire flock to fit our holiday plans.  Jenny was never too excited about travelling without at least one or two kids in tow. A good experience should be shared. That was her unyielding mantra since children crashed into our lives. And her heart was always with the children.  With only tiny fragments left for me, I knew where I stood in the line. And I am fine with that.

But for this December festive season, viola - I could get all three available. For Spain and Barcelona, a tantalising visit beckoning.  But sadly, the travelling band is not complete. A vital piece missing, now that Jenny has left us.

The flight on Emirates airways went smoothly enough. We had a pick-up arranged for us to bring us to the Airbnb apartment we had booked some weeks ago.  Which was nice given that we were all worn out from the long flight. Staying in an Airbnb apartment would be a first for us.  It was much like the typical self-catering apartment but slightly cheaper.

So how did the vacation go? Free and easy as always. We never believed in trying to cover too much ground. Well, if you still care to read on, here is our travel journal in brief…

The Sagrada Familia

 Day 1 – Bought two-day train passes for everyone that allow us unlimited train and bus trips in the city.  First stop was the Sagrada Familia, a Gothic church building that appears to be perpetually under construction with the famous Catalan architect, Antonio Gaudi adding his unique touches. The outer church façade is impressive indeed, but marred by the looming presence of 3 tall cranes, fingering the sky along with the many church spires. 

We opted to save on the tickets. Having visited countless cathedrals across Europe, many far grander than this one so we were doubtful if was worth spending money on admission. This would also be the first church we have encountered that charges admission fees. Could Spain be in such need for revenue generation?

We spent the rest of the day strolling around the city centre and at the waterfront area. The city have great vibes but enough of street beggars to tell a different story.



Parc Guell
 

Day 2 – Visited Parc Guell, another of Gaudi’s grand if not somewhat gaudy creation. Located high on a hill-top, getting there would have been a vigorous climb but mercifully, much of the ascent was aided by escalators. Someone painted a “Tourist go home” sign on one of the escalator steps to remind us we are not so welcomed. An unhappy resident probably, who got tired of the unending stream of tourist intruding their privacy perhaps. But I'm pretty sure even they would find the escalators useful. And would these mechanical fixtures have even been installed if the park was not such as a popular attraction for visitors all over the world?

Afternoon was spent strolling through the Gothic quarters, the oldest part of Barcelona. Totally enjoyed the walk through the many narrow cobbled alleys and plazas. Almost transported back to medieval times. Visited the Barcelona history museum and walked through the remains of a sprawling archaeological site built since Roman times, more than 2000 years ago. A very impressive curative display of Spanish history.

Had a delicious Christmas eve dinner at a somewhat swanky restaurant downtown. Their juicy ribbed veal, tapas and seafood paella are worth dying for.

Day 3  - Christmas day.  We checked out to make our way westwards to Zaragoza, a city about 300 km away. Rented a car at the Sants Estacio or train station. Turned out to be a vexing 3 hour wait before the car arrived. Got totally flustered. Zaragoza, 300 km away would be a 3 hour drive.  Turned out to be longer, due to heavy fog and it was dark by the time we arrived. Again we stayed at an airbnb apartment, but this one was really a private residence. Tried hunting for a restaurant that can serve a decent meal befitting of a Christmas day dinner but all the restaurants nearby were closed. Managed to grab some hot food served at a small cafe. Simple dinner but were thankful that we got our fill at least.

Day 4 – Strolled over to the Aljaferia palace, a fortified Islamic medieval palace built in the 11^th century, one of the major attractions at Zaragoza. From there, we walked to the city centre along the river Ebro. Chanced upon an Irish pub which shows live screenings of English premier leagues football. Watched the Stoke vs Man United game (Stoke won!) and later the big match between Liverpool and Leicester City (Reds won!). By the time the matches ended at 6.30pm, the city centre was crowded with people – Zaragozans mostly and a few aliens like us, all congregating in Christmas celebratory mood.  Tried searching for a restaurant that can serve us a good meal but they all appeared to close early.  Food-wise, Zaragoza was a major let-down.  Fortunately my boy’s culinary skills spared us from starvation.  We picked up essential foodstuff from a nearby super-market and back to the apartment, in no time we were tucking into delicious chicken stew. A gastronomic delight that would have made Mum so proud too!

Zaragoza city centre was full of people

Day 5 – Checked out early and prepared for the long drive back to Barcelona.  Approaching the city, we detoured and drove up the monastery located high above the Montserrat mountain with its very unique rock formations.  The panoramic view of the city from atop the monastery was simply breath-taking.

Checked into our 3^rd apartment we rented via Booking.com. Supposedly a 3 bedroom apartment about 8 km from Barca City centre but we struggled to locate it.  The address given was wrong and without internet access we could not access the contact number. As it was getting late we drove back to the city for dinner. Thankfully most Spanish restaurants understand the value of free wifi. We finally located the apartment and settled in.

Day 6 – We set off in the morning for a ½ hour drive to the sea-side town of Sitges, known for its picturesque and pristine beaches and many sea-front restaurants. The late morning sun, shimmering like jewels on the Mediterranean sea provided a stunning backdrop for lots of photo-taking. We had seafood lunch at one of the myriad of seafront restaurants.

Drove back to Barcelona city centre and had a simple tacos dinner at the Gothic quarters.

Day 7 – Our last full day in Spain.  Drove to the town of Figueres to visit the Salvador Dali Museum to satiate the artsy cravings of my daughter C. The 1 ½ hour drive was followed by a more than 1 hour of queuing for tickets. I suspect that the long queue time was a deliberate scheme to mitigate overcrowding of the museum building. Inside, we were consumed by Dali’s surrealistic and mystical art-form. It was a unique journey into art leaving us both dazed and inspired.

Back to Barca, we spent the remaining time strolling through the city.

Jenny would have been absolutely thrilled if she was with us for this trip. A self-drive holiday, sight-seeing in exquisite historic towns, walking through the cobbled streets, looking through the many shops with their quaint and colourful souvenirs on offer. Sampling the delicious local food-fare. It would be the perfect holiday for her.

So everywhere I go, I could not shake off the fact that she is missing from our travelling troupe. I pictured her in our midst. She would be wearing her black trench coat, in her skinny blue jeans or black slacks, carrying her bright red knapsack behind her that she uses only for her travels. Such exotic trips without her sometimes put me into a sullen mood, detached from the many attractions and sights. But no regrets on making the trip. The bonding experience with my three kids was priceless. Jenny would give a thumbs up too.

Packing up for vacation

Where is my dark blue woollen sweater, that fuzzy warm and cosy one that I have worn for so many year-end winter holidays?

I ruffled through wardrobes, cabinets and old luggage bags that we used to store away much of the bulky winter wear acquired over the years.  I could retrieve all sorts of woolly jackets, overcoats and fluffy apparel, some new and not-so-new ones. But not a trace of my favourite woollen sweater.

If Jenny had applied some kind of schema on how all these stuff are stored up, it remains an unsolved mystery. But for each family vacation, a year-end ritual since our kids were all old enough to travel with us, she had always taken full charge of the luggage and packing.

“Just let me have the clothes you want to wear and don’t touch anything else”, she commanded with no-nonsense authority. Good sense told me not to interfere.  A woman and her half-packed luggage were not to be messed around with. She always pack early, at least a good two weeks ahead of the vacation, sometimes even earlier.  And she has refined the process to an art-form, bringing along every item she could conceive a need for.  All the while keeping within the luggage weight limits.

So where would our travels bring us to this year?

A 9-day vacation to colourful Barcelona. Catalonian country. Spain in the winter and in Christmas. A dream holiday for us. And one that Jenny and I had been putting off for some years in the past, thinking that we could always go the following year. We were stalling on this destination because we could not pin down a date that all five in the family would be available. So we took off for less exciting destinations, since not all could go. Thinking that there will be other years that we could still make it happen. After all Spain will always be there, awaiting our conquest.  

But of course we have no inkling, not a clue that for Jenny the years would run out, so soon.

So I find it hard to approach an otherwise exciting holiday in a far-flung country with the same kind of enthusiasm as I had in the past. Even for Spain.  This colourful country, famed for its flamenco, magnificent tacos, beautiful women in ruffly dresses and angry bullfights. Alright, forget the bullfights. It is a cruel sport and a major turn-off for animal-lovers like us and thankfully most parts of Spain have outlawed this hapless tradition they once called sport. 

Spain would have been the epitome of an exciting country to visit. When Jenny was by my side.  Each time we plan our holiday, booking our hotel apartment or browsing the net, sussing out attractions and interesting places to visit. Our family vacations were mini-projects to be worked on together. But some tasks are better done divided. Like the packing and the booking of flights and accommodation which she duly took care off. Come to think of it, I did very little for these “mini-projects”. Aside from handing over my credit card.

So why did I even bother to go this time? Well I tossed the idea to the kids. Spain got their engines rumbling and once they confirmed their availability I bit the bullet and forced the airline booking. Payment made, there would be no turning back. No wishy-washy indecisiveness that could creep in when the real hassle of preparing for the long haul trip kicks in. Like having to pack.

Common sense tells me I should still travel as long as health permits.  Jenny loved travelling. And she was the source of my infection, the day I got smitten by the travel-bug.  Jenny would feel let-down if I deprived myself and the kids of travelling because she is not with us.  This much I am sure of her.

True, the family is now so incomplete. A vital piece is missing. And it is hard to muster and whip up the same enthusiasm and excitement as felt in the past, whenever the date for our impending vacation approaches. Perhaps we had taken one trip too many. Perhaps the kids have grown also. Robbing them of their childish fervour. Sad but entirely inevitable.

But mostly that dour pre-trip feeling that gnawed away my enthusiasm is plainly because she is missing. And she will be missed more so during our travels. Spain will come with some pain. I will just have to brace myself for it.  

Never mind the woollen sweater. It’s an early morning flight tomorrow and I am done with the packing.

Adios, amigo.

About moving on...

Do I want to move on? The simple and honest answer is no.

If moving on means leaving her to drift away, banished to the nether reaches and deepest recesses of my memory, so I can start anew. Because I do not want to start anew.

Just a few days ago, as I was browsing my Facebook account, I came across a link shared by my boy W.  A response to a person grieving.  My son must have been thinking of me.  Or was he also similarly gripped in grief? But what caught my eye was the statement that the response is the “best Internet comment of all time.” A bold claim indeed. Might be worth a read.

http://magazine.good.is/articles/best-comment-ever

That grief hits in waves is true.  Very large ones at first and eventually diminishing. But the scars run deep, as deep as the love I feel for her. I could relate with everything written in that posting. The article offered good advice, beautifully crafted and definitely worth sharing.

I can accept that Jenny has died. In truth, I have no other choice. It is pointless to think otherwise. My mind is not capable of conjuring delusions of any sort, so this is not the time to fool myself. Even as the thought of living in this physical world where she is no longer a physical part of is uncomfortable and unreal.

Hence I am not resisting. But while I can accept the change (her absence now), and what I cannot change (bringing her back), it is too much to expect for me to just get moving on with life. And be back with the normal, as if nothing had happened.

I am not sure how long I will need to grieve. Right now it seems like I will be grieving for the rest of my life. I have read elsewhere that grief is none other than the love we feel for the person we lost. My love for Jenny has not changed with her passing. I will be grieving for a long time then.

And I will hold on to many of her things. 

Jenny’s demise was akin to a mighty ship sinking, as said in the Fb posting shared by my son. And all around me there will be floating debris, remnants of the wreckage. I need to cling on to stay afloat. To hold on to what she has left behind for me. Her photographs, to remember her various postures and expressions.  Her soft pillow and worn out cotton bolster. Now bringing me such comfort each night.  Her clothes that hang patiently in her wardrobe.

Perhaps it is too early.  Way too early. I have to accept that grief is something only that old cliché time can heal. But I am doubtful that I can ever re-claim my life and start anew.

So how do I move on, now that Jenny is no longer here to share space and time with me?

Dragging myself home from work, the house is unusually quiet. Soft clanging of utensils from our helper in the kitchen. The kids often spend long days out, at work, studying or hanging out with friends. Some days one or two or if I am lucky, all three are in. We would dine together, sometimes at the table or in front the TV. No fuss meals. They are usually cheerful, quite unlike their father who usually needs cheering up.

I would retire early into my bedroom after dinner.  Or what used to be our private chambers, the master bedroom of the house. I would spend most evenings alternating between my paperback books and browsing through other grief sites on the iPad, now a recurrent habit. Sometimes I strum my guitar. I enjoy watching music videos also or cover versions of my favourite songs to pick up new guitar tricks.

Jenny and I had spent most of our evenings together in this spacious room, where aside from our king-sized bed there is ample space for a sofa set and coffee table. Jenny had spent many relaxing hours couched on this sofa, imbibing an endless diet of Korean dramas, her favourite past-time.

I would be sitting on my side of the bed, staying clear from hers. Respectfully so. I had stashed away her large comforter blanket to spare it from collecting dust. So except for her pillow, her side of the bed looks bare and empty. It mirrors the emptiness I feel inside me.

Occasionally on Friday evenings there are invitations from friends to meet up for dinner or drinks. I could relax and even enjoy my time with them. Sometimes we chill out at pubs, where the music is loud and heavy. I could get all wrapped up in the music alone, being a music-lover at heart. But always each meeting would end with the same hollow feeling.  I remind myself to limit such bouts of carefree fun and laughter. It seems improper. It means I am not adequately mourning or thinking of her. The vibes are out of phase.

So most of my evenings are times spent by myself. These are times I look forward to and try to have more of.  By myself within the silence and sanctuary of my room I never really feel alone. In fact I feel her presence stronger than ever as every item in our room resonates with her.

So that’s how I move on.
 

My love for cats

I have a confession to make. I am a crazy cat fanatic. It is inevitable, as night turning to day.

You see, much of my youthful life was defined by these furry creatures - cats and kitties that strayed into the back-yard and got themselves adopted, invading my childhood life. I remember surreptitiously sharing my allotment of food with them, earning the chagrin of parents who felt that pets are beyond our luxury.

Our current house pet is a single male cat. We plucked him from the streets, to spare him from what would have been a miserable life. A life of scrounging and sniffing out scraps at food centres, like the lot of so many stray cats.  Our young nation ranks high on affluence to compare with some of the richest cities in the world, but for the average cat, it is usually a life of poverty. Back-alley third world low life. Most people in our country live in government housing and the existing housing rules forbid cat ownership, making ours the most cat-unfriendly country in the world. 

So for Mickki to be rescued from the streets, it was like a cat striking lottery. He has been an affective part of our family for the last 15 years.  We showered him with love and a measured dispensation of discipline, usually to his utter displeasure. But that single act of cruelty we inflicted on him still haunts me to this day. We  neutered him at a tender age. Mickki was defecating all over the neighbours’ lawns and I was fast turning into public enemy number one in my neighbourhood. The vet advised us that his aggressive tendency to mark territory by defecating needed to be culled. And castration was the solution. It deprived the poor animal of the joy of sex. To this day Mickki’s virgin status against his will, still makes me feel guilty to the core.

My daughter C calls me “the crazy cat-man” each time I share pictures of street-cats I capture on my hand-phone. But it is odd for her to say that. For someone who spends an inordinate amount of time ogling and giggling at cat videos on the Youtube as if the Internet 's sole purpose is for broadcasting cat videos.  And who, amongst her other two siblings had inherited the lion’s share of my cat-loving genes.

Jenny on the other hand had little affinity for animals, aside from watching wildlife documentaries on Discovery and Nat Geo channels. A rare fault if I could highlight any.

“I am neutral, neither love nor hate them”, she would nonchalantly declare. I would be embarrassed if I were her.

But thanks to my daughter’s love for cats, Jenny was more tolerant of having a cat in the house than I could ever hope if I was the sole animal-lover in the family. We have to put up with scratches adorning our leather sofa, clumps of fur stuck on the carpet and the fragrance of pungent cat poo in our garden. She grumbled and complained of course but we knew that in the end she would always find space in her heart for the animal too. Because of her love of two other cat-crazy members in her flock.

The more playful feline, perched on a tree and posing for a shot

This week I discovered a couple of fine looking felines just outside my work-place that brought some cheer to my work-week.

How does a homeless community cat get this fat?

On Monday morning this week, I decided to walk from my campus to the nearby coffee-shop for the first time. Along the way I chanced upon two of the finest looking cats I have ever seen. One was overly shy and maintained a guarded distance but the other, a grey-striped tabby was playful and friendly, in need of stroking and physical contact. This feline discovery gave me impetus to establish a new morning routine for my morning cuppa. Taking the same path, they were there again as if waiting for me to come by to greet them.

My two new-found feline friends helped brighten up my days this week. But come Friday evening, a cat discovery of another sort, completely swung the mood.

I came back home to find our Mickki half sitting and lying with its scrawny frame propped against the edge of the garden lawn, its body bent at an awkward angle. It gave a mournful meow and looked at me with tired forlorn eyes. Something was very wrong. I immediately hollered for my daughter C, Mickki’s main care-taker and soul-mate. Indeed this ancient pet of ours is unwell. For some reason it has lost control of its two hind legs and appeared to be in some discomfort and pain. There was no sign of any external injury on its matted coat of fur to suggest what might cause its misery.

Our raggedy ancient cat under treatment by the vet. He is not happy anymore.

My daughter, sick cat care-taker. He is not eating much, sad to say.

We rushed him to the vet.  Pain-killers and some other medicine was administered and because he was so old the vet did not recommend further tests. There could be a lesion or some injury at his spinal cord. 

Back home, he now lies on a pile of soft towels at a corner of our living room, immobile and helpless. He has to be propped up to lap on his water tray and slowly fed with a spoon, eating little as his appetite has all but deserted him.

We fear that he may be living out his last few remaining days.  And the animal appears to be aware that his internal clock is counting down and ticking away. We gently stroke him and massage his shoulder bones. His expression changes little. That blank and faraway look in his eyes.

Do I not know that look well enough?

Jenny wore a blank look too during her last days. Speaking little also. But we know it was hard for her to talk. It would be too draining on her energy. She was sustained intravenously by a liquid menu of vitamins and parenteral mix for some weeks already. There was also a thick plastic tube inserted thru her nostril down her gullet to drain out the gastric fluids. It near disabled her vocal functions. So in her silence, she often wore that faraway look.  In her eyes I could see that she was all too aware. Knowing that for her the end was coming. The clock was ticking away.

Sigh. It is hard for my thoughts not to gravitate back to Jenny. In her last days. As if all our life together was defined and condensed over those days within the hospital walls.

But back to Mickki. We love this cat, so his eventual passing would bring about some sadness. But probably more to my daughter than to me. Cat crazy I might be, but I am not so emotionally vulnerable for an animal.  He was blessed to have found a home, luckier than the average cat that walked this island. A country of mostly unhappy cats.  And he had enjoyed a long and healthy life, well-fed and well-loved by its owners.

Mickki, we all die one day and you will also be mourned. You lucky cat.

Lessons in death and dying, a special gift

How different the world has become. This world where Jenny walk no more.

Is it the loss of someone so close? It did feel like a part of me had died.  Or like the loss of a limb,   as CS Lewis has once described? That well known and inspirational author of so many books had once associated the loss of his wife to cancer to that of having an arm amputated. I hesitate to agree with such a comparison. Both are sad and hard to bear. But how would he know? Has he actually experienced living with an arm amputated? Or even the loss of a finger or some other appendage? Try telling that to the once abled person who now sits on a wheelchair because of his amputated legs.

But my world has been transformed, nevertheless. And permanently so.

Is it the memory of being there to watch her die? Even as it was an expected outcome. Even as we were in search and praying for a miracle to come and help fight off the disease. A miracle that, quietly our rational minds knew would not happen.

I will be haunted by the memories for the rest of my life. As long as I remain sound of my mind and my memory intact.  I will remember.

Witnessing that extraordinary alteration of a living thing becoming an inanimate object, feeling the warmth in her hand turning cold and stiffening as I held it for the last time. And the moment when her embattled lungs decided not to inhale anymore. That single moment would be an experience to last a life-time.

The resonance of death would ring and echo all around me for the rest of days.

Not that death is new to me. I had attended countless funerals, mostly of aged parents of friends and colleagues. Many years ago, I had kept watch of a college friend suffering from severe brain haemorrhage, eventually losing his life. In more recent years, a few close colleagues and relatives had fallen sick and died. My father at the age of 86, succumbed to pneumonia only a few years ago. Death will visit us frequently enough to remind us of our mortality. And the finitude and fragility of our physical selves.

But with Jenny’s passing on, I would now understand death like never before. The real lesson of gone forever has been finally delivered.

Even as this new-found existence still feels strange. It has been more than 7 months. But I still struggle on how to really deal with the idea of her absence. Her infinite absence.

30 years ago, on the church altar, we exchanged vows. “Till death do us part”.  But until she got stricken by this terrible disease we could only guess who would be the first to die. Who would know? It is not in our hands, unless we are suicidal. But in the unlikely situation of both of us being killed in an accident or some catastrophic disaster, we knew that one fateful date, one of us may have to witness and bear the pain of watching the other die. And be left widowed or widowered.

I had sometimes jested with her that with my stressful job and feebler state of health, I would most likely be the first to go. I talked about building my bucket list. Things I need to do before I die. As if the bucket was mine to be kicked first and sooner. 

“So you are so sure you will die first? And leave me all alone? You are really mean.”

The thought of being a lonely and a not-so-old widow must have displeased her. She shot a disdainful glance at me and my morbid suggestions before turning away.  Unlike me, Jenny was never comfortable about casual talk about death and mortality. Especially if it involves either of us.  Perhaps in keeping mum on the subject she understood death better than me. I would need a real lesson like watching her die to understand the terrible pain of death and the impending loss.

I sometimes wonder if Jenny’s passing on has spared her of the pain of watching me die instead. How would she have coped with life without me? It would not be any easier. In outliving her, was I the luckier one? Or the less fortunate?

I sometimes wonder too if Jenny’s passing on has offered me this one important lesson, much as it was not one I would have asked for. But one which I might have needed more than she would.  The lesson in death. Of dying with dignity and grace.

I may have made light of the idea of dying in the past. We all have either laughed or made jokes about death and dying. But going through or witnessing this inevitable process is an entirely different matter. Has Jenny offered me the gift of learning of death so I will be better prepared when my own expiry date draws near?

Being so near to her, feeling the last traces of her life-force trickling out of her, I was offered front-row experience to witness this extraordinary transformation. When she turned from living to non-living, physical to meta-physical. In so doing, I had tasted death.

Not just for me. The rest of my kids were there too. As if in her dying and semi-conscious state she knew and had bided her time until we were all together, united by her bed-side.  We were blessed to be there, together as a family. As we should be.  She could only leave us once and the moment would be forever missed if we were not there on that fateful morning. 

She has shown us how to die. Gracefully and in dignity. Something I can never be sure I am capable of.  

It is a special gift from her, my dearest beloved wife. I like to think so.

 

 

 

Inspiration from my brave wife

Sunday morning. Woke up too early again and shortly after the usual breakfast, the body reminded me of my debt of unrequited sleep. It would be one of those unproductive Sundays again. Nothing much done before we make our way out to Mass at around noon. 

Feeling listless and limp, I slumped lethargically onto my favourite sofa. It is a 2-seater black leather seat in my bedroom where I once shared with Jenny. It was her favourite seat also. She spent many relaxing hours reclining snugly on it, indulging in Korean TV dramas or playing video games on her iPad.

I picked up the iPad and randomly browsed through some past links. Her Facebook account is still active. One can be sceptical about the idea of eternal life, but in these days and age, as far as Facebook presence is concerned we can practically live forever. Immortality in cyberspace. 

Her sister had posted pictures of her niche taken at various remembrance ceremonies – her birthday in June, the first 100 days and more recently on All Soul’s Day. Going back further, there was the shared posting where I first announced her tragic passing on, the day after she died. I had also posted a link to the eulogy I had delivered during her funeral.

It was the hardest speech I have ever made, as shared in my posting.

Reading the eulogy again, tears welled up in my eyes. I noted again one of the lines I had written in conclusion.

"She will forever be alive in my heart and her courage and fortitude that shone so strongly during the months of fighting cancer will guide me and help me to stay strong and deal with the loneliness.”

I suppose writing that eulogy then, it was not hard to crystalize the new reality that was panning out before me. 

I could already gaze into the dismal bleakness that would underscore this next chapter of my remaining life. Long days of loneliness. Days of yearning of happier times gone by and a previous life shared with her.  Things I should have done or should not have done and so on.

And at that point, I knew too that I would need to draw inspiration from my beloved wife who showed so much courage and resilience in fighting the dreaded disease. Right till the end. 

Even as the days ahead were clouded with uncertainty. I knew there will be really low points and I may need to dig deep. To find a source of strength to recover from.

Either that or sink and drown in depression. That would be a shame. A let down to my wife.

Because the hardship of dealing with grief is incomparable to the suffering she had to go through. Likewise, my loss is incomparable to hers. And she fought the good fight till the end. Never giving up.  

My brave wife. I count myself so lucky to have her in my life. The hardy Hakka woman who now sits center-stage in my heart. Hope I can make it comfortable for her, as snug and cozy as her once favorite sofa seat.

Our Annual Staff Night

Super-heroes and Villains. That’s the theme for this year’s annual staff dinner and dance that is happening this Friday evening. 

So all the talk around the office for the past week was about what costume to wear. Super-man or Batman? Or should it be Captain America or Spiderman?  Depending on whether you are a Marvel or DC comic fan.  Female colleagues had lesser options. Unless they are daring enough to reveal the Wonder Woman within them.

“I will come as the Invisible Man”, was my reply. Literally so too as I had already decided not to attend. 

I had not taken long to make up my mind on a no-show after the announcement was first emailed to all the staff. I just could not picture myself spending a whole evening of partying and dining in all that razzmatazz. Even amongst colleagues.

My boss and our HR would probably frown at my non-attendance. Such events are meant to be investments on staff morale. And I am expected to be setting an example. So I can expect some stick for being a spoiler.

What would I be missing? An entire evening of fun and laughter with all colleagues, a sumptuous eight course dinner with attractive prizes to win and so on. In all, a jolly good time that is beckoning. The Staff Night is slated to be the staff event of the year, not to be missed.

So colleagues might be puzzled at my decision of not going. But strange enough, when I shared with those who had asked, nobody really asked me why.

A moment of awkward silence. Or a quiet nod of the head. I suppose they remembered.  Jenny’s demise and my bereavement. Still smouldering in a mournful state.

Was it not many months already, since his tragic loss? But still too soon to be ready for unbridled merry-making. What a pity.

So was it pity that I seek by voting not to attend? If that is so, then I should get real.  For a start, nobody would notice my absence. Amid the glitter and many colourful super-heroes and villains showing up, who would be missing one sombre dour character I have known to become? I should be conscious that I am not exactly a fun-guy to have or be around these days.   

Perhaps with time I will learn to relax and enjoy partying again. There is always next year’s Staff Night to prove myself again. If my career could last that long.

Coney Island

I visited the Punggol Waterways and Coney Island over the weekend for my Saturday morning jog. Another solo outing to the Park as usual.

I drove to the Punggol promenade located at the end of the old Punggol Road. It has been many years since I last ventured to this north-eastern tip of the island. Especially since it was announced that our new university will be sited there, I have been wanting to visit. 

I started my jog from the Promenade towards the western end of Coney Island, now connected to the mainland via a short linkway, that is less than 100m long and entered via the west end. This would be the first time I had set foot on this cone shaped island which was recently opened to the public by our Nparks.

Coastal path along the Punggol waterfront

I ran through the main track that connected the western and eastern ends of the island, a 2.2 km route that was flanked both sides by plush forest and shrubs.  But sight-wise it was a relatively dull route. Which might explain the dearth of other joggers.  Most of the park visitors were on bicycles.

I made it to the eastern end and continued jogging through, finally stopping at Lorong Halus. I checked my location on google maps and realised that it would be quite a long walk back to the car.  The sun was blazing down, making me regret on starting my jog so late.

The Punggol water front with Coney Island on the opposite side of the narrow waterway would be one of the most beautiful part of our island, so I discovered.  Why I had not ventured here earlier with Jenny when she was still alive and well would be a mystery. Yet another regret to deposit in my bank of things-I-should-have-done-with-her-but-failed-to-do, I suppose.



One of the bridges over the Punggol waterway. Cyclists were supposed to dismount!

The other side of the pathway that lined the water front was mainly verdant forests. Lush and largely unspoiled greenery on one side and the blue of gentle waves on the other. Nature in near perfect harmony. But not for many years to come. I have seen the plans drawn out for our new university town and the design corridor that spans the entire locality on the left side of my walk back to the Promenade. Picturing all the greenery being displaced by glass and concrete as the park gives way to urbanisation, I felt sad. I wondered how the rest of the park visitors would feel also. Nature versus modernity? If we had a choice. The answer is obvious.

I finally made it back to the car just before noon, totally drained.  The full force of my age was bearing on my ankles and knees. It would make better sense to cover the park and island on bicycle. Live and learn, I guess as we all need to. But this is one beautiful corner of Singapore that Jenny had missed. As she grew older she became less tolerant for long spells under the sun and humidity. But I am pretty sure even she would be impressed by the serenity and beauty of our Punggol water front.

Much of the afternoon was spent recuperating. Evening was football night with live matches on cable TV till early morning. I also managed to compile score sheets of several favourite christmas songs to prepare for our carolling team at work.  Some colleagues are banding together for carolling to spread Christmas cheer in the days leading to Christmas and yours truly would provide the guitar accompaniment. So in between catching all the football action, I tested out the chords and compiled the song sheets.  It felt good to be productive even on couch potato Saturday evenings, even as the first two matches ended badly for the teams I was rooting for. But the final late night match, my favourite team in red did not disappoint. Playing as underdogs they upended their more illustrious opponents with a sweeping victory. A fitting end to a great day.

But again I remind myself that I should never allow my morale to be dictated by the fates and fortune of football, much as I count myself a faithful supporter.  Fanaticism should have its limits. One day the team wins and another they lose. It’s all part of the game.

Jenny would always fret about my emotional vulnerability. “So your team has lost again last night?” My sour looks on Sunday morning revealed it all.  “So silly to behave this way. It’s only a game”. Of course she was right and I should shake off the puerile feeling just because my favourite team had played like headless chickens.

It has been 220 days since Jenny left me. Nowadays, I have gotten used to spending nearly all my weekend on my own, with just a few brief moments to chat with my kids. It is rare to catch them all together unless I could orchestrate a get-together. 

Being alone has its advantages. I have limited capacity for making small talk.  It is scary to spend too much time with any particular individual that might lead to deepening relationships which I am not sure about. Being alone allows me more quiet time to spend with the Jenny who now resides in me. It is communion with her to make up for my loss of having her physically with me. To step back into time and relive our days together. It takes effort to flesh out details of our past life together as with time, memory gets hazy.

So I value the moments of solitude, whether I am holed up within the confines of my bedroom where every item around me speaks of my wife’s presence or gazing into the lush greenery of a cone-shaped island across the Punggol waterway, watching the multitude of cyclists breezing past and wondering if one of them could offer me a lift back to the Promenade to save me from a long walk back.

  

At last, a real dream of Jenny

At long last. After so many months, last night in my sleep Jenny finally appeared in my dreams.

Not just those faint and fleeting cameo-like slumber-land hallucinations that I get now and then but a very real and sustained manifestation. Transported back in time, I was totally embraced by her love. She was so real and so alive.

I was seated in a corner of a room. It was pitch black all around but I sensed the presence of another person close by - a man, but friend or stranger, I could not make out. I rose from my seat and noticed the low poof chair I was sitting on. It was a familiar object, that small deep blue circular soft cushion seat. I had used it often in the hospital, where Jenny spent her last days. But the rest of the room was smudged in charcoal black. I could not see anything else. Even then I was at peace. The darkness did not trouble me.  

And then in the opposite corner, out of the inky blackness, a blurry visage slowly emerged. A faint greyish blob floating out from the wall of darkness, hanging mid-air.

Then a light flickered on at the far corner of the room, illuminating a flight of stairs leading down to the room.  I saw first the pair of legs, in dainty high heels, taking slow and careful steps down the stairs.  With the incandescent light suspended behind her above the stairwell, I could not make out who she was. This elegant lady, immaculately dressed, descending the stairs and taking a slow approach towards me. But very soon she was standing there. Right in front. It was still too dark to see her face. But the silhouetted figure cut out a familiar frame. I immediately knew. It was unmistakably hers.

There was not enough light to make out her dressing. She was wearing a blouse and skirt, silk probably and she looked tall on her stiletto heeled shoes. Even in the poor lighting, I could tell that she looked stylish from head to toe, glamourous like a high fashion celebrity. She had shed the staid and demure outlook I remembered her all the years. I did not know the reason for her new image but did not care to ask. It was her and that was all it mattered.

“How have you been?” she asked. “Missing me? Well you have me back now”. It was her voice for sure. That has not changed. Distinctively hers and it soothed me immensely.

We needed no second prompting and smothered each other in our arms. I held her tight and felt her so close to me, feeling her hair tickling my nose and getting into my lips. It was a familiar feeling as I had held her countless times before. But this time, she felt bonier under her silk blouse. She had lost much of her body weight. Cancer was to blame.

But cancer was not in my mind. She was back with me and that was all that mattered. And as we stood in the darkness hugging each other, we were united again once more as husband and wife. As we were made to be. We locked ourselves in each other’s arms for some time.

But not long enough. Dreams are ephemeral and this one fizzled out too quickly.

It was morning but far too early to rise. I needed to get back to sleep. To slip back into the same dream and get back to where she was. So I could savour her presence and remain close to her for a longer time. The experience was too precious to expire so soon.

But I knew also that I had to lock this dream to encode in my memory or it will be forgotten very quickly. Our memories are poor retainers for dreams. The details of the dream state were already melting away even as I write.

And so this is the new reality for me. Dream-state versus wakeful consciousness. Which presents the more fulfilling experience for me now? Jenny could return only in my dream consciousness, like how she did last night and brief as it was, I felt her presence fully and completely. But no one can control dreams. Switch them on and off like a TV remote or replay them like a video recording. Dream on.

I do not know when she will re-appear. If she does, all I could hope to do is to relish the dream for as long as it last. But waking up from the dream is always a return to a surreal existence. One that has since became my daily nightmare.

Because in this wakeful conscious state she will never appear again in any form or guise. Cancer has taken her away for good.

 

Why quitting work is hard to do

It’s the same old sunken feeling. Another slow day in the office. But would I prefer a faster paced back-to-back meeting kind of a day? I think not.

That wretched feeling dogging me all morning has sapped away too much of my energy. Once again, I found myself stuck at low gear. No, more like stalled. Starring listlessly at an endless trail of unread emails, I wondered if I even deserved the space, table and all the office paraphernalia strewn all around me. Not least the crew assigned to my department and whom I would assume rightly are all toiling diligently at their own workstations just outside my room, not half-suspecting that their boss, within the privacy of his own personal space is so torn in grief.  Surely they deserve better?

So for the umpteenth time I agonised on that dreaded decision. To hang up my boots and hand in my resignation. Or call for an early retirement. Whatever. But I will need to craft out an acceptable reason. Without sounding awkward or pathetic.  What a way to end more than 35 years of my career. To see it nose-diving on a tailspin.

How do I explain my situation without putting the blame on my deceased wife? Why should I be leaving, when there is still unfinished work to be done? And would I regret the decision later? Once the dreaded R word is announced there is no withdrawal. Not without massive loss of pride.

So I hesitate. For work has thus far been useful.  It takes my mind off from the pain, for long stretches of the day at least.  Time slips by quickly when the intensity of work builds up. Plus I am surrounded by great colleagues. Well most are, if not all. I really cannot ask for better ones. 

Jenny would be disappointed if she knew that I quit early. She loved her work, even though as an operation executive in an offshore supply company, she has to deal with tonnes of paperwork and numbers to crunch. If she could, she would work till the very last day that it becomes illegal for any company to hire her anymore because of age.  She was ever the quintessential employee.

When the kids were young, I had previously suggested that she consider being a stay-at-home-Mum. 

“No way. What do I do for money? Stretch out my hand to you at the end of each month? Would you be able to offer me annual leave or CPF savings?” Non-negotiable. 

We soon learn to cope with raising three kids with domestic help. It helped that we were blessed for 24 years with a wonderful Filipina lady who came close to being the kids’ second mother. We learn how to spend high quality time with the kids outside of work to build a lasting bond.

But Jenny was never quite the career woman much as she loved her work. Her heart was always with the family. That said, you cannot fault her loyalty.  She stayed more than 30 years with the same offshore company.

“What would you do if you retire early?” She would ask me each time I suggested quitting early. “An idle mind would deteriorate quickly”. 

She knew how to make me feel embarrassed and even guilty about my real reason for wanting to retire ahead of time, which is to laze around and do nothing for a change. Obviously, aside from getting senile early, she was concerned about me degenerating into a bum.

But for now, work is therapeutic. Even as I struggle to keep pace. Even as Jenny keeps popping up whenever there is a lull. Even as each day, busy as it might be, would eventually wind down and I have to drag my feet back home. Ironically, since her passing on, this is the worse part of work, the going home part. Knowing that she will not be there when I step into the house.  Each time it hits me, without fail, my heart takes a plunge.

How oppositely different it was when she was alive. Going home was the best time of the day. Who would not be looking forward to knocking off after a hard day’s work? An insane workaholic, maybe. But that’s not me.

A touch of flu

I caught a flu over the weekend. I think I must have gotten careless with hydration the day before and it weakened my resistance.

Or it could be that I got careless with my words.

I had recently half-bragged to my daughter, K that my health has been of late, quite good. Setting myself as an example of healthy living, I was trying to impress on her the need to eat and rest well.  That my health had held up pretty well was true. Despite the stress I went through of losing Jenny and the massive loss of sleep as I wrapped myself in my blanket of grief each night, missing her terribly, I have been quite resilient to viral attacks all thru the last year.  In fact reflecting back, from the time that Jenny found herself stricken with cancer, I knew that I had to keep myself in good shape. I was her caretaker-in-chief and could ill (pardon the pun) afford to be in a sickly state, passing on viruses that could potentially take her down. Perhaps I was offered a tiny sliver of mercy from above. For much of the past year, my health was ship-shaped, maintaining an even keel even as I mourned and rode through the storm of losing my wife.

But as I soon learn, the body has a short temperament for self-praises and a strange knack for rebellion just to prove me wrong. I had spoken too soon about my apparent “good state of health”. 

Before long, my nose got runny and my throat was tickly as the rest of the body slumped to lethargy. A visit to the doctor was on the cards and with medical leave granted, I spent the better part of the work-day yesterday resting in bed.

I woke up this morning feeling much revived. But the virus is far from eradicated. I could feel traces of its menace still lingering within me.  Today being a public holiday, I could continue resting at home or venture outdoors. Outside, it was glorious sunshine and the PSI count had put air quality to be in moderate state, meaning good. I could not resist getting out of the house. Took a short drive to West Coast park and did a slow walk-a-jog around the park, which was crowded with picnickers, cyclists, skaters and other joggers. I was ever mindful that excessive physical exertion could be fatal to the body afflicted by virus, so I deliberately kept to a measured pace.  The outdoor exercise gave me a good sweat-out and a refreshing change of scene. I did not over-exert myself and felt a little better.

But as always, Jenny was in my mind.  I have tried hard to pick up the pieces of what remains of my life after she died, keeping myself occupied as far as possible, with work and getting on with the necessities of day-to-day living – ensuring that the fridge is stocked up with food, paying all the bills on time and keeping check on the kids to see to their needs.

But I cannot escape from that awful hollowed out feeling .  Her absence is always there. It reminds me that I am but whiling my time on earth, getting busy with a series of activities to pass the time away till that final day when I would re-join my dearest wife.

Except that I am not big on beliefs of the after-life. Through my training and years spent reading, my mind is too far culled by scientific reasoning. So all that stuff about the super-natural, heaven and hell that does not have a scientific explanation  does not sit well in my head. I tend to dismiss them as a mix of superstition and wishful mindedness.  My limited imagination has little space for irrational notions or other grand delusions.

“She has gone to a better place”. I have heard these consolations so many times. They were well intended and meant to sooth my fraying morale. But it sounded trite and flat, like all the other platitudes I have been hearing lately. They did little to lift me up. As I had said, I have a poor head for wishful thinking.

I suppose that being a skeptic and not having a religious mind presents some disadvantages when it comes to dealing with tragedy.  I feel lonely without a higher being to lean on.  But losing my own rational mind would be the epitome of a spirit that is truly and totally crushed. That would be a tragedy in making too.

So what’s this again that saying the wrong words can ruin one's body and health? How rational is that? I hope I am not losing my mind now.

All Soul's Day

Yesterday was All Soul’s Day. I was notified by post that there would be a special evening mass to commemorate this day in honour of the dead. Having recently set up the niche for Jenny’s final resting place at our church columbarium was why I was in the mailing list for such notifications.

So I rallied the kids and duly made my way to church after work.  We reached on time, but tough luck, it was standing room only. Our church hall, with enough pews for more than a thousand worshippers was overflowing beyond its capacity. It was a strong turn-out that caught me by surprise. But I shouldn't be. Like us, many other parishioners would also have dearly departed loved ones to be praying for.

All Soul’s Day is observed mainly by Catholics. Most Protestants would cringe at the idea of praying for the dead.  But Catholics believe that through the power of prayer their loved ones can be released earlier  from the bowels of Purgatory and  rise into the pearly gates of Heaven.

I will refrain from arguing about beliefs, after all it is all about faith.  Which I am quite lacking and perhaps in need of.  But I am clear about why I came for the Mass. I came because Jenny wanted me to. And that was good enough a reason for me.

I felt the tug of her presence throughout the mass proceedings. Perhaps it was the ambience, the solemnity of the occasion, or the homily, or the beautiful hymnals sung in harmony. I was moved as never before in all the years of accompanying Jenny for Sunday Mass.

After the Mass end, most of the parishioners ambled their way to the columbarium, with their lighted up candles in hand. I have never seen this abode for the faithfully departed so crowded before. As expected, Jenny’s niche would be adorned with additional stalks of flowers, thanks to her loving sister. Amazingly, she comes by every day to visit her niche.  Everyday. And I thought I am the one who might be missing her the most.

At Jenny's niche, I could not hold back the tears any further and sobbed away, in spite of the crowds milling all around. I was unconcerned about anyone noticing. Most people have their own share of mourning to deal with to even notice me crying. And even if they did, why would I care? All I could feel was the overwhelming hurt. In fact the pain was already accumulating since the day began. For much of the time at work, I was barely functional, putting up a false front to disguise my sadness. So the emotional outpouring was cathartic, a necessary release.

I could not be sure if it being All Soul’s Day had anything to do with it but yesterday was one of the tougher days in my journey of grief thus far. 

I noted also that it was exactly 200 days since Jenny’s passing on and shared this with the kids. 200 days and counting.

Should I stop journaling?

I was reading CS Lewis’ account of his own journey of grief. His wife too had died of cancer. This giant of a writer was famously known for such well-loved classics as“Chronicles of Narnia” and several other books carrying strong Christian themes. But shortly after his wife’s tragic death, he too had found solace in penning his reflections as a way to relieve his grief.  His writing was published in a book entitled “A Grief Observed”.

A caring colleague had presented this book to me recently as a birthday gift.  It was a very thoughtful gesture indeed.

In his book, CS Lewis wrote that “there is something new to be chronicled every day.  Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape.” He had found that jotting down his thoughts had served as a kind of “safety valve” and a “defence against total collapse”.  But he made it a point to limit his jottings, confining to filling up the empty pages in the books he can find in his house to map out his sorrows.

I suppose great minds think alike?

What a laugh. For me to even dare see myself as an equal to the greatly influential and prolific CS Lewis. Surely I am jesting. His greatness is in another league. And a far higher one. We may be a kindred spirit, brothers in arms as far as sharing the pain of losing our spouses. But the similarities end there. 

Yet, at some point I need to remind myself. Enough is enough. I cannot persist with this habit. How many times and different ways can I recite my grief and pain? This same recurring theme of missing my belated wife makes agonising reading. And what do I hope to achieve? Is all this journaling truly helping me recover and get on with life?

As I had previously shared, by writing, I had wanted to record my thoughts and frame of mind during this very difficult period of my life. But how it could really help me and what useful purpose it could serve in my future years is only speculative.  I might even be appalled to re-read these postings, at a later point in my life. What might appear to be a tribute to my dearest wife might later appear to be doing disservice to her memory and dignity.  For one, Jenny is typically guarded about her privacy. She would have frowned on all this open sharing of our affection, laying bare intimate details of our relationship.

But I suppose Jenny is not here anymore now to complain about how she might feel and to stop me. Not even in my dreams. I would expect her to show up more often in my dreams when I sleep. But going by the past months since her passing on this rarely happened. Not that I sleep soundly on most nights. Usually my sleep is filled with a lot of dreams – weird and restless bizarre ones at times, but she makes only rare cameo appearances if she showed up at all. If she could appear just once and raise a hackle or even a simple quiet word of objection. That might be enough. It will wake me up from this stupor and prompt me to drop off this newly acquired habit.

It is hard to say that I have moved into another phase. The weight of grief seemed to have picked up over the last few days. Perhaps I have been less active. There has not been enough of distractions aside from work.  I could blame it on the haze.  The choking pall of smoke hung persistently around our island. It has affected the lifestyle of nearly everyone in this country, who now spend a lot more time indoors.  My regular jogging sessions have to be put on hold. 

I cannot say for sure that I will not return to this blog. I may well come back sooner than I think. But I will try resisting.  There is life out there. Even in a world where my beloved Jenny does not reside anymore. If I search and strain my ears hard enough I might even hear her urging me to stop and get on with life, hard as it would be without her.

I have read CS Lewis’ “A Grief Observed”.  At less than 80 pages it is not a heavy read and I have twice read most parts. Now, have I written enough in this blog site for my own grief to be sufficiently observed? I wonder.


“Aren't all these notes the senseless writings of a man who won't accept the fact that there is nothing we can do with suffering except to suffer it?”
― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed