Today is a Saturday, and a beginning of a long weekend as the coming Monday is a public holiday. My colleagues had organized a family day outing for the department at the Hort Park on this day. I had two minds about taking part as I was unsure if I could summon enough positive energy to set myself into the right mood for the occasion. It would dampen spirits if I could not hide my grieving and turned up looking melancholic. On similar occasions in the past, Jenny would be almost always join me so the thought of going alone this time was a dismal one. But I was the head of the team and there is always an air of expectation of support from the boss. What excuse should I turn in without invoking sympathy from subordinates? They would in all likelihood understand if I had chosen not to go but I would risk making myself an object of pity. So for much of the weeks leading to the event I found myself wishy-washy, stuck in a state of dilemma.
At the end I pushed all my apprehensions aside and registered for the event but with the plan to go alone. It would be unlikely for any of any colleagues to be so foolishly bold and insensitive to ask why I was coming alone as they are all too aware of my wife's recent demise. Still I was prepping myself for awkward questions to which I would stoically reply that I see my wonderful colleagues who are ever so caring and supportive as an extended "family"!
Somehow, throughout the week I have not discussed about this event with my children. I just could not picture them relishing the idea of waking up early on a Saturday morning to take part in such company organised events. It will be totally uncharacteristic of them. Period, so no point asking even.
But I was clearly wrong. Except for my boy who had work engagement, when my two daughters learnt of my "go solo" plan on the the night before, to my very pleasant surprise they both insisted on joining in. And there will be no issue about waking up early.
So the family day event turned up very good for everyone. The anxiety about having to go single that troubled me was totally needless. The two girls interacted with my colleagues, played with their kids and enjoyed the day as much too, in particular the walk up on the canopy that led to the top of Kent Ridge. While I still missed the company of my beloved wife on an occasion such as this, my two daughters were making clear and conscious effort to help fill in for her, sparing me the ordeal of attending alone, after all this was a family day event.
I must learn not to take such tender mercies for granted. In any case, a good deed should not go unrewarded so lunch treat from their old man would be at a restaurant of their choosing. We lunched at a korean eatery at HillV2 and returned home after that, tired but overall quite happy.
Saturday 30 May 2015
Tuesday 26 May 2015
I have mentioned briefly that the past weeks of mourning for the passing of my dearest wife has been kind of an emotional roller-coaster ride. Yesterday I went to get my gastro and colonoscopy done just to ease my mind that I would not also fall sway to a cancerous end like my wife.
Stomach cancer (which was what she had) is far rarer than colon cancer. As many as 4-5 times of colon cancer cases are diagnosed each year compared to stomach cancer, which makes the case for my wife even sadder, in terms of the biological bad luck that struck her and inevitably also on the rest of us in the family. Besides the last time I did my endoscope tests was some 8 years back.
The doctor whom I had consulted was reputable, at least noting from the many patients who were waiting in turn for his services. I was hence made to lie on the hospital bed for an unexpectedly long period of time, with the nurse coming by occasionally to assure me that the wait will soon be over and apologising profusely on behalf of the doctor whom I was told was held up by a complicated patient.
While lying on the bed I could not help but recollect on my poor wife who had spent her last 5 weeks mostly bedridden due to the aggressive spread of the disease towards her peritoneal and abdomen. Lying flat on the hospital bed, staring upwards at the ceiling without anything to while my time was agonising but how much worse was it for my poor Jenny who had to endure the entire ordeal for so long? I felt sick with sadness and tears well up in my eyes.
Just then the doctor came by and with his calming tone of voice, assured me that everything is alright. The sedative was injected and within a minute I was into a deep restful sleep.
I came to a wake, thanks to one of the nurses and was told that the entire operation had gone smoothly and was long over. I checked the time and realised that it must have been more than 2.5 hours since I was sedated. I had some difficulty moving and mentally was feeling disorientated but what was really unusual was a feeling of calm and peacefulness that I have not felt for a long time and especially throughout the last five weeks since my wife had passed on. I was clearly still groggy from the sedation and my movements are slow and uncertain but what was strange was that my thoughts were objectively clear.
Yes, my beloved wife is no longer physically on this planet any more but life must go on. I was not feeling sad as before.
My mental state was in sharp contrast from the time before I had drifted into slumber-land. Was it the result of the sedation? Probably so, which is unfortunate as at some point this relative euphoric state will diminish and sadness will gradually take over again. I for one will not resort to medication in place of a more self-managed state of mind as doing so will render me helpless, and turning me to become a addict.
But for much of the time after I had left the hospital, I was clear-headed and objective in my thoughts.
Stomach cancer (which was what she had) is far rarer than colon cancer. As many as 4-5 times of colon cancer cases are diagnosed each year compared to stomach cancer, which makes the case for my wife even sadder, in terms of the biological bad luck that struck her and inevitably also on the rest of us in the family. Besides the last time I did my endoscope tests was some 8 years back.
The doctor whom I had consulted was reputable, at least noting from the many patients who were waiting in turn for his services. I was hence made to lie on the hospital bed for an unexpectedly long period of time, with the nurse coming by occasionally to assure me that the wait will soon be over and apologising profusely on behalf of the doctor whom I was told was held up by a complicated patient.
While lying on the bed I could not help but recollect on my poor wife who had spent her last 5 weeks mostly bedridden due to the aggressive spread of the disease towards her peritoneal and abdomen. Lying flat on the hospital bed, staring upwards at the ceiling without anything to while my time was agonising but how much worse was it for my poor Jenny who had to endure the entire ordeal for so long? I felt sick with sadness and tears well up in my eyes.
Just then the doctor came by and with his calming tone of voice, assured me that everything is alright. The sedative was injected and within a minute I was into a deep restful sleep.
I came to a wake, thanks to one of the nurses and was told that the entire operation had gone smoothly and was long over. I checked the time and realised that it must have been more than 2.5 hours since I was sedated. I had some difficulty moving and mentally was feeling disorientated but what was really unusual was a feeling of calm and peacefulness that I have not felt for a long time and especially throughout the last five weeks since my wife had passed on. I was clearly still groggy from the sedation and my movements are slow and uncertain but what was strange was that my thoughts were objectively clear.
Yes, my beloved wife is no longer physically on this planet any more but life must go on. I was not feeling sad as before.
My mental state was in sharp contrast from the time before I had drifted into slumber-land. Was it the result of the sedation? Probably so, which is unfortunate as at some point this relative euphoric state will diminish and sadness will gradually take over again. I for one will not resort to medication in place of a more self-managed state of mind as doing so will render me helpless, and turning me to become a addict.
But for much of the time after I had left the hospital, I was clear-headed and objective in my thoughts.
Saturday 23 May 2015
This is the fifth Sunday since Jenny passed away. My two daughters are attending mass but I asked to be excused so I can spend more time at her niche in the columbarium within the church complex. The solitude and quietness and more important, knowing that my beloved wife's ashes are lying within the urn that is kept inside the niche and my close proximity of her last pieces of physical remains brings about a feeling of solace and comfort. Yet as before, tears inevitably well up in my eyes. I felt her presence all over again.
This was the church which she had first brought me to to introduce and share with me her Catholic faith. We got married in this church and were privileged to be the first couple to exchange vows at its altars after the building underwent it's first major re-build and re-opened in June 1985. Our kids had their baptism and confirmation at this same church. It is fitting that we could hold the 5 day wake service at the funeral parlour there and have her final resting place within the columbarium inside this church.
Even though jenny had been absent for mass since she was diagnosed with cancer in October, a 6 month hiatus forced upon her because of her weakened immunity, it did seem like only short weeks of days ago that we were last together sitting alongside each other in the pews, with the rest of the clan. It was a routine closely stuck to for most weekends throughout our 30 years together. To now have to observe this weekly ritual without her by my side, is a heart-aching experience that will take a long time to get used to.
This was the church which she had first brought me to to introduce and share with me her Catholic faith. We got married in this church and were privileged to be the first couple to exchange vows at its altars after the building underwent it's first major re-build and re-opened in June 1985. Our kids had their baptism and confirmation at this same church. It is fitting that we could hold the 5 day wake service at the funeral parlour there and have her final resting place within the columbarium inside this church.
Even though jenny had been absent for mass since she was diagnosed with cancer in October, a 6 month hiatus forced upon her because of her weakened immunity, it did seem like only short weeks of days ago that we were last together sitting alongside each other in the pews, with the rest of the clan. It was a routine closely stuck to for most weekends throughout our 30 years together. To now have to observe this weekly ritual without her by my side, is a heart-aching experience that will take a long time to get used to.
Tuesday 19 May 2015
Well, my second post is long overdue, not because my grieving has eased off. In fact, I had been so bogged down by my heavy heart for most of the past few days, it is hard to think of writing even though putting my thoughts in words might help me escape and bring some solace.
During these last few days some old friends and colleagues have arranged to meet up to talk and listen to me. It warms my heart at least during the time we had spent together, to know they care. My three children, who are now quite grown - aged 18 to 26 are clearly trying to spend more time with their old man during the last few days but I sometimes wonder how they can make light of so many moments, and continue to laugh and joke so shortly after such a terrible loss. Perhaps they were putting an act, hiding the pain so they can bring some cheer into their troubled and sorrowful father. I know I need to cherish these moments I have with my three children, even as a vital part of the team is sadly missing. Losing my wife, Jenny is bad enough but things may go from bad to worse and I should know by now, not to ever take anything for granted as one bad experience would not exempt me from another worse turn of events. I remind myself each time that life can be short, fleeting and fragile - here today and gone tomorrow, like my Gone Girl, whose life was cut too early, prematurely at a time when she has so much to look forward to. And likewise it could be for my remaining loved ones, so I should treasure the time they can avail themselves to me, keeping me company and helping me ride through my emotional roller-coaster journey.
But when all my kids were with me, whether sharing a meal together or just sitting around to talk about the day, such occasions ache my heart even more when I look at the empty chair where Jenny would be seated. Jenny is most happy when the family are all together. I could always sense the sheer joy and satisfaction emanating from within her, through her eyes, tell-tale smile and how she sits, all perked up even as she would usually remain quiet, but attentive to all the bantering and chattering amongst her flock, each time when the family were all together. Times like this I missed her terribly. The band is incomplete and much as my kids try, it is hard for me to hide the pain, and they would sense that Dad is hurting.
During these last few days some old friends and colleagues have arranged to meet up to talk and listen to me. It warms my heart at least during the time we had spent together, to know they care. My three children, who are now quite grown - aged 18 to 26 are clearly trying to spend more time with their old man during the last few days but I sometimes wonder how they can make light of so many moments, and continue to laugh and joke so shortly after such a terrible loss. Perhaps they were putting an act, hiding the pain so they can bring some cheer into their troubled and sorrowful father. I know I need to cherish these moments I have with my three children, even as a vital part of the team is sadly missing. Losing my wife, Jenny is bad enough but things may go from bad to worse and I should know by now, not to ever take anything for granted as one bad experience would not exempt me from another worse turn of events. I remind myself each time that life can be short, fleeting and fragile - here today and gone tomorrow, like my Gone Girl, whose life was cut too early, prematurely at a time when she has so much to look forward to. And likewise it could be for my remaining loved ones, so I should treasure the time they can avail themselves to me, keeping me company and helping me ride through my emotional roller-coaster journey.
But when all my kids were with me, whether sharing a meal together or just sitting around to talk about the day, such occasions ache my heart even more when I look at the empty chair where Jenny would be seated. Jenny is most happy when the family are all together. I could always sense the sheer joy and satisfaction emanating from within her, through her eyes, tell-tale smile and how she sits, all perked up even as she would usually remain quiet, but attentive to all the bantering and chattering amongst her flock, each time when the family were all together. Times like this I missed her terribly. The band is incomplete and much as my kids try, it is hard for me to hide the pain, and they would sense that Dad is hurting.
Monday 11 May 2015
Have you ever lost a loved one?
Have you ever lost a loved one? Someone who has been such a large part of your life, so close and so dear to you? Like she is your wife of 30 years?
Sigh, I know I am not alone. There have been more grievous loss I am sure and I do not wish to compare the pain that you might have gone through with what I am now going thru.
It has been 24 days since my wife, Jen died. She fought a brave battle against all hope for 6 months but from the start, once diagnosed, she never stood much of a chance. After all she had metastatic gastric cancer and there was only a hint of abdominal discomfort, a bloated stomach which brought her to see a doctor and next thing we know, it was already at 4th stage.
And 6 months later, after 7 rounds of chemo and 2 rounds of immunotherapy, my cancer warrior so to speak, subsided and took her last breathe on 17 April 2015, 1042am, distraught husband at her side, grasping her lifeless hand, sobbing beyond control along with her three kids, the loves of her life watching their mother drifting forever into neverland...
And since then life was never the same. Not that for the last 6 months, journeying with her in her fight, accompanying her for all her treatments and sitting by her side during her last 5 weeks in hospital was anything of a normal life. But at least then she was there, sickly patient as she was and a pale shadow of her former self, she gave me purpose.
Without her now, I feel lost, empty and sunken. It is a strange feeling, this new reality which I keep reminding to accept. Life all around seems normal enough yet it feels not. After so many years together, it is hard to believe that I now reside in a world where my beloved Jen is not physically somewhere and it is disorientating. The silence in the house appears to have an echo ringing in my ears. I look around, sees her at every corner, in her familiar pose, sitting on her favourite sofa, walking down the stairs or stepping out from the bathroom. Yet she is not here.
You would know it if you too have lost a dear one, like I did. And you would understand why I need to write down my sad feelings. I have never blogged before, which pretty much shows up as you could tell by now. I am not sure how many more posts I would make or if continuing to do so would give me any kind of solace, so if you wish to follow me, do so at your own risk. You will find my ramblings pitiful and maybe even pathetic. I am not sure if I care too much after all you can always quit and read other stuff. Meanwhile, I will keep alive my love for her and memories of our time together...
Sigh, I know I am not alone. There have been more grievous loss I am sure and I do not wish to compare the pain that you might have gone through with what I am now going thru.
It has been 24 days since my wife, Jen died. She fought a brave battle against all hope for 6 months but from the start, once diagnosed, she never stood much of a chance. After all she had metastatic gastric cancer and there was only a hint of abdominal discomfort, a bloated stomach which brought her to see a doctor and next thing we know, it was already at 4th stage.
And 6 months later, after 7 rounds of chemo and 2 rounds of immunotherapy, my cancer warrior so to speak, subsided and took her last breathe on 17 April 2015, 1042am, distraught husband at her side, grasping her lifeless hand, sobbing beyond control along with her three kids, the loves of her life watching their mother drifting forever into neverland...
And since then life was never the same. Not that for the last 6 months, journeying with her in her fight, accompanying her for all her treatments and sitting by her side during her last 5 weeks in hospital was anything of a normal life. But at least then she was there, sickly patient as she was and a pale shadow of her former self, she gave me purpose.
Without her now, I feel lost, empty and sunken. It is a strange feeling, this new reality which I keep reminding to accept. Life all around seems normal enough yet it feels not. After so many years together, it is hard to believe that I now reside in a world where my beloved Jen is not physically somewhere and it is disorientating. The silence in the house appears to have an echo ringing in my ears. I look around, sees her at every corner, in her familiar pose, sitting on her favourite sofa, walking down the stairs or stepping out from the bathroom. Yet she is not here.
You would know it if you too have lost a dear one, like I did. And you would understand why I need to write down my sad feelings. I have never blogged before, which pretty much shows up as you could tell by now. I am not sure how many more posts I would make or if continuing to do so would give me any kind of solace, so if you wish to follow me, do so at your own risk. You will find my ramblings pitiful and maybe even pathetic. I am not sure if I care too much after all you can always quit and read other stuff. Meanwhile, I will keep alive my love for her and memories of our time together...
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