Our journey with cancer

From the time the terrible disease invaded our lives we knew that life would never be the same again. The happy idyllic days that our family has been so blessed with thus far would be but memories of the past.

It started around early October 2014, when we were driving back after a simple dinner outing.  She complained of a bloated discomfort in her stomach.  Nothing to be alarmed about. Perhaps she ate too much? Or too quickly? We get such problems every now and then.

Next day, she consulted her doctor and was given some medicine to take.  But the uneasy feeling persisted so the doctor recommended ultrasonic scans.  The scan revealed an abnormal “mass”. It suggested something serious and worrying. A further CT scan of her abdomen indicated strong suspicions of peritoneal carcinoma.  A quick google search and it confirmed our worse fears. They have to give such fanciful names to cancer. We immediately admitted her, and into a private hospital no less, where a gastroscopy and PET scan could be arranged almost immediately.  The results were devastating.  4^th stage gastric cancer. The tumour, about a golf ball size had taken root in her stomach and the cancer cells had metastasized onto her spinal cord.  I held her in my arms as we broke into tears. From there on, I knew our lives have taken a terrible turn, in particular for her.  If she could even survive the ordeal. 

I have heard enough of the traumas experienced by patients undergoing chemotherapy. There and then, as I stood with her sobbing in my arms, just thinking of the suffering she would have to endure to fight the disease, I felt my heart fracturing into pieces.

Jenny went through 7 rounds of chemotherapy over the months that followed and another 2 rounds of immunotherapy when it was clear that even with a change of the drug regiment, the chemo was not working well.  Her cancer cells were outsmarting all the fancy pharmaceuticals that our doctor could possibly dish out.

Her petite 46 kg frame wilted down to skin and bones. She lost nearly all of her hair and gone was that sparkle in her eyes and the cheerful cherubic smile that I have gotten so used to. She bore the brunt of the toxins pumped into her veins, which ironically were meant to be her best hope in fighting the cancerous cells.  The ill effects of the chemo drugs ravaged her withering frame.  She suffered incessant bouts of nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea and blistering ulcers rippled around her gums and into her gullet.  We monitored her weight each day.  Every kilogram loss was an ominous warning that she was losing the fight.

But Jenny was determined to live.  She never once talk about giving up. Understandably, there were anxious moments when she professed her fear of not making it but through it all, despite the gradual weakening of her body, her mind stayed the course.  All the advice we received, from friends and relatives who had close encounters with cancer survivors and also her own oncologist echoed the same words – we must be optimistic, keep our hopes high and not give up.  So throughout the ordeal, we never once spoke of her dying. We never discussed what her last wishes might be.  To die was not an option.  We spoke of how we should change our life style and eating habits and the things to do to avoid relapse, after we had conquered the disease.  We kept our hopes alive, even as the signs looked bad.

Walking alongside Jenny’s harrowing journey with cancer was needless to say, a trying experience.  But the tribulation brought us closer together as a couple than we ever had been during our 30 years as husband and wife and loving parents to our three children. 

Looking back, it was hard to forget the high anxiety, tension and stress of seeing her health deteriorating away. I was ever all fired up, despite nights of restless sleep, and constantly primed on high alert to keep a close watch over her state of health and well-being. You might say I was a man on a mission.  And the end goal was clear.  Do everything it takes to increase her chances to survive:  Find the best food that would suit her very restricted diet to strengthen her and “starve” the cancer cells (which on hindsight was really gullible and mere wishful thinking) and cost would be of no object.  Sanitise and clean every thing around her to safeguard her weakened immunity.  Keep the bugs at bay also as she could not risk catching dengue fever and so on.  

In between, my office duties beckoned, even as my company had very kindly allowed me to work from home, as there were still essential meetings to attend.  I was all prepared to put my career on the line.  I was mindful that our time together could be preciously limited.  Her needs were highest on my agenda.

At times, Jenny saw how stretched I was to keep everything together and felt sorry that her affliction had imposed so much upon me.  “Don’t say sorry, Honey. It is my greatest privilege to be able to take care of you”, I would reply.  And I meant every word said.  Dire as it was, her affliction inadvertently created and offered me the opportunity to care and show my love for her, in a way that I could not in all the years before, as her husband.  She was going through a far worse ordeal herself so I should not be the object of pity. 

So throughout the time when she was undergoing treatment, my focus was crystal clear. It was all about her well-being. I had a mission and stronger sense of purpose than at any other point of our marriage years together.

But in truth, she was sinking slowly, like a victim in quick sand right before my eyes and I could only watch helplessly, too powerless to pull her out of the quagmire. 

Till the final moment, Jenny showed immense courage.  During her last weeks in the hospital, she had all kinds of medical tubes weaving in and out of her body including a tube inserted through her nostril and into the stomach so the nurses could aspirate and remove the gastric juices from her stomach. The discomfort must have been agonisingly unbearable.  Yet she complained little and asked for even less. 

Many times, sitting by her bedside, I have tried to port my mind into hers. What were the thoughts going inside her head?  Her intestinal system had all but shut down, due to the cancer spread. As a result she was unable to swallow even tiny sips of water.  One side of her lungs had nearly completely collapsed due to the build-up of ascites fluid. Though we did not speak about it, we both knew that recovery would take nothing short of a miracle.  The mental anguish of knowing that the end is nearing must have been tormenting. But Jenny kept her dignity.  She neither moaned nor shed tears for pity.

As a devout Christian all her life, has she resigned in quiet submission, to accept this unhappy ending as part of God’s plan for her?  Or was she deeply disappointed with God that all her prayers for recovery had come to nought? It was hard to tell but I would like to think that her faith had given her the strength and peace needed to cope with the stress of facing imminent death.

Eventually, on 17^th April 2015, about 6 months after she was first diagnosed, she drew her last breath. 

The end came not directly from the cancer itself, but from an infection of the lungs that was caught two days earlier.  Her enfeebled body was too fragile to fight off this infection, despite multiple doses of antibiotics injected into her. It was swift and perhaps in a way, a more merciful end for her. I tried consoling myself of this each time I relive the pain of picturing her exiting from this world.

My kids remind me that I should avoid recounting the cancer days as they feel that Mum should be remembered in health rather than in sickness. They were of course right in many ways. There are so many other wonderful things I could share about my beloved wife and I would do that, another posting, another day.  But far from erasing these last months we spent journeying together in her futile battle against cancer, I would want to store every painful detail.

Mum displayed a courage, a side to her hardy character which we never knew existed in her.  The fragility of life have taken on a new meaning and nothing is permanent, as we should also learn. And bad as the experience has been, it does not exempt us from even more harrowing times ahead.  Should life throw us another curved ball and should adversity come knocking on our doorsteps again, we will remember how strong and brave Mum has been. 

We will draw inspiration from the memories.

 

 

100 days

 Well it is Saturday again and if you had half suspected that I will be writing again about my exercise routine, you are right. 

I started the day with my usual run or jog. I decided to head for my office at Dover, where I could park for free and run to the same nearby HDB block, where I had failed last week to climb to the top. I felt more determined now not to allow any negative thoughts and my fear of heights weigh me down this time.

At the foot of the high rise housing block

I reached the cluster of blocks after about 7 minutes of trotting, and headed straight for the stairwell of the nearest block. It would be a 40 storey high climb if I could go all the way.  These are the blocks that my colleagues would use for their twice-weekly vertical exercise routine. I had never once joined them. It would be tough for me to keep pace with them as they are a lot younger and fitter, and as I had said before I always prefer to exercise on my own. 

I got past the first 10 stories, panting heavily but not feeling too bushed out. It was an important hurdle to overcome, mentally at least, as last week I got all worn out and was mentally and physically defeated at the 11^th floor.  It was pathetic even for anyone aging on the wrong side of 50s. I was hence spurred to work harder this time. So I continued my ascent, labouring one step at a time at a measured pace, careful not to overstrain my feeble heart.  Soon I struggled past the 20^th floor. Focussing on each flight of steps, taking one step at a time, I tried to ignore counting the number of flights left. 

I reached the 30^th floor, dog-tired. With some effort I might make it another 5 or even 10 flights up, though that would appear to be pushing myself too far. But as it turned out I could not get any higher as the stairwell ended there.  I realised that I had mistaken this building to be 40 stories high, when it has only 30 floors. I  must admit I was pleasantly relieved that I need not further punish myself to clamber another 10 floors up.  Perhaps I had inadvertently picked a shorter block to climb even though from the ground all the blocks within this cluster appeared to be built to equal heights. Anyway, making it up 30 floors was not too bad an achievement for this pair of aged and wobbly legs.  Better than last week’s for sure. 

View from the 30th floor

Back on solid ground I decided to take the long route back, along the canal path that connects westward to Clementi Road and then heading back eastwards along Dover road to get back to the car-park. Only that I would not be running all the way. More like a walk and jog as the whole distance might be about 6-7km long and having expended so much of my energy on the 30 floor climb, I probably would be walking more than jogging.

But I could take all the time I want. In the past, when I do go for these solo Saturday morning jaunts, I would be very mindful of staying out too long.  At some point Jenny would wake up and would text or call me asking when I could get back home. She would need me to drive her to the market. Or there could be other chores waiting for me. So do I feel less restrained and more care-free now that she is not here anymore? Dammed if I do.   What I would give to just hear her sweet voice again.  I dearly miss that air of expectation of receiving a call from her for me to get my butt back home.

Well, Jenny is no longer waiting at home anymore and I would have to accept that.  The good old halcyon days are but sweet memories of the past, all done and gone.

BTW, today is also the 100^th day since Jenny’s passing.  Last week, I was reminded by her sister to arrange for a special prayer for her at her niche.  It is customary in the Chinese tradition to observe 100 days of mourning for the deceased in the family.  But I was not sure if such grieving etiquette is applicable to the Catholic faith. But then if her sister had said that I should arrange for it, then being the half-baked believer who knows far less of the faith and the rituals that come with it, mine was not to question why.

Besides for us all coming together for a prayer session would a great opportunity for me and the kids to see the rest of Jenny’s family. To stay connected as her dearest sister had said.

So today we attended the early evening mass.  At around 6pm, the rest of the family clan converged at Jenny’s niche. The columbarium office had earlier arranged for flowers, candles and hymnal books stacked neatly on a small table covered with white cloth, placed in front of the niche.

After the prayer, we adjourned for dinner together at the coffee shop at the back of the church.  Jenny would have enjoyed such fuss free get-together meetings with her family. She would be most at ease chatting with her brothers and sisters. I certainly missed seeing her in this relaxed mood, seated together at the table.

Jenny would always look forward to her family gatherings.  And there have been countless occasions in the past.  Theirs is a closely knitted family and they get together several times a year for all kinds of reasons - birthday celebrations, death anniversaries and so on. I could only envy her for having such loving and caring family members, who are always there when needed.

But for this evening, it was somewhat ironical that the reason for our gathering was to commemorate Jenny’s 100^th day of passing away.  So while I enjoyed the evening and the warmth of her family, I had to accept that it was her tragic departure that led to this reunion gathering.

It would be a moot point to make as you know by now, but I missed having her all over again and wished Jenny was with us on this night like she would be on so many such occasions before.

Visiting Jenny

Sunday Mass, and I have a confession to make.  I rarely stayed till the end of Mass.  Usually just after communion, I would veer off from the pews and make my way out of the church building to head straight for the columbarium at the far end of the church compound. Past the Garden of Peace, my pace quickened even as my heart grew heavier. Soon I would be at Jenny’s niche again. To be closer to her, or what remains of her physical being.

I am well aware that my habitual early dismissal reflected poorly on piety and reverence for the proceedings. Jenny would have frowned on such impious behaviour.  But I wanted to be at her niche early so I can have to be alone in the columbarium. And in solitude, I would want to feel her aura coming to life again.

Inside the columbarium, it is calm and peaceful. It is quiet, save for the gentle trickling of water cascading down the sides of the fountain pools, built at the centre of each of the nine interconnecting rooms that make up this sprawling complex.  Except on days when the sky is cloudy or downcast, the room would be illuminated mostly by sunlight streaming down from the skylight above the fountain pool. The ambience is perfect for quiet contemplation and communion with the deceased.

The niches behind the surrounding walls of each room are arranged in alternating 1 foot square stone patterns, each plaque given a standard layout, immaculately displaying the inscribed names against the faces of the deceased, which are printed in black against a small white ceramic square.  A metal crucifix and a small bunch of artificial flowers adorn the front face of each of the niches, along with an inscription taken from the bible.

The biblical verse on Jen’s plaque is partially blocked by the flowers at the base of the plaque, but I am familiar with the words taken from Timothy 4:7.

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith”

Jenny certainly had fought the good fight even as she had lost in her battle against the disease.  And I am sure she had kept her faith despite barely uttering a word in her final hours, too weakened by the illness to pray aloud or share her last thoughts or wishes with me.

Once at her niche, I would lean close and gently caress the square ceramic tile, upon which her face is printed. This would be as near as I could get to her.  The thought that behind the tiled cover lies the urn that contains her ashes, the final remains of the physical embodiment of a person who has been such an important and precious part of my life for so many years, overwhelms me as never before. I had to fight back the tears and feel the pain all over again.  It is like a part of my own flesh had been torn out and the bones plucked off to be locked away forever.

I stared again at her face that is printed on the ceramic tile. We had carefully selected the photo for this display. She was flashing her most cheerful smile, brimming with vigour, her eyes sparkling when the photo was shot, ironically also in a cathedral in Europe during one of our many holidays abroad. Once more my fingers run through the letters of her name, inscribed on the centre of the square plaque.  I will never get used to seeing her name on that stone wall no matter how many times I look at it.  It seemed too unreal.

With my face leaning against hers, I could smell the single stalk of flower that her sister had placed at her niche some days earlier. Jenny loved flowers.  Some weeks she gets red roses, some weeks it is a carnation with pink or yellow petals, thanks to her wonderful sister who never failed to visit her each week. This single stalk of flower embellishes her niche and makes it stand out from the surrounding ones.  Fresh flowers for Jenny each week but on this day there will be fresh tears shed for her.

My quiet time with Jenny was over too quickly.  In a short while, mass would have ended and other parishioners started flowing in to also pay respect to the dead.  My brief moments of privacy was over. I dried my eyes to regain my composure. 

Soon my kids would be joining me at the columbarium also.  Together, with heads bowed they stood solemnly around their mother’s niche. They might place their hands around my back and gently console me also.  It is hard for me to hide the anguish written on my face.  We lit up candles and prayed silently by ourselves.  Mum would be so pleased to see her flock, huddled together in prayer. We softly recited the Lord’s Prayer and finished up with a Hail Mary prayer, before leaving. 

I would gaze one more time at her niche before turning to walk away.  The niche is a stark and painful reminder to me that Jenny has truly departed, physically no more in this world.  Set in stone, literally speaking. It is hard to believe that I will never be seeing her or hearing her voice again. I would need to look again at that plaque on the wall to understand and accept this.

The niches in this columbarium are built to hold a second urn.  One day when my time is up, my face and name will share the space on the face of Jenny’s plaque. I would not know how soon or how long when this will happen. But one day, as sure as day would turn to night, I will be sharing this space with her.

I couldn't trust my state of mind

Today is a public holiday. It is nice to have holidays on a Friday which offers everyone a longer weekend than usual. Without other plans for the day it is a simple decision how I should start the day – drive out to a not too far away place that can offer me a 4-5km jogging route, and preferably one that I have not gone too recently also. I immediately thought of the Ulu Pandan canal route at Clementi.

I parked the car at the HDB car park located at the end of Avenue 4.  Free parking on public holidays.  That is music to the ears.  I could take my time and linger as long as I wish.

Aside from keeping cardiovascular fitness, jogging for me is an opportunity for self-reflection. And music. Hence, an important accessory to bring along would be my ear-phones and the few times I had left them at home and jogged without my all-important music accompaniment I cursed at my carelessness and absent-mindedness. I have a massive collection of mp3 music files from several of my favourite bands and musicians stored in my hand-phone, ready to be shuffled out for sheer listening pleasure.  Music has been a key part of my life for as long as I remember.

So it is easy to explain why I rarely go jogging with other people.

The canal foot path where I last ran more than 30 years ago
 

Colleagues have badgered me more than once to join them for the after-office running sessions. Mindful of our age differences and the pace of these marathon-wannabes, it will be foolhardy for me to do so. I can only jog but they run and there is a key difference. I would remind them of my limitations, offering yet another excuse for not turning up. So when I do run, or jog (technically, a rate of less than 10km per hour is jogging and I can at best do about 8 km per hour these days) it is usually by myself, alone so I can savour the greenery and serenity of the park settings, reflect on work issues and on life in general while enjoying the music pounding my eardrums.  Our tiny island in the sun has so plentiful of beautifully-manicured parks it totally befits the garden city moniker.

The few times I had gone jogging along the Ulu Pandan waterway, I had headed westwards where the canal path ends up at an industrial estate in Jurong East.  Today I decided to run towards the other direction.  Doing so should bring a tinge of nostalgia. It has been more than 30 years ago, and long before I got married when I last ran along this part of the canal which connects from Clementi Road to North Bouna Vista. I was then residing at Holland Drive, so my running would start off there in the opposite direction from the one taken today. As I recalled, this would well be the foot-path where I had first cultivated my running or jogging habit which persisted to this day. In younger years, running for me was not a matter of choice. The army’s annual physical proficiency tests demand that I maintain this huff-and-puff routine on a regular basis.

Today, shortly after I started, I felt tired rather quickly and my pace was slower than usual. I reminded myself to go easy even as I decided to push on.  Jenny’s passing away has put me in a despondent mood and my sleep has been disjointed for most nights. Lack of sleep and not getting into the REM (rapid eye movement) phase can be damaging to the heart.  My last two tread-mill tests, the last one taken only a month ago have both revealed abnormal blips in my heart rhythm. Fortunately the follow up CT scan that I took last year, aside from bursting a hole in my pocket, was negative and the doctor assured me that my heart arteries and valves are in healthy state.  But the doctor could not quite explain the blips even as he rejected my suggestion that his treadmill electro-cardiogram might need calibration.

After close to 25 minutes of a slow and tired run, I reached the NBV end of the canal-side path. On the right side of the path were the familiar new residential blocks that tower up to 40 storeys high.  These are the blocks where my colleagues’ running sessions would take them to where they end each session with a vertical climb up the 40 storeys.  Climbing steps is an excellent form or cardiovascular training which is less stressful on the knee joints, as I have often heard. I would not pretend that I have that level of fitness like my colleagues’ to scramble up 40 storeys. Certainly not after already expending much of my energy.  But I felt the old gas tank might still have a sufficient fuel left to give the block a go, and this would be a good chance to gauge my comparative fitness. My exercise routine today could also finish up with an added vertical twist.

So I set my stop watch and started the climb.  The stairwell for these new flats was particularly narrow, barely more than one meter wide. Flanked both sides by grey concrete walls there was a uneasy feeling of claustrophobia.  The first few flights were easy enough but after five flights I was breathing harder and grasping onto the hand rail to push myself up.  The hand rail felt grubby and dusty. Not many people used these staircases obviously.  I was feeling more and more of my weight with each step, and drips of perspiration rained down my face.  The knees were creaking which made me wonder how such exercises are rated to be gentle on the knee joints. By the 10^th storey, my heart felt severely strained, beating furiously and screaming for mercy. I should stop or I could wound up as a carcass, sprawled across the innocuous staircase of this HDB tower block, to be discovered many days later by an unsuspecting resident who decided with much regret to use the stairs on that day.

So at the 11^th storey I slumped to the floor, exhausted and feeling faint.  This vertical climb had knocked the wind out of me. And I had conquered but only a quarter of its total ascent. A far cry from what my much fitter (and younger) colleagues can achieve. It will be embarrassing to share this with them.

But worry of my comparative poorer physical fitness was furthest from my mind.  A graver danger was presenting itself.

The staircase is dusty, grim and grey. A far cry from the lush and verdant surrounds of the waterway and park below.  At the 11^th floor landing, I was panting away, drained not only physically but emotionally.  The world without Jenny has not been the same for me.  I could not run away from that hollow emptiness which sometimes feel so overwhelming. At the edge of stairwell, above the side wall parapet is a sweeping view of the waterway. I was tempted to lean against the parapet to take in the panorama and draw in air to regain my breath but instead I kept my distance and avoided looking out and down. I have never had a head for heights and this irrational fear has worsened with age. Already, the thought that I was more than 10 storeys above ground made me feel dizzy.

What was frightening was the fear that I might lose my mind. The loss of my wife has disoriented my entire life. I sometimes felt that I am walking on the edge of a seemingly unreal existence.  Other times I struggled to keep a balanced footing and even more in seeking out answers to the meaning of my shattered life.

Alone by myself in the stairwell this supposedly uneventful morning, exhausted from my miscalculated physical exertion and feeling emotionally tattered, I realised that I was then in a vulnerable and fragile mental state. A single surge of negativity could sweep me off from the stairwell landing and find me dead at the foot of the block. Am I at risk of doing the unthinkable - clambering up the parapet and plummeting 11 floors down? It will guarantee a quick and certain end to the emotional wrought that I have to deal with, day-in day-out since Jenny’s tragic demise.

I actually started to feel anxious as the dangerous idea appear to start germinating. My heart pounded harder than before. Was I in mortal danger of harming myself? This would be so uncharacteristic of me but there and then, I could not trust my state of mind. Not having been down in the depths for so many weeks.  All it would take is a tipping point.

I realised that for my own good, I should not linger too long at the stairwell. Being alone and cloistered in the narrow and claustrophobic-inducing staircase landing has put me at risk of doing something really stupid. I should quickly get into the nearest lift and get the hell back down.  

Luckily nowadays the newer housing blocks are built with lifts stopping at every floor so in awhile I was back at the ground floor.  And feeling somewhat safer, the sense of panic quickly subsided.

Well, my routine jogs are for self-reflection as I had said. Plodding back to the car, I thought through again on this rather adhoc vertical climb episode and the anxiety and thoughts of hurting myself that surreptitiously crept into my mind. Have I inadvertently acquired a suicidal tendency with Jenny’s passing? I am aware that a prolonged state of grief is a sure-fire path to depression. Many chronic depression cases have tragically ended in suicide. An ex-colleague had sadly suffered this fate.  Jenny's passing on has dealt me a terrible blow and I sometimes feel totally stressed  to have to accept that she is gone forever but I can never imagine taking my own life as a result of this. Dying is not an option. I have too many reasons to stay in good shape and stay alive.  My three children, needless to mention.

I brushed off further negative thoughts. I need to preserve my self-belief. I am definitely stronger than I think. Today was but my first attempt to scale the 40-storey block. True, it was a poor start but next time with better preparation I will ascent higher, if not reaching the very top.  I should learn to overcome my fear for heights also, after all it is very much a play of the mind.

BTW, today is the 17^th day of the month and a Friday. Jenny’s last breath was taken exactly 13 weeks ago on 17^th April, Friday at around 10.42am in the morning. That same time this morning, after freshening up with a simple breakfast at a nearby coffee-shop, recuperating from my jog and additional vertical exertion, my mind shifted back to her. She was a mentally strong woman, in health and even in sickness. I have to do better than allowing myself to be shaken so easily.

 

 

 

A new chapter?

It is often said, when one chapter closes a new one opens. I tend to see my life now as one of two chapters, the first with my late wife, Jenny and the second, the one that now defines my time on this planet where she is no longer a physical part of. 

I suppose if life is like a book, and if some chapters are good and happy ones then it is to be expected that some chapters will be sad ones.

Jenny’s passing, with one turn of the page has flipped my life to the beginning of a very sad chapter. It is now 12 weeks and 1 day into this new phase and it portends a rather predictable unhappy ending for my life story or what remains to be written and read.

You might argue that how the future unfolds will really depend on how I want this next page to be written. After all it is my life. I have a choice on how I should lead it.

This morning I spent some time by myself at our Botanic Gardens.  The tropical garden with its lush and verdant flora and landscape is one of my favourite places to jog and I started my usual ½ hour route and finished up at the Visitors’ Centre.  The garden was crowded as expected.  It has recently been inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage site, the first of such for a tropical botanic garden, which explains the larger than usual throngs of visitors on this weekend day.

Sitting by myself on a park bench, there was an endless stream of people, mostly young couples and some older ones, walking by either by themselves or with children in tow. A youngish looking couple had arranged and set up a small canopy adorned with colourful animal-shaped balloons and flowers for a photo-shoot of their new born baby child.  Elsewhere, couples were strolling together hand in hand or with dogs on leashes.  They all appeared relaxed, cheery and blissful, obviously enjoying the lush greenery and peaceful setting of the park.

Amidst the serenity of this morning setting I found it hard not to feel somewhat lonely and deprived. Cancer has cruelly robbed me of my beloved partner-for-life.  No more can I enjoy her presence and companionship nor share the magic of such moments at our beautiful botanic gardens or anywhere else. I have been thrown into the deep end of a murky pool. I have to learn anew on how to face the struggles of life very much on my own. With retirement looming and age creeping up, the future years to live out alone and by myself appear dull and dim and even ominously dark and worrying.

“Could you not consider re-marrying?”, a few friends have bravely tossed up this question.  My cynical and somewhat incredulous look made up for my muted reply.  I was quite sure they later regretted raising this, after all Jenny’s passing on has not been long and to suggest that I should move on by itself seemed inappropriate even.  But of course I knew they had meant well. 

After spending and sharing 30 years of time together, our lives are really quite entwined. It will not be easy to disentangle myself from all the old memories and happy times we shared with each other. There is an interlocking, a bond, which will take a lot of time to undo. I am also so used to her ways, style and mannerism.  How she speaks, laugh and gripe. The gentleness and glimmer in her eyes that spoke to me, without the need for words, her love for me.  It is a love I am so assured of that is unconditional and everlasting.

Could there be another female who could accept me as who I am, with all my imperfections and more than frequent moody disposition? I doubt too that I will find the motivation to court anyone else.  You may caution me to never say never. There was an old James Bond movie with this same title to remind me even.  But right now, re-marrying is a very unlikely twist that can be written into my book of life.

For a start, I will need to make new space in my heart. But for now,  it is all Jenny and she occupies every corner and firmly rooted at centre-stage. 

My computer desktop background, on standby mode, flashes out page after page of a voluminous digital photo collection I have of her – pictures taken on past holidays or with the family together.  I have selected some of her best shots and framed them to adorn the walls in our living room. More picture prints of her were put up in our bedroom. Hers will be the face I see first each morning when I flick on the light switch.  Her wardrobe is still flushed with all her clothes as are her trinkets, jewellery and make-up sets on the dressing table. It will take a long while before I will clear out her things.

So while a new chapter unfolds, I will continue living in the past.  I cannot imagine a new script with pages for any one new.  Not unless she is a clone and even then, the fit may not be enough to displace my beloved and belated wife, whom I hold so dear to my heart.  A new door has opened but I could not allow the previous one to be shut. 

A promise is a promise

Last weekend found me again faithfully attending Sunday Mass with the kids. Except for the weekend spent in Perth it was a routine I have closely stuck to for the last 11 weeks since Jenny’s departure.

Raised up as a devout Catholic and throughout our years together, Jenny have been strictly observing this weekend obligation. To wilfully skip Mass is a mortal sin, as most Catholics would profess.  While the kids obediently tagged along, her less-compliant hubby have sometimes been a handful for her.  Jenny would frown when I gave flimsy excuses for missing Mass. “I have urgent work to catch up on, Dear.  A troublesome report to finish up, so perhaps I meet you all when Mass ends?”,  I could recount, using this “work” excuse more than once, even though it reflected very poor time management on my part.

She would complain again of my misplaced priorities and how I could be all glued to Saturday night live football matches but instead have to sacrifice church time to finish yet another very “urgent report”.  “You have time for football but no time for God”, she would rebuke me.

To be fair, my weekend Mass attendance along with the clan has been pretty regular but the occasional absences were repeated enough to get her quite riled up at times.  Only that Jenny never really gets angry. It is not in her nature to show her temper. I knew her too well and perhaps in so doing, was guilty of exploiting her tolerance for my wanton irreverence.

Do not get me wrong. I have grown to adore the Catholic faith and was equally delighted to be married to a Catholic.

Catholics in my view are down-to-earth followers of the Word and how they practise their faith. Unlike some other Christian denominations, they are typically respectful of other religions and as such most do not descend to aggressive proselytising. I have grown to appreciate the traditional and solemn manner of worshipping during Mass, which other denominations might find boring and mechanistic. I have no need for a “happy-clappy” time to bring me to a spiritual high.

But my perceptions and views on religious and deistic beliefs have also evolved over the years, sometimes to Jenny’s chagrin. Why and how so? That might be for another series of blog postings, perhaps at some other time, if I can find the inspiration. For now, suffice it to say that one’s relationship with God is a rather personal matter.   

That said, through all our years together, Jenny could take heart that I have never reneged on my promise.

“So you wish to marry her?” I still recalled Father Malcolm’s words more than 30 years ago.  As a non-Catholic planning to hitch up with a Catholic, I had to undergo mandatory counselling by the priest. Father Malcolm, our parish priest from Australia, made certain that I would first be committed to supporting Jenny in raising up our children into the Catholic faith. I would promise also to never obstruct Jenny’s personal growth as a member of the parish, even as I am free to pursue my own set of beliefs. The church could accept mixed marriages and there was no compulsion for me to be converted.

I have to give my word of honour.  Never mind that it was said 30 years ago, a promise is a promise.  With Jenny’s demise, I have to now take over her leading role in keeping the fire of faith burning within the family.

Mass has now a whole new meaning for me - I cannot help but feel her presence all over again.

On the side of the pews where we usually sit, I could sense her right next to me. She was wearing her usual Sunday dressing, her favourite sleeved purple silk dress or her peach-coloured sleeveless blouse.  She dresses smartly for Mass, as she does all the time.  I would sometimes turn to look at her.  She gently shakes her head in disapproval. I should be focussing on the proceedings, and not be gazing at her. When the time comes to extend the sign of peace to each other, if she is seated next to me, I would put my arms around to warmly hug her.  “Remember we are in a church”, she would softly rebuff my moves.  This would not be the time to display affection.

And so I find myself faithfully attending Mass each week with the kids. Jenny would be pleased. I am keeping my promise and there would be no need for excuses from now on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why am I sharing my grief?

Why am I sharing so much of my grief through these posts? What do I hope to achieve or get by penning my thoughts, or to be exact, keyboard-tapping them as one hardly writes on paper these days? In so doing am I not exposing myself too much? How would Jenny feel if she had known that I am baring so much of our past lives together, after all she was very much a private person, a shrinking violet, if you knew her.

It’s been some weeks since I started this journal. I have never in the past had the habit of keeping any kind of a diary. Writing is usually only something I need to do at work, crafting emails  or drafting policy or procedural papers and so on.

But losing a spouse is a life-changing event. The days after the funeral, after all the hugs and words of sympathy were all made and spoken, in the quiet of my now single-occupancy room, I had felt more isolated and alone than ever.  The kids could only spend so much time to keep me company as they needed space and time on their own too.

To be truthful, there were concerned friends who took time and trouble to meet up. They bought me lunch, joined me for walks in the nature reserve and I had offers to go for runs together also, though I never could keep pace and huff-and-puff alongside other runners these days without losing breath. But face to face even with the closest of friends, there was only so much I could openly share without turning the social occasion into a tearful therapy session. It would be awkward of me to wholeheartedly pour out my misery and break into tears in their presence. Not in the restaurant settings, where we would meet and risk inviting stares from curious on-lookers.  It is also to spare my friends from the stress of finding the right words to say. How would they comfort me up and save their old buddy from crumbling before their eyes?

My trusted friends were already kind enough to make time to support me, to expect any more help from them would be most unfair.

So in my own quiet time, writing my thoughts was a way to express myself, say the words I find hard to verbalise and relieve my inner pain.  The pain of losing Jenny was a pain unlike any I had felt in the past.  Looking back, I cannot recall anything of a heartbreak that came close to the tsunami of anguish that swept into my life. It is the first real personal tragedy that I had experienced and I cannot imagine going through a bigger one in my life. If I had other heartaches before, they were merely pin-pricks.

And worst of all, it was hard for me to really talk about it to anyone. Likewise I think it is also hard for anyone to understand the agony I am in.  Not unless, God-forbid, they too have lost a spouse of many loving years together.

But indeed there are many others who have lost their spouses and are sharing their personal grief through blog-sites.  Trawl the net and quite a few such sites would pop up.  Some have stated their blogs were put up to help others in similar situations.  I must confess that it was helpful reading about their plight and how they dealt with their problems. Shared misery is a misery distilled and lightened. Reading through their sites, made me feel less isolated, more “normal” to some extent.

But I cannot in all honesty claim that in making each post, I have such noble intentions of helping others. To be true to myself, I write really for myself. I am the reader and I am writing to take care of my own healing.

I write also with the future in mind. 

The future is uncertain as Jenny’s sudden claim by cancer has taught me. And I am not sure what the future has in store for me. I guess nobody would.  But should the years ahead be kind to me, I would not want to forget this important phase in my life, traumatic as it has been. Does this sound ironical? Here I am, going thru the worst part of my life but instead of wanting to bury it, trying to blank  it out and tuck away the entire doleful experience into the backwoods of some remote corner in my brain, I am bashing away my computer to document it all.

And why not? I could only lose Jenny once. Time would surely heal and memories of the pain would fade. But forgetting this part of my life seemed to mean losing her for good. And that for me, is unthinkable.

Jenny might not be pleased that I am giving her this much of attention.  It is strange that women might invest so much to make themselves look attractive (Jenny is ever perked up to make sure she looked pretty in public) but would feel uncomfortable when placed under the spot-light. But my poor Jen is no more here to know about it. Why do I then feel the need to write so much about her and about the time we spent together and how I feel about losing her? These are personal feelings after all, exposed and laid bare. It is not like me to do this. Not in the past at least. Am I embarking on a guilt trip, to fill in a void of unrequited love? Am I trying to re-create my passion for her and dedicate a fresh tribute to my wife, the one and most important person in my life and sadly whom I now feel I have not shown enough of my appreciation and love  over our 30 years together? To make up for what I had failed to do?

Perhaps that might be the subject for yet another post. Another reason to write again, some other time and place?