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

First anniversary

Since Jenny’s passing on, anniversaries take a new significance. Dates like the 21^st October, which slipped by last week.  That was the day that the doctor confirmed that Jenny had 4^th stage gastric cancer.

So it has been a year since cancer intruded into our lives and turned our world upside down. Looking back, much as I try, it is hard to take anything positive from this past year - the numerous trips to the clinic, the anxiety awaiting each scan report, watching her bear the pain and misery of each chemo treatment. And now, enduring each day of life without her.  It has truly been a wretched year. One I would like to forget.

But there lies the irony.  Far from being done and dusted, this last year would be the one to be remembered and cherished for the rest of my days. For this was when my dearest Jenny took her bow from the stage we call Life. How significant is that?

So the more I try to forget, the deeper the memories would etch in my head. Ironic, but that is how the mind works.

Times like this, I retreat to this blog site. To take refuge and find solace. A year back, I would have never imagined at any point in my life found the need to write a journal. What a difference a year had make.

Now this blog site is turning to be like an old friend. But I wonder if I am getting addicted to it. Like some kind of drug.  At some point I should learn to resist and break out from this newly acquired habit that is becoming  a regular feature in my cycle of grief. Habits have a nasty way of determining destiny. Not that I am overly concerned about how my future would pan out. After all what future do I really look forward to at this stage of my life?

So I am contemplating of weaning myself from this blog.  It warrants further explanation, if not to anyone but to myself at least and I might have to think through this decision a little harder.  Next posting, perhaps?

Thinking about Jenny

I think a lot about Jenny. Perhaps, more than I should. 

My rational mind tells me I should not dwell so much on her. That I should suppress the thoughts and focus on getting along with life, keeping myself occupied and staying on an even keel. That being stuck in grief can be detrimental for my health and well-being.

But the more I consciously try to put her off my mind the more I gravitate back to her.  I think of her when I am shaving, eating, strumming my guitar or when I am just moping listlessly around the house. Especially when I get restless, wondering if she had been around she would have helped me pass the time more prolifically.

I think of her in her normal healthy self before she got unwell, always composed and self-assured. And I think of her again in her sickly and weakened state, pale and gaunt, the glimmer receding in her eyes. I try recalling the little that she had shared with me as she bore through her suffering most of the time subdued in sombre silence, speaking up only to voice her pain and medical needs and to occasionally share her innermost fears. And who would not, in the face of impending death, be fearful?

“Dad, I do not want to die”, she murmured faintly as the anxiety got the better of her, sadness written all over her face.  She was referring to me like she was another one of our kids. The child in her was speaking to provoke a response from the parent in me.

“You will make it, Honey. The doctor will get you well. You need to eat well and keep your hopes up and continue praying. You will get well, you must get well”, I remember assuring her, in fact many times during the months when she was undergoing her chemo treatment, at home or accompanying her on the way to the clinic.

And I think of her lying in the hospital bed during her final five weeks.  Her body was viciously betraying her from within. She was a pitiful sight. A tangle of medical tubes, some draining ascites fluid out of her body whilst others are pumping medication and  parenteral nutrition into her veins.  But the light was fast fading and the deed would soon be done.  The cancer was on course to complete its evil mission and in turn also self-destruct to perish along with the host.

Just last night, for the first time, I dreamt of her lifeless body. But in that same dream she came back to life. Miracles happen, but unfortunately only in the state of dreams.

I think of her a lot.  But unlike before, these flashbacks do not stab me as sharply as before. Perhaps I have gotten numbed to the pain. Perhaps the tears have dried up. Possibly my grief has meandered into another phase. That of acceptance? If that is true then I should be feel relieved somewhat.

But it is relief mixed with fear. I fear that my memories of her, her as a real person in my life, as loving wife and mother to my children would dissolve with time. “She will always be alive in your memories”, kind friends have told me many times. But unfortunately the mind does not work like that. The average human brain does not retrieve information with clock-work repeatability like a digital computer. At least mine don’t. Over time, our neural connections weaken. Our memories are like sieves and much as we cherish them all, some will inevitably leak through. And with age and possibility of dementia setting in it can only get worse. Would we be mentally “divorced” over time?

I have sufficient digital images of her to refresh my memory of how she looks. But which photograph can truly recall her actual smile?  As for real-life interactive experiences, they depend solely on mental recall. Can I remember how she verbalise her various moods – happy and passionate or in less cheerful dispositions, when annoyed and complaining?

So I believe my tendency to constantly think about her arises from my own natural response on dealing with this fear. I need to refresh  the memories to keep them intact. So I can still hold on to the past. And how she was and how we were during the many happy years we shared so intimately with each other.  

 

My first birthday, without her

I turned 60 a few days ago. I am not sure if it was out of sympathy for my bereavement but I do not recall having so many people fussing over me before, over what I still view as another uneventful moment of my life.

I had rarely given much thought to birthdays, particularly if they are my own. Growing up in the so-called Baby Boomers generation, which already suggested that babies might be a dime a dozen, our parents were either too dirt poor or too busy eking a living to ever contemplate about birthday parties. Few could afford such luxurious distractions.

But times have changed. Most families these days would gather at fancy restaurants for sumptuous meals to celebrate birthdays. This has been the SOP for our family clan, since it came into being. But when it comes to my birthday, the last one within the family for the year, I would try to pare down on lavishness. Any “hole-in-the-wall” simple restaurant would do. But Jenny would resist the suggestion. Rather than risk being accused later on for being cheap, as she would be picking the tab, my birthday treat would at least be celebrated in some half-decent restaurant.

So in her absence, Jenny’s sisters generously took over her role and arranged a sumptuous lunch treat  at a posh Italian restaurant for the family clan on the weekend before my actual birthday. It was heartrending even as I enjoyed the savoury meal. On the same day, dinner was a fine dining experience hosted for me by my close friend J and his family. Remarkably, we actually share the same birthday.

The next day at work, during lunch-hour my division staff blindsided me with a surprise party in the office, complete with party hats, balloons and other colourful regalia.  They made me feel like a king of sorts. Which is always a wise thing to do for your boss. Come evening, my kids bought dinner and the feasting continued to the following few days with lunch treats from a few close colleagues.

I should count myself fortunate and even blessed. There is no shortage of people going an extra lap to lift me from the rut of bereavement. They would not allow my birthday slip by quietly. After all this would be the first of my birthdays since I got married, spent without the company of my dear belated wife.

But truth be told that if not for all their kind interventions, I would have just let the day drift by. Like any other day. To be exact, any of the 180 days, since Jenny’s passing on. And as another day of a long and endless journey of grief.  Yes, I have crossed into my sixth decade of existence, but what was the big deal?

I received a torrent of birthday greetings, at work and out, through emails, phone and Facebook messages.  “Happy Birthdays”, repeated many times over. I suppose there are not many other ways to articulate birthday wishes.

But with her absence that surrounds me completely and pervasively, hanging on stubbornly like the haze around our island, the giant hole gaping within me makes happiness an alien experience to internalise.  Come to think of it, I have quite forgotten how happiness really feels like anymore now.

Not that I could not remember ever being happy. I was generally a happy person and through my married years, I could declare that I have always been more happy than sad. But if you ask me now how happiness feels - damn, I will be stumped for an answer.

To be in that airy state of mind – blissful and blithe, alive with merriment, spirited and high on euphoria and enchantment, elated or peaceful, in seventh heaven or just contented. It is easy to describe the various states of happiness. But to actually be happy now that she is gone would be unreal, a hopeless endeavour to achieve. I can put on a cheerful face but it is a mask that wears out and melt away after a while.

For the bereaved, to live in a world no longer shared with this single person who mattered most, happiness will always be elusive. One can fill the day with all kinds of activities. But these past-time activities are distractions at best. 

I have also realised all too well, it is only the unhappy person who has a need for distractions. A sad fact, but true.

So my first birthday without the love of my life came and went. People close to me, mindful of my loss, helped make me feel special. Crossing into a new age group, my life moves into a new trajectory. However I might view it, the journey ahead is a bleak and scary one. So many uncertainties, unfamiliar problems that will emerge, tribulations that will need to be dealt with largely on my own. So much unlearning and relearning to cope with.

I see a rocky path ahead, between this day and the next birthday, which seems very far away. But at this age and juncture of my life, it is just as well if time could stand still for me.  I will just take a step at a time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Replaying again, our cancer journey

Drink up your Prosure, dear. You can’t afford to lose any more weight.

She gave a reluctant nod and took hold of the mug from me, slowly stirring the warm lumpy liquid to get a more even mix. She hated the drink. It tasted like milk blended with rotten fish.  But still it annoyed me when she squirmed to show her disdain for it.

Jenny had lost too much weight. And I was deeply worried.  Her usual 45 kilo petite figure had whittled down to a pitiful 35 kilo and she looked gaunt and frail to the bone.  Sometimes the worry turned to panic, and I got angry with her for daring to be fussy with the Prosure consumption.  Her oncologist had prescribed the distasteful beverage for mandatory consumption. Don’t treat it like it is food, treat it as medicine.  That was his strict instruction. The Prosure was formulated to help cancer patients prevent weight loss. That was how it was also touted in the brochures.

Without much else to turn to, we placed a lot of hope on that powdery formulation. Jenny consumed copious amount of the yucky stuff. And we monitored and recorded her daily consumption. I often have to cajole and coax her, reminding and nagging her even just so she would not fall short of the recommended intake.

Looking back, it is hard to say if she could have been worse off without it. We could never be sure. But tough as the Prosure regime was it gave us at least some form of assurance that her body was receiving the nutrition needed to keep her going.

In hindsight now, we were of course gullible to the core.  Cancer was a tougher adversary than can be fought with mere diet plans.

And with stomach cancer, Jenny had a really bad deal. Is there another cancer that could have been kinder to her? Probably not, but as far as quality of life goes, stomach cancer is at the bottom of the pits. Her stomach felt tight and bloated a lot of the time. Eating became a dreadful chore. And then there is the nausea induced by the brutal chemotherapy, causing her to puke whatever little she could consume.

The chemo treatment played further havoc on her already fragile state. Pumping chemo drugs into the body is akin to unleashing large scale area bombardment to destroy a few hidden terrorist elements, using a war scenario analogy.  The toxins destroyed a lot of good cells while trying to hunt down the evil cancerous cells. The oncologist had planned for 8 chemo cycles but by the time the 2^nd cycle was due, Jenny was already feeling the strain. She was constantly tired and had incessant bouts of diarrhoea, nausea, vomiting much of the little food she could consume. Ulcers ruptured in her mouth and blistered her gullet making swallowing near impossible. She was a pale shadow of her former self. And I felt utterly helpless watching her suffer.

Because her eating capacity is so limited, her diet had to be carefully selective.  Bird’ nest concentrate, ABC fruit mix, double-boiled chicken soup and other brews of the highest nutrition were regular features of her daily diet. 

But Prosure and high nutrition diet aside, in truth, we were running on empty.  The chemo turned out to be ineffective and even debilitating and Jenny’s condition eventually deteriorated.

It is hard for me to suppress recycling this dreadful episode of the final chapter of our lives together. She, undergoing the harrowing treatment and gradually succumbing to the disease. And me, as the failed and incompetent care-giver. 

I am tempted at times to ask myself a few “what-ifs”.  What if we had taken advice from others who had cautioned us to not go the chemo route and place so much trust on modern medicine?  What if we had chosen alternative medicine? Would Jenny still be alive?

It is a futile mind game that leads to nowhere.

And what if I now contract cancer?  The chances are not small. Call it the bane of modern society and lifestyles. Statistically in our country it is known that 1 out of 3 to 4 persons would at some point in their lives be stricken with the disease. Will I then resort to chemo treatment also? And allow the toxic substances course through my veins and take its brutal toll, making me sicker than I should be? Frankly, I am not sure.

We placed a lot of faith in our oncologist. With each visit, he gave us a lot of hope and confidence.  It all proved to be very misplaced.  On hindsight, he was really putting a false front.  Yes, he oozed confidence and injected a sure-footed sense of optimism in all his diagnoses. I suppose he was well trained to take such an approach, in that respect. It made sound business sense also.  But in truth he was never ever sure. Jenny was like many of his other patients, cash cows for the milking. Another life specimen for experimenting, to aid his own learning and add to his armoury of knowledge and experience. It is learning that is abundantly paid for by our insurance money and finally at the expense of my beloved Jenny’s life.

Cancer has stopped short Jenny’s life and journeying alongside her and watching her suffer each day has severely dented my confidence in the medical profession. But I do not feel bitter. Just a feeling of acceptance.  I am resigned to accept the consequences of our choice and decision of entrusting her life completely in the hands of our doctors. We do not blame ourselves also, because how would we have known better? We were faced with a case of Hobson’s choice. Cancer in reality is a terribly formidable disease to overcome. And fourth stage cancer is a death sentence with almost no further avenues of revocability.

Jenny, I feel so sad each time I replay how your life had wound down. But the sad truth I suppose is that everybody has to die. One day at some point in time. It is the consequence of being mortal. And we have very little control on how and when this would happen. So with that, rest well and rest easy.

Fazed by the haze

Dearest Jenny

This week, the 24^th since your tragic demise, went pretty well for me.  But it would have been better if not for that sickening blanket of smoggy haze that covered  all of our island.

The whole country is soaked in a soup of smoky haze, thanks to our neighbours
 

Honey, you are more than familiar with the acrid burning smell that invades our nostrils each year.  We have this nasty haze, an unwanted gift from an unremorseful neighbour down south.  Blame it also on our own bad fortunes with wind directions. Only that this time, the pall of misty gloom seems to hang around for the longest time.  

As before, we pray for rain. We pray for shift in the winds. We pray for our stupid neighbours to finally wake up to their senses and really do something about the freaking forest fires. But that last prayer is probably the hardest to get answered.

Our Volleyball on Sands Meetup group, which I have faithfully been attending each Tuesday evening for the last 5 weeks, had to be cancelled this week. A little smog would not kill anyone but the PSI reading was at hazardous levels. So you would be pleased that volleyball mania took a back-seat and sanity prevailed. The organiser reluctantly called off the session and off-line, we pray for clearer skies next week. 

Such a shame as I was really enjoying these V-ball meet-ups. You would not be impressed for sure as surely you would not approve of such risky indulgences on my part, at my age. Yes, Honey I haven’t quite realised my age and may have to learn a painful way!

Rest of the work week cruised along smoothly enough. Unlike most other weeks, I could not find time for my solitary lunch getaways. There were several lunch meetings with various people.

On Tuesday, I had arranged lunch with an ex-colleague.  She apparently did not know about your passing on. When she saw your picture displayed in my car digital dashboard, the one with the Lake District in the backdrop, she commented how happy you would be that I had put up your picture. Indeed you would. But I had to break the news to her about your passing on and immediately felt bad for her. For feeling bad to be ignorant about my terrible loss. But like tit for tat, she too broke the news to me. She had only 2 months ago, just recovered from cancer treatment herself. I did not know that. And only moments ago, when she first got into the car I had commented on her new hair-do and how well it suited her.  I felt then of being a real dork of sorts.  I would need to have a better eye to tell fake hair from real. But as you know me, Honey I am the quintessential dope at such things, especially on noticing about women’s subtle appearances.  You have registered your complaints often enough. 

Fortunately it was a short drive from her workplace to the restaurant.  And the rest of lunch went well enough for us. We caught up with on family and work, reminiscing how we suffered under the torments of our common ex-boss.  We offered each other words of encouragement and promised to keep in touch.

On Thursday evening, I attended my second Open Mic Meetup at the Laffios restaurant at Beach Road. How I wished I could bring you there, like some of the lucky husbands who brought their wives along. At least then I could try to impress you like they did for their spouses.

That's me on the guitar.

This second group had a few more older people, so I blended in better.  I brought my trusted guitar and treated my audience to U2’s “All I want is you”.  LOL, did I say “treated”?  Well it was a decent enough performance I think. No hitches. This song carries a melancholic tune but that was not the reason I chose it. With my limited vocal range, it was one of the easiest of U2 songs to sing and play on the guitar. It was a song I picked up only weeks ago so you have definitely not heard me sing that in the past. Such a pity.  Because All I Want is You. Really.

The meetup groupies urged me for a second song and I decided on “Eleanor Rigby”. You have heard me warbled that countless times, my favourite Beatles hit.  I thought I had all the lyrics permanently ingrained into my head. What a lousy time for mental blocks and I stumbled at various parts. It was embarrassing but my polite and stout-hearted audience applauded nonetheless. Thankfully, Paul McCartney wrote only three short verses to sing about this enigmatic lady and her forlorn loveless life. I made a mental note of practising harder the next time I plan on attending these Meetups again.

On Friday, all the divisional heads, about 20 of us, got together for our monthly “culture chat” meetings.  These regular chat meetings allow us to gel better so we won't batter each other so much over work. After gobbling up our DIY popiah meals, we sat, huddled in a circle. The plan for that day was for everyone to share a lesser known secret about ourselves. Expectedly in such situations, no one would be terribly honest to reveal their darkest of secrets. Nor even anything remotely tainted. But we had a ball of a time nevertheless. We gamely teased each other of our past, plain and ordinary as what was freely shared then.  And guess who took a leading role to stir up much of the mirth and laughter? Yours truly was voted the funniest person at the end of the session.  Perhaps my buoyant mood and cheeky display humour, lame or otherwise, contrasted sharply against how most colleagues usually see me – measured, serious and even solemn at times. So I caught them by surprise. Some even wondered if I was drunk or high on drugs!

But we will remember that chat session as one of our more fun and light-hearted meetings unlike the past dour ones.

Friday evening, I had dinner with my ex-colleague, P.  You know him, he took over my old job. We went to the Spruce restaurant, at the old abandoned fire station. You had previously ate at the restaurant with the kids, but without me as I could recall. It was the first time since I met P since your funeral wake, which he attended with his British wife.  I shared with him how difficult it has been coping with life without you.  P offered to accompany me for holiday overseas but I reminded him of his busy schedule. He should not sacrifice precious recreation time with family for my own sorry sake.  

Meanwhile through the week, the dreaded haze hung on. Like a curse that refuse to be exonerated.  Come Saturday morning, despite the PSI readings hovering at unhealthy range, I was hell-bent to pound the tracks. I put on my running shoes and headed off to MacRitchie.  But while driving through the smoky pall I came to my senses. I should not put my fragile health at risk. With every gasp of putrid air, I would be clogging my lungs with all kinds of poisonous particulates. So I quickly changed my mind about the outdoor run and swung over to my Dover office. To our Staff Gym, using the facility for the first time ever. The tread-mill gave me the work-out I needed but not the satisfaction.  I felt like a hamster. All that frantic scurrying but going nowhere. Damned haze!

But Saturday evening finished on a high note. I spent the evening with your dear family. Yes, your mum and dad (on wheelchair), sister and brothers were all there.  We got together at your brother’s condo function room for wine and finger food. Yes, I went alone as expected. Again the kids all have plans of their own. But the closeness of your family was endearing and heart-warming as usual. Again, I pictured you seated between your siblings and their kids, looking ever so relaxed and at ease. It nearly brought tears to my eyes. But I held back to stay buoyant so I would not dampen the mood. We talked about the recent elections. Yes, your siblings were still sympathetic to the opposition as you always were. We talked about the haze, work and everything. But we did not talk very much about you. But worry not, Honey, they all hold you dear in their hearts. I am totally convinced of that unshakeable fact.

I should also mention that on Wednesday I spent much of the evening till late at the Hospital where you passed on. A colleague was seriously ill and was admitted into the A&E for treatment and observation. I was there with a few other colleagues to keep watch. He recovered well enough and was discharged at the end. But it was the first time I had stepped back into the Hospital. I reminded myself not to be swamped with emotions. I cannot say for sure how I would feel if I have to visit the very ward and the bed where you lived your last moments. That spot would trigger a tsunami of pain within me for sure.

So this whole week has been rather packed for me. A lot of highs and some lows. I am sure you are pleased that I am not stuck in pits of sorrow and self-pity. But all these past-times as I have said are merely distractions. Necessary as they are for me to go on with life.

I keep you close to my heart as you know I would. Always, wherever I go and whatever I do. And there's nothing hazy about that.

Love you, Honey as always,

Hubby