Inspiration from my brave wife

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Annual Staff Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coney Island

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

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

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

Coastal path along the Punggol waterfront

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

At last, a real dream of Jenny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Why quitting work is hard to do

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A touch of flu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All Soul's Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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