A rare "Jenny sighting"

I spent much of today’s Sunday mass looking at another woman. I couldn’t help not looking. She was seated two rows to the front and about two o’clock to the right, so I could see only her left side profile. I swore it was Jenny. She looked every bit like her. The resemblance from the angle where I was seated and even the closeness of her facial tone and complexion was totally uncanny.

She even wore her hair in the same way as Jenny, shoulder length with a hint of brownish tint. Jenny was a little more slender and petite but otherwise, from her side profile and the sleeveless black blouse she was wearing that is so identical to the one that Jenny often wore, I was half wondering if my late wife had a long-lost twin sister or a clone out there. And per chance, I would stumble upon her this fateful day.

The kids and I were attending Sunday Mass at the Church of the Holy Cross in the Clementi estate, for our very first time. Our own church at Bukit Batok was celebrating its Feast Day, an annual food and fun fair event that meant that all the parking spaces would be reserved for setting up the food and games stalls. We circled around the neighbourhood in search for parking but to no avail. My boy W checked out the mass times at the Holy Cross which is the next nearest church, a 10 minutes’ drive away and viola, we could get there with time to spare.

And shortly after settling into the pews, this lady who is probably around Jenny’s age and looking so much like her, caught my eye. Thus far since her passing on, during Sunday masses, I could only conjure Jenny’s visage amongst the parish, seated beside me or a few seats away with the kids in between us. But this time there was no need to put my imagination into overdrive. She was there in the flesh. This someone, with side features so similar to that of my late wife’s. I wanted to move up  to her to take a closer look if I could. But that would be outrageously impossible. Not in the middle of Mass. Also because she was seated with another man. Middle-aged, in all likelihood her husband. And the young lady on her other side, most likely her daughter.

So it was definitely not Jenny. But another man’s wife.

The sight of someone with such incredible physical alikeness to my late wife, seated with another man was somewhat unsettling. I had to blink hard to tell myself it was not a bad dream. Still, distracted as I was, I could recall the priest, a man of advanced years speaking about aging. He shared that at 74 years of age, he is more senior than most of his peers and he spoke also about how we will all one day die and that it was God’s plan to return us from ashes to ashes. Much of the rest of his Homily settled into the common theme of God’s salvation like many other sermons I have heard so frankly there was not anything new or earth shaking to take home with. In any case, my chief motivation to attend church is to be with the family. And Jenny would be extremely unhappy if I did not. In death she still has a hold on me. Perhaps even stronger than ever before. Mass is a time when I am in closest communion with her.

But today, for the first time, amid a new and unfamiliar parish, I thought I caught a rare sighting of Jenny. Resurrected in the flesh as a person. I have to remind myself that it was not her. Just another stranger, with a different family, a different life nothing in common with mine. The real Jenny of mine is gone, kept alive only in my mind and memory. And that of my kids and her parents and siblings.

How many more Jenny sightings will I be getting in future? I am not sure. The mind plays tricks in strange and unpredictable ways every now and then and in my fragile state, constantly dreaming and thinking of her, I stood to be easily fooled.

Death, the ultimate transition

It was not that I had never tried imagining a life without her - my wife, Jenny of nearly 30 years. The possibility of her leaving me had crossed my mind many times. More so as we got older. And the only possible reason for her departure would be Death.

Because Death is the ultimate transition. It is life changing.

Ever too often, we hear of people we knew or of their friends or relatives dying. Sometimes, from sudden cardiac arrest but more so because of terminal illnesses, like Cancer. The big C word. Ever too often also, at my former workplace where there was a sizeable number of staff in our department between 50-60 years, the so-called high risk age group for cancer, news of someone being stricken with this dreaded disease would filter through the grapevine.  And most would eventually die. We ask about the symptoms, if they had felt or noticed any. Because we knew that no one is immune and we harboured a real fear that we might also fall victim in a similar way. It is a roll of the dice that might one day bear our number. Biological bad luck in which we could do little to control, to change the odds.

So I was all too mindful that we might not be spared from such misfortune. Me or her dying early, leaving the other widowed and stranded. Jenny had always preferred to veer from such sombre contemplations. Death was a taboo subject for bedside conversation. “You are always too negative. Too pessimistic”, she would frown at me, shutting me off quickly whenever I raised this troubling subject. She was of course right. I was talking about the unthinkable. Why should we burden our minds with such needless unease? After all, most people get to live to a ripe old age in life.  The average life span in our affluent country is more than 80 years, for crying out loud.  Most couples get to grow old together, though not necessarily happily for some. Our chances of growing old together should not be any poorer or worse than the average denizen, after all we lead healthy wholesome lives.

But the unthinkable happened. With all its surreal conjuring turning into stark reality. By some twist of fate or God’s will, depending on your religious leanings or however you chose to see it, Cancer came a-calling. For Jenny and me, looking back, our past blissful lives seemed like one huge delusional bubble.  This bubble that we were cocooned in for so long burst also as soon as the news of the disease was confirmed to us. It was our turn to suffer.

Jenny bore the full brunt of the disease and its merciless invasion. Initially we were full of hope. Hope that modern medicine could fight off the tumours and reverse those cancerous cells.  But as the months wear on, hope faded like the setting sun. And in less than 7 months she was taken from me. And the children, deprived of a loving and caring mother.

Until Jenny’s unfortunate demise I thought I had understood what Death meant.  I was wrong.

It was not that I have never encountered death before. I have attended countless funerals in my lifetime. That of relatives, friends and colleagues or their loved ones and family members, some happening pre-maturely, too early and too young, while others withered away, bowing out peacefully in their sunset years. Eight years ago, my own father passed on at the ripe old age of 86. I sobbed like a child at the viewing gallery where I watched his casket being slowly carted into the crematorium. But for all these encounters, grim as they were, I was but a spectator. Death had not truly and fully casted its foreboding shadow on me. Not as yet.

So when it came for Jenny, even as it was the expected outcome, it came as an unwelcomed stranger. I thought I knew how to deal with it, mentally steeling myself for the inevitable eventuality as she was fighting a hopeless battle, a disease that had exhausted all treatment options. And Cancer is a silent adversary that takes its own time to course through its unwilling host, slowly eating her away from within. It gave me time to prepare myself for the final cruel blow. So I thought I was ready for it. In the end I had mistaken. I could never be ready for the harshness of its permanence and the totality of my loss. Perhaps even to this day.

The one person in your life who has been such a close constant for so long, is not in existence anymore.

That was my real Death experience. For the first time. The one that would tear into your heart. The reality that it left behind would feel ice-cold, brutal and inconsolable. It would be ever so hard to accept or believe.

Yes, each day I could get through the day’s routine, packing off for work, banter and even laugh with colleagues or friends. On weekends I go could go venturing in the nature parks, soaking in all its tranquillity and greenery goodness, sing and even pose and smile candidly for the umpteenth photo-shot. But within the shell that is my exterior, a new person resides. One who is malformed by Death’s deadly touch.

Once touched, Death never ever leaves.

I have now accepted that Death will always be an unwanted companion in my journey of grief. Until one day, it becomes my turn to answer to Death’s call. When it knocks on my own door. It really takes Death to change things. Because that is how Death is. The ultimate transition that is Life Changing.

 

Getting hooked on Spotify

You must have heard about Spotify. The digital streaming music service that most users run as a hand-phone app. If you have not, then you might be better off staying out. Especially if you are a big music fan, like me. Because it is insanely addictive and you will be enslaved by it.

In the old days, slaves are people deprived of their basic human rights, chained and trapped in a life of servitude against their will. In this modern day and age, you would not think there will be slaves. But slavery never ended with the arrival of modern times. With technology, many of us become slaves of another sort and a newer form.

My kids and a friend had urged me for some time to subscribe to the Spotify app. Like most things new I would typically be slow to start. I finally relented and installed the app onto my iPhone but left it idling there. Just a week ago, I decided to test out the app. There was a one month free trial, so why not? Well, in no time I got hooked.

The app plunged me into what appears to be a bottomless ocean of music and songs.  For a music fan like me, it is a wickedly sumptuous musical wonderland. Old and near-forgotten artistes and singers that captivated my hearing during those heady teeny-bopper days of yore came back to life. I re-discovered Albert Hammond, with hits like “Free Electric Band” and “I’m a Train” and the folksy Mamas and the Papas of a past hippy generation and maybe a million more. It got me all awash in endless waves of nostalgia and Spotify quickly became an addiction. I was hooked in seeking out different music styles and genres, downloading the ones that might be worthy companion for my long car commutes or jogging routines, where wifi is unavailable. Before I realised, I was burning up just about all my free time on this new-found obsession. Searching, listening and adding to my playlist and repeating the process ad nauseam. I even bought a Bluetooth speaker to pare with my hand-phone so the music streaming through can overflow into my bedroom, the private space I once shared with my beloved Jenny. 

Well, you can kind of guess that if Jenny is still my bedroom companion, this would not be possible. No, she was not adverse to music.  Who would be? But peace and quiet in our bedroom had always been the norm and Jenny would not have put up with raucous invasion of any sort in her private chambers. But alas, much as I wish it not to be the case, I am now the sole occupant, free to do as I wish and free to pursue my new found obsession. Uninhibited.

But if I could hear her now, I am sure she would understand and even be supportive. Struggling with grief and the pain of missing her each day, perhaps Spotify is one of my best saving discoveries. It has opened up a new dimension of distraction, even as the music does not sound as uplifting and exhilarating as before. In the old carefree days, when my senses were not as clouded by anguish and loss.

Jenny knew how much I enjoy music. Her main complaint would be that I always play them too loud. “Are you trying to wake up the dead?” She would prefer that I turn the volume a few notches lower.  

So while this might sound like shameless product endorsement, I will continue feeding my Spotify addiction for some time. Perhaps until the novelty wears off, which is not anytime so soon. There is still an endless list of music to check out.  They flood my senses and drown my sensibilities. And I need that daily fix.