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.

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.