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.

A Sydney Reunion

Jenny and I had only twice stayed apart during our 30 years of married life together. Each time it was because of me being sent overseas for 4-6 months’ long training attachments that were required of my job. The first time was in 1990 at Belfast, Northern Ireland and the second was through the winter of 1996 in Ottawa, the capital of Canada. Instead of patiently waiting for my eventual return, the wanderlust in her would send her packing her luggage too, just so she could also be immersed and taste living abroad with me. On both occasions she took extended leave from work, joining me after I had settled in. And of course, she would bring the kids along.

I can never forget our tearful reunion at the Belfast airport, after 3 months of “enforced” separation with precious few opportunities for us to correspond. Back then in 1990,  unlike today, communication options were limited and expensive.  At the airport arrivals, Jenny and I embraced, locking arms for the longest time, with our boy then just turning two, sandwiched and suffocating in between.

Several years later, during my second training attachment in December 1996, we reunited again after a two month spell of living by myself in a freezing apartment in Ottawa. This time, her baggage was upsized, with two children in tow. Jenny was in fact in her second trimester of pregnancy, bearing our third child and her gynaecologist had certified her fit for travel. But then again, she had to brave through a 30-hour long haul flight and a Canadian winter at sub-zero frigidity.  Jenny was totally unfazed, so we spent Christmas together as a family that year, walking in our winter wonderland.

Last Thursday I flew to Sydney for another sort of reunion, this time with my daughter C.  She has been away from home residing in this sprawling down-under city on a semestral long student exchange programme. It was the first time she has stayed abroad on her own and the natural-born worrier in me was gnawing my insides out. How was she coping with her studies and hostel residential life? I needed to visit and check on her well-being.  But my anxieties were quite needless. She had settled very well in her hostel apartment, managing her school work and staying in good shape, preparing healthy meals for herself to save on eating out.

Sydney is bustling and vibrant as one would expect of any cosmopolitan city.  We visited the Darling harbour and strolled through the preposterously pristine parkways outside the famous Opera House. In the evening hours we took in the stunning Vivid Light display that was on show at the edge of the Rocks. So did tens of thousands others – Aussies and visitors alike, compacting and choking the parks in the dark of that Thursday evening. Most enrapturing was the light display against the shelled rooves of the Opera House, painting the building with a dazzling palette of moving patterns and shifting colours.



Sydney's building facade given a colourful makeover

Sydney's Opera House all "coloured" up
 

Several years back, Jenny and I have visited Sydney on one of our annual family holidays. Like any first time visitor to this famed Aussie city, we stopped over at the Opera House, snapping truckloads of photos of the iconic building for keepsake. But wouldn’t Jenny have been thrilled to watch the light display that coloured up the building in such enthralling fashion? It is hard for me to enjoy the light show without wishing she was there too, by my side holding my hands so we do not lose each other in the crowds. She would want to savour and enjoy this travel experience too.

On Saturday I rented a car and drove my daughter to Katoomba, the main town situated in the heart of the Blue Mountains. Answering the voluble call of Mother Nature again, as you can say.  Again, it was a kind of déjà vu experience for us because we had visited Katoomba before during our last Sydney odyssey. But that time the visit to the Blue Mountains was more a touch and go affair. We had driven through various vista points to take in the sights of the Three Sisters and the Blue Mountain valley which was about all, hardly breaking a sweat. This was quite a pity as the natural forested park has surely more to offer. This time round, my daughter and I would venture further and make more of our visit. We would take on the more difficult walking trails that bring us down and into the depths of the Blue Mountain valley.
 

View of the valley from atop the Blue Mountains

My daughter taking snapshots of the forested landscape.

Starting at Echo Point in Katoomba, we climbed down the very steep Giant’s Staircase.  The walk down is not for the faint-hearted, not least for me with my giddy-prone head for heights.  The Staircase is a series of steep metal stairways that zig-zag down to the valley below, 900 steps in all.  We made it down after about twenty minutes of gingerly taken footsteps and clinging on hand-rail supports. Then along the Federal Pass walking track we trekked through the valley, passing picturesque waterfalls and luxuriant rain forest. After more than an hour walking at a leisurely pace we reached the foot of the Furber Steps.  The Furber Steps comprise more than 1000 steps cut against the mountain slopes to get us back to higher ground, and along the way would take us past plunging waterfalls and gigantic overhanging rocks. It was a taxing climb, though slightly easier for me given my conditioning through regular exercises.  The sight of the valley that unfolded as we ascend the steps filled us with a mix of grandiosity and humility. My less-fit daughter was panting vigorously but keeping her smile in between each gasp. Obviously like me, she was fully exhilarated by the entire experience.

“It is a pity Mum isn’t here to see this splendid view of the forest. But it is most unlikely that Mum would be game enough for a walk like this. It would be too tough for her”, I could not help sharing my thoughts with C.

“Yes, Mum would be complaining all the way if we put her through this”, she chuckled, amid heavy gasping to catch her breath.

Indeed, now that I do not have Jenny as my main travel companion, I can add a new twist in the itinerary. As long as my feeble legs can still carry me, I will see more of the world on foot instead of whisking down the highways on travel coaches or rented cars. I will rekindle my love for nature by getting up close and personal and include trekking into the travel itinerary instead of endless walks along shopping mauls.

 

Birthday Outing to the Wetland Reserves

I started a Whatapp chat group recently and invited a few colleagues to join in.  Those with an ear for music, and I know a number of our staff who love to sing. Like me, quite a few could also strum or pick a guitar. We also have a violinist, a ukuleleist and a pianist but sadly, missing a drummer. Not quite a full-fledged band as yet, at best a motley crew of music wannabes.  But we have a decently well-equipped music studio at our campus set up for the student music clubs that we could gather for jamming sessions. It’s one of the few perks of working in an education outfit.

So last Friday we got together for our first jamming session. It went well enough. Prior to the music meet-up I had arranged for our IT colleagues to set up a flat TV screen in the studio. With that, we could beam up lyrics and musical chords called from the internet so everyone present could sing along. It was a much welcomed enhancement to the studio. Our HR was urging staff to start up all sorts of interest groups to add some buzz to our work life and help staff to bond better. So I was just doing my part.  And our music interest jamming group went off to a fine start.

So my work life, along with its humdrum of meetings and appointments have enough bright moments to help lift me from being oppressively sad. Colleagues, busy as they may be are often all smiles and jovial. I cannot ask for better ones to work with. But I sometimes wonder if they could see through the mask I wear. The sadness that I try to hide. It should not be hard to call my bluff, me not being the poker-face type.

Yet, I am sometimes troubled that of late, noone has asked me how I am getting along. With this new widowered life of mine.  Or coping with my loss.  As if, after more than a year, I should have totally recovered and adjusted. As if, reminding me of the painful past is the uncool and inconsiderate thing to do. But then again, could I fault them for this? What would they know, not having walked this path of misery and grief?

Last Saturday, 11^th of June was Jenny’s birthday.  My old school-mates and I, some 6 of us had weeks ago arranged to get together early in the morning for an outdoor walk at the Sungei Buloh Wetland Reserves. It is a splendid natural mangrove forest with mudflats and walking trails that attracts migratory birds of all plumage, winging across the globe to stop by for their yearly seasonal visits.  But my old school-mates have little affinity for feathered creatures as far as I know.  We were merely looking for a place to meet and the wetland reserve, tucked away at a remote corner of our island with its interesting biodiversity, gave us a good reason for a brief reunion. 

Part of the walking trail in the Wetland reserve park

Mudflats surrounding the Wetland reserves

 

This group of friends is probably my oldest of acquaintances.  We shared our teen-age years of growing-up pains together. Now, of a greater age, with greying hairline, wrinkles and droopy jowls, we could barely recognise each other. “If I bump upon you in the streets I wouldn’t know it is you”, my old class buddy V remarked matter-of-factly, while flashing his trademark toothy grin. Some of us have not changed as much.

With the morning sun scorching down, we strolled through the shaded mangrove forest, reminiscing and nostalgizing on old times. A couple of my old class-mates had attended Jenny’s funeral wake and the word has gone round earlier, so my widower status was not unknown to the others. But not unexpectedly, none of my old friends brought up the matter of Jenny’s demise. The conversations steered clear of asking how I might be coping with my new life or how my kids are coping without their mother. They probably thought they are doing me a favour by not raising up the subject of my bereavement and thereby avoid reminding me of my loss. It was the kind and civic thing to do, so it appeared. Death is just not the right thing to talk about. Not on a beautiful day like this. It would spoil the mood and put me into an emotional nosedive.

Or would it?

All but one of my ex-schoolmates came by himself.  The others had their wives or spouse, hand in hand in tow. I have no quarrel with that. On a rare Saturday morning outing to the Wetland reserves, which loving husband would leave his partner behind, unless she insisted on sleeping in and giving the occasion a miss. It was an opportunity to rekindle old friendships and certainly getting acquainted with their loved ones is part of the process. But I must confess feeling awfully deprived. My sense of loss, that all too familiar chasm of grief was deepening. But I braved myself and stayed cheerful, putting aside my selfish pride. I could not be expecting my friends to have left their spouses at home just so I would not feel so “left out”.  It would be ridiculous for them to even think about it.

But I did wonder long and hard if Jenny would have joined me on an early morning outing such as this. Like most of my friends’ better halves. If she was still alive.  Jenny with her need to sleep in on Saturdays and her general abhorrence for perspiration. “It will be so hot and humid and we will be donating blood to the mosquitoes. Plus, I need my beauty sleep”, she has grumbled more than once when I insisted that she joined me for a park outing.

But once again my wandering thoughts are akin to a broken pencil – totally pointless. Jenny’s not tucked under her blanket for me to rudely awaken to be persuaded for an early morning walk to meet old school-mates.  I could only show up solo as my friends had expected me to.

Anyway, coincidentally the day was Jenny’s birthday. She would have been 58 years old. But she would not look a day older.

Later in the day, her sister sent me a picture of her niche, adorned with a new stalk of flower (a  tulip?) and a birthday greeting card. I did not drop by the columbarium to visit her niche. I did not feel the need to. A birthday is just another day and Jenny is always in my heart. Quietly, she was by my side as we strolled hand in hand amid the flora and fauna of the Sungei Buloh Wetland Reserve. I got her to wake up this time.

Happy Birthday Honey.

 

Emails from our Oncologist

I was wrong about Jenny’s oncologist.  He replied my email. I was half expecting him to ignore it, and trashing it, after all I am no more a paying client. And battling cancer makes him a busy man.

But not for the first time since losing Jenny, my outlook on life and people in general, has taken a cynical and negative bent. Only that this time, I was wrong. I underestimated his professional pride.

He replied within a day of my writing to him. I was complaining why he had not shared the information about clinical trials on a new form of chemotherapy carried out at the National University Cancer Institute throughout the months he was treating Jenny. I felt that it could have made a life-and-death difference for my dear wife.

He started with some words of sympathy for my deep loss. Then he explained that “up to the time of Jenny’s diagnosis, there was no published data that intra-peritoneal chemotherapy produced any added survival benefit”. 

But he mentioned also that the study was “in reality… done on a very select group of patients and is not the magic bullet as it was made out to be”. He felt that the newspaper report of the study was “sensationalised”.

The email finished with an assurance that Jenny was given the best available treatment at the time of her diagnosis. And he offered me his deepest condolences.

I read his email reply a few times over - “Sensational way the study was described…”, “..not the magic bullet it was made out to be”. 

Who should I believe? The doctor was obviously protecting his professional pride. But have I also read too much in the newspaper report of the clinical trial?

The next morning I opened my email again. Apparently shortly after writing the first email he sent me a second one, asking to “indulge” him with the “time to share a few thoughts”.

He wrote that he was upset over the newspaper report for the “unnecessary emotional pain” it has caused me, “reopening a deep wound in the heart”. He further shared that “this was not the first time that sensational reporting in the media has affected cancer patients and their families causing confusion and sometimes, distress”.

He finished this second email with an offer to meet up with me “to talk over this if it will remove the guilt it may have unjustifiably caused in (my) heart.”

So should I take up his offer to meet?

Perhaps in the meeting he could run through a gastric cancer 101 to help me understand the complexities of chemotherapy treatment – intra-peritoneal, as tried out in the NCIS study versus the conventional infusion given to Jenny.  But would knowing more help assuage my pain? He was right about the report “reopening a deep wound” in my heart.  Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. I might be better off not knowing too much.

But he has proven me wrong by taking the trouble to write to me. And the tone of his reply was sincere enough, empathic of my situation. He has rightly sensed that I had first written to him largely out of frustration. And perhaps, guilt. Guilt that he had hoped that by talking to me he could help “remove”.

I knew that an apology was in order. It was unfair to pin the blame on him for Jenny’s predicament. No oncologist can guarantee recovery from a disease as deadly as cancer.  So I humbly replied him as such.

Oncologists, especially those in private practice, occupy the highest income brackets in the medical profession, arguably so. But perhaps it is fair compensation. Considering that their job requires them to stare into the face of death each day.  Whenever they look into the eyes of their patients. No other medical profession comes with the same cruel intensity.  Cancer is such a frightful killer and the path to finding a cure to date remains harder as ever. It is the holy grail of modern medicine.

But noble as it is, and for all the money they earn, I think it is really a very sad profession.  Seeing your patients die one by one, as many eventually would.  And having to deal with the broken hearts left behind.

A Day of Discoveries

Saturday, yesterday was a day of discoveries.

I read the night before of bloggers sharing a great place for running. The Pandan reservoir located at the south-western part of our island, not too far from where I live.  Why have I not thought of that before?

But Saturday morning started grey and drizzly. Come late morning, the rain subsided and with patience worn thin I put on my jogging gear and got into the car. The sky was heavy with clouds but not the kind that threatened rain. It was late already and I knew that by the time I got there I would be running under the mid-day sun. The reservoir is completely naked of trees unlike other water features elsewhere, but the thick blanket of clouds above me assured me that I could avoid heat-induced exhaustion.

I circled the roads running around the reservoir for the best parking spot, meaning one that might offer free parking. This is a rarity in our country where tight land constraints demand that any kind of space usage be fully chargeable. But golly be me, at a corner of the reservoir near the junction of West Coast and Penjuru, I found what I was looking for. A free car park for a canoeing club, opened also to the public and with ample lots still vacant. What a discovery.

The jogging path around the reservoir

The running path ringing the perimeter of the reservoir dyke is paved with soft sand and gravel. The cushioning effect is welcoming news to my creaking ankles and knees. But as I had expected, the entire route as far as I could see is completely exposed and totally unshaded.  Unlike other reservoirs formed by natural lakes, Pandan reservoir is a service reservoir specially built to feed the neighbouring industries.  The absence of greenery with only stark looking industrial buildings surrounding the reservoir might make for a rather un-picturesque scene but for the sheer openness and immensity of the water feature, the panoramic view before me was actually quite stunning. Straining my eyes to the far-side of the reservoir, at least a 3-4 km distance away, I could barely make out the track that connects to where I was standing. It is an amazing sight to behold. And quite a rare one in our tiny and massively jam-packed island. 



The opposite side of the reservoir was really quite far to make out

But the sweeping view of the reservoir spoke also of the grinding toll ahead. For any would-be jogger like me, attempting to slog through its full perimeter. With a circumference of about 6km, this would be one path too long for my limited stamina. But I could always jog as far as I could and stroll through the remaining distance back to the start-point.

Aside from canoers, the reservoir was quite deserted.

Pandan reservoir was a really fine discovery despite its bareness and lack of shade.  There was a gentle breeze blowing across the reservoir but as I realized later that cooling feel was limited to only one side of the perimeter.  Across the opposite side, the air was still and stuffy. Despite the cloudy sky, the heat and humidity of the mid-day run bore down on my fast tiring body, sapping away my energy.  After half an hour of trotting at a steady speed, I slowed down to a brisk walk. I had covered slightly more than 4.5 km of the 6km path. Not a bad start for this first-time visit. I made a mental note to come by this reservoir again for my future exercise regimes. And better during the early morning or late evening hours. Admittedly, a very pleasant discovery of a new jogging destination by all means.

But through most of my exertion around the reservoir, my mind was as heavy as the clouds hanging in the sky above. I was mulling over a discovery of another sort. One that was made earlier, during breakfast

Earlier in the morning, a report in the newspaper's Top of the News section caught my attention. A clinical trial held at the National University Cancer Institute on a new form of chemotherapy treatment that can prolong the lives of patients with advanced gastric cancer, yielded very promising results.  The trial was started in 2013 and announced in a Consortium of experts of this terrible disease. 

Jenny died of advanced gastric cancer. She was diagnosed in late 2014.  We opted for a private oncologist to treat her on the recommendation of the hospital where she was first diagnosed, thinking that this option, though a more costly one, might offer her the best chances for survival. On hindsight it was a naïve one on our part and perilous for my dear wife.

But what troubled me was why were we not pointed to this clinical trial? We were led to believe that our oncologist was one of the best in gastric cancer.  Could he not have known about this new form of chemotherapy? True it was still under trial, largely unproven in its early stages. But we could have at least gone to check on it, if we had some information about its on-going. Or was our doctor at worse, withholding this information from us, putting his business interest ahead of his patients’ well-being?

Was I being fair to the doctor to think that way? I journeyed back to the many visits made to his clinic, the long hours of waiting in the cheerless silence of the reception area, the anxious meetings with the doctor trying to decipher the underlying messages behind his diagnosis. I could not help thinking also that the doctor might be using Jenny as a learning experiment for himself.

If only we had searched harder and sought advice from other doctors.  We had placed too much hope, no, in truth all our hope, rather foolishly in the hands of a single private practitioner. One who was well-poised to win us over by his confidence and apparent display of concern and suave demeanour. 

Asking a whole load of “what ifs” and "if only" at this time was totally pointless.  I was mindful of that. It does not make much sense to pursue this again, I kept telling myself.

But still I needed to get it off my chest.

So I went home and tapped out an email to the doctor.  I do not think I will get a reply but felt nevertheless the need to write.  This is the first time we would be communicating since Jenny died.  The last time I wrote to him was to update him that Jenny had passed on.  His reply of condolences was short and curt.  Again I have often wondered on hindsight, why I had even bothered to update him at all. 

And once again I find myself on familiar ground, wondering why I am sending this to him.

 Dear Dr ____

I read today’s news feature, (http://www.straitstimes.com/singapore/singapore-chemo-trial-gives-hope-to-gastric-cancer-patients) on the chemo trial carried out at the National Cancer Institute of Singapore that gives hope to gastric cancer patients, with a heavy heart of mixed feelings.

If you can recall, my wife Jenny was diagnosed with advanced gastric cancer in Oct 2014 by you on the recommendation of the hospital.  After 7 cycles of chemotherapy involving two different drug regiments, followed by 2 courses of immunotherapy, she died in April 2015. 

To read from the news that the above-mentioned clinical trial was announced in 2013 at the Singapore Gastric Cancer Consortium, my family is bitterly disappointed that over the 6-7 months of frequent consultation we received from you, there was never any information from you about the on-goings of this clinical trial taking place.  The information could have prompted us to explore as an option that might have offered my late wife a better chance of surviving or improving her quality of life.

Why was this information of the clinical trials at NCIS not made known to us?

In retrospect, recalling how Jenny’s condition had so swiftly deteriorated as the cancer spread into her peritoneum, we look back with painful regret that we might have misplaced our trust and hope with the wrong hospital and oncologist. Jenny’s life was cut short and she suffered an immensely poor quality of life during the months of treatment.

Sincerely,

Keith