Running for Hope

I got up very early this Sunday morning. Well before the crack of dawn. Slipping into my jogging gear, I donned the yellow T-shirt that came with the Run For Hope 2016 package collected some weeks ago. I had registered for this running event several months before. A fund raising event for cancer research that came through my email.

It was an invite I could not ignore.

Cancer had gate-crashed into my world, reducing me to half the person I was. It has derailed my very existence, left its deadly mark and will forever be a foreboding, lurking in every shadow.  So while I usually give mass organised events the go-by, for Run For Hope I felt a compelling onus to participate. Dutiful even. Because Jenny, the light of my life was extinguished by this dreadful killer. 

Besides, the scenic Marina Bay where the event is slated to take place, stood as one of my favourite running route.

The sky was still jet black dark when I arrived.  The yellow streetlights illuminated the way for several other yellow-shirted runners converging from all directions to the start point at the Marina Promontory.  But as dawn breaks, the first rays of the morning sun gently caressed the city skyline. Even against the darkened sky, the Marina Bay Sands with its three iconic towering blocks and board shaped sky-park stood out majestically.  The sight of the bay skyline still holds its magic on me, despite countless visits.  As the sky brightened, many other locals too were snapping selfies like there is no tomorrow, using the hotel resort as backdrop.

I pinned on the bib to the front of my shirt. Each runner was issued a rectangular bib as identifier and upon which we could declare who or what we are running for. In my case it was clear. I was running for my Jenny Dearest.  Beloved wife and mummy of my kids.  I took several selfies of my bib and even posted one on Facebook. Partly out of vanity and partly to remind friends of my lingering grief and how I am dealing with it. It might invite a few Likes.

I glanced around at what others wrote on their bibs without appearing like I was staring.  Looking straight at a ladies’ chest for too long might portray me as a hungry wolf on the prowl.

Several people had names of loved ones scribbled on their bibs like mine.  But some were running for “World Peace”, “Good Health”, “A better 2016” and other clichéd notions.  I spotted one declaring that he is running for “A Cure”. I suppose that is what the fund is meant to achieve.  Cancer research, to determine a Cure for the dreaded disease.  Very optimistic, if not far-fetched.  I have my thoughts on that to share but perhaps I will put that off to later.  At least two persons were running for “Everything”. Being specific must have been a struggle for them.  A little boy was very honest in stating that he was running “because I have nothing better to do”.  Impish, but kids do say the darnedest things.

The run could take two routes – 3.5 km and a longer 10km for the serious runner. I had registered for the shorter route not out of choice. 10km might be too punishing a distance for me to complete.  Jenny understands my limited stamina all too well.

Soon the runners gathered at the start-line. There must have been at least a thousand people standing shoulder to shoulder, getting ready for the signal to start.  Many bobbed up and down as they jogged on the spot to warm up. Music blared in the background, interspersed with the MC barking out instructions to control the crowds.

I was quite oblivious of the surrounding crowds. My thoughts somehow drifted back to another time and place.  As far back as 34 years ago in fact.  A time before my deep relationship with Jenny had taken off. 

Jenny was then, perhaps only a week into her new job as Department Secretary at our company, a U.K. multi-national can manufacturer.  The HR had organised an outdoor mass running event and all employees were encouraged to take part. Healthy lifestyle promotion was the aim. 

We completed the run and back at the factory compound, I noticed her standing by herself all alone, half-leaning against the wall, looking a little bushed up as she fanned herself to beat off the heat. I tried not to stare but I could not help looking her way.  Perhaps it was seeing her in sports attire for the first time. Or perhaps it was her rosy cheeks, flustering in the heat of the late morning sun after the run.  But she looked so pretty and attractive. Sexy even. Other male colleagues were also stealing glances in her direction.  I could smell the competition building ominously around me.  If I did not act fast enough, there would be many other suitors to beat off. The going could be tough.

All the while then she was standing alone by herself. It appeared that the other office girls were keeping to themselves. It was not a surprise as Jenny was still new to the company and might not have been properly introduced to everyone else.  And she was the only female in our department of fitters, technicians and supervisor engineers like me.  I felt a mix of pity for her.  She cut an awkward forlorn figure being all by herself.  But hey, she and I were colleagues in the same department. Should I not stake my claim for “first mover” advantage? It would not be too audacious to be chatting her up and exchanging niceties.  It was the gentlemanly thing to do. And it would not be long also before some other hot blooded eligible male started marching up to her. Like ants homing onto a honey jar.

Truth be told, I could not recall much of what we talked about on that fateful day. The sun was shining. It was baking hot and we were dripping with perspiration from the run.  All around colleagues from every department were milling around, bantering away to share their exertions of the morning run.  I remembered her bashfully confessing that she had walked most of the route as running was not her forte. And the reason she did not take too long to return was because she did an early u-turn to shorten the journey.  Kind of cheated, but who was to know or care? There were no rules to the event, other than just taking part.  Exposing her physical vulnerability made her all the more charming to me.  So she inadvertently made further inroads into my heart as it softened to jelly on that day.

I could not be sure if I had created any real impression from that first meeting. Nor could I recall if there was much sparks showering from that first interaction. But it did trip off a relationship that blossomed to an exchange of vows some 3 years later.

And it was against the backdrop of a mass running event that started it all.

So this morning, amid the proximity to a multitude of runners all gearing for the run to start, I had to fight off tears welling in my eyes. I could blame it on this bitter sweet reminiscence of our first encounter. I could blame it on my recall of how pretty she looked, seeing her for the first time, dressed down in sporting attire, a candy feast for my eyes. Or perhaps it was the music playing on my earphones. I was listening to Bruce Springsteen’s “Racing in the Streets”, a song with a slow and doleful melody that never fails to move me.

Amid the crowds as the race was about to start, I felt my heart sinking. I was incredibly sad.

Just then the signal sounded off. And soon I was plodding with the flow of yellow-shirted runners, all huffing and puffing in the crisp morning air, as we coursed around the edge of the visually-stunning Marina bay.

The Run For Hope 2016 event must have attracted more than 10000 participants.  A great day for support of cancer research so it seems. Cancer is a daunting adversary. But I guess modern medicine can now state that advances achieved over the years have saved or prolonged the lives of millions of cancer patients. In short, provided hope for many. 

Call me a self-centred cynic if you may.  Jenny’s cancer journey started with a lot of hope. Her oncologist was skilful in creating the hope and hype to win our confidence. With that we fully entrusted her treatment and fighting the disease in his hands. Looking back, I could only say the trust was out of place. He was fighting an enemy he actually knew little of. He just made it appear that he knew it well.  So he could sell us hope. That was all he really could offer. And he knew we needed hope more than anything.

I truly wonder how much of the funds collected from this morning’s event would really go to cancer research.  I suppose we will have to entrust the Charities Act and the auditors that sufficient amount was directed to actual research, instead of the organiser’s coffers. But how much of this research would finally be translated into real benefits in the fight against cancer? Or into treatment plans or drugs that some pharmaceutical company would later protect by patents to legally assure them of huge profits to be reaped from the hordes of desperate patients who would pay at any price so they could live their last days with hope. Patients like Jenny and so many others.

Do not think that I had not thought through this before I registered for the Run. When the email first arrived and the idea of taking part first popped up. 

So why then did I bother to take part, being such a sceptic about cancer research? And pay the registration fees, albeit it is not costly?

The event was a mass congregation of people from everywhere whose lives were probably struck or touched by cancer one way or another. Either as a survivor or as a close family member, friend or care-taker of another patient. I felt the need to be amongst them and not be left out. It was a gathering of kindred spirits. In great numbers. The common thread that runs through the lives of each and every one present this morning is this unfortunate disease.  Unfortunately so. In whatever form or ways only each would know.  So I needed to be part of the gathering.

We do need to live in hope, even if the cause is one of sheer hopelessness.  And even if it means clutching on straws, we need to cling on. Till all hope is gone. 

So for next year’s Run For Hope 2017, in all likelihood I will still be signing up. I might even train up for the 10km route. Given my age and fitness condition, it would be a gruelling run.

Cancer is a formidable foe. It sounds like a hopeless cause but I think we just cannot give up, especially on Hope.

Being grateful for the grieving

Sunday morning. Slave to my morning routine, I ran through the feature columns of the weekend newspaper. Ms Sumiko Tan shared her fears on middle age. Which would be terrifying for an old geezer like me. But the feature that got me pondering deeper was Ms Tee Hun Ching’s article on gratitude. The G word as she said and we can expect this year to herald in a “global gratitude renaissance”.  We need to be thankful even for the “thorns” in our lives.

Here is the soft link, in case you want to read for yourself … http://www.straitstimes.com/lifestyle/grateful-for-the-thorns-in-my-life

I went on to google on gratitude and was inundated with a host of sites put up for registering and journaling one’s gratitude. There is a rising swell of gratefulness sweeping the net - numerous on-line gratitude diaries, Facebook gratitude groups and so forth. Even mobile apps to allow blessings to be counted on the go. Give thanks and give them bountifully and generously.

My search brought me also to an elegantly written New York Times article by Arthur C. Brooks. He professed that choosing gratitude is the best way to build happiness. Be thankful for even seemingly useless and insignificant things, like the “spots on a trout”. And authentic happiness will follow suit. It is definitely worth your while to read…

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/11/22/opinion/sunday/choose-to-be-grateful-it-will-make-you-happier.html?_r=1

Be grateful for mercies big and small.  For the blessings that we so easily take for granted yet if they go missing, life would be so different. How would anyone argue with such obvious truths?
 

Looking back at my last weekend, indeed life appears the stuff of idyllic living. Friday evening was spent in the company of  close friends. We enjoyed dinner together at a cosy bar & grill restaurant and stayed till late sipping Spanish wine, while debating on religion and politics and fretting over the ill state of today’s mayhem-stricken world.
 

Saturday, I was hard-selling at our University Open House, an annual event to herald in a new cohort of students, our basic life-blood. As the event was staged at the heart of the city, I finished the day with a blissful jog around the scenic Marina Bay. Passing throngs of tourists along the 4km route that began at the Paliament House and finishing at the Merlion, this would be one of my all-time favourite exercise route.
 



Merlion with the Marine Sands Hotel as back-drop

At the Merlion, amidst crowds of photo-snapping tourists, I gamely posted my latest work-out on Facebook. Almost immediately, I got a call from a friend. He had just read the post. He invited me to join him and family for dinner, since I was already out and about in town.  The Kontiki restaurant located along the Kallang riverfront, beneath the towering Benjamin Sheares bridge offered a fantastic alfresco dining experience, as we soon discovered. Gentle evening breeze, amazing scene of the city lights and skyline across the river, great food and even better company. 


City sky-line across the Kallang river



Sunday was reserved for family time. To bond with my three kids.

 

So how could I not be more thankful? Friends and family have given me enough reasons to be grateful for what life is offering. If I count the little insignificant trifles, as Dr Brooks has suggested, the list of blessings would be overflowing.
 

Choose to be grateful and you will be happier. That was said too.
 

Happier, though not necessarily happy. Because it is hard to be happy when my life is so derailed.
 

So this last weekend, while I was reminded about Gratitude, and the need to give thanks to all things big and small, I have to face the awful fact that the G word could also be Grief. And the two make for rather uncomfortable bedfellows.
 

How could I truly and honestly feel grateful when this one central person so important to me has now gone missing? Forever the gone girl.

For Jenny, during her last days in hospital fighting a horrendous disease, gratitude must have been a struggle. If she could at all, she might appreciate that her family – her kids and I and her two wonderful sisters were always there. Tending to her by the bed-side day and night. She would feel loved. She was assiduously tended to by several caring nurses, highly professional, yet tenderly skilful in how they had treated her. I suppose, even in that difficult state, Jenny would agree that she has much to be grateful for.
 

And perhaps I should also learn to be grateful for the grief. Because, the simple reason for my grief is my love for Jenny. And it is my love for her that has made it worth all the grief that I am experiencing. And the more than 30 fabulous years that we had shared together. I like to ask for more time together but that wish is of course, moot. I should just be grateful.
 

Grateful that she had entered my life and for all the good times we had shared.
 

Grateful for her calmness, her steadfastness, her faith and faithfulness in me, her endless wisdom and constant no-nonsense nagging to weed me of my annoying and oft-times disgusting habits.
 

Grateful for her soft and cherubic smile and her frowns of disapproval to help me to quickly wise up to situations and grateful for her nonchalance to ignore me and discourage my lame sense of humour. Grateful for her to being just her, unpretentious and unassuming.
 

And most of all grateful that she chose to be my wife, taking my hand in marriage and bearing and raising three wonderful kids for me.
 

And finally when her final moment came, I was grateful that the children and I were there and grateful that I could hold her hand in mine to feel the last trace of life course through her veins.
 

The list could go on till this blog runs out of space. But I think you have gotten the message. While my heart grieves, it is filled with gratitude.
 

There is really so much to be thankful of. Including your taking time to read this post.
 

Musings for the new year

My body clock is still all messed up. All because of time spent in Europe, our Spanish getaway over the last Christmas season. Each night, since returning on New Year's day eve, I tossed and turned, sleeping in short spells and waking up for longer in the dead of the night. It’s a definite sign of aging, this slowness to drag myself out from jet lag, even after more than a week.

But aside from sleep deprivation, during the day I actually felt pretty good. Could it be the new year effect? For so long, since Jenny’s tragic passing on, I have been wrapped up in that fuzzy familiar blanket of melancholy. But moving into the new year, the cloak of darkness has palpably lifted somewhat. I actually felt lightened and focussed. It felt strangely unusual too.

Do not get me wrong. I am not trying to forget my dear departed wife. Heaven forbid. My computer screen saver continues spewing out her pictures and I still spend long moments looking at them, eating into my productivity at work. And I still pause to look at the photographs I put up on the wall. In my office and every other corner of our house. The huge difference this time is the unusual absence of that sinking feeling. And that throbbing ache inside me that I have gotten so used to. Now I could auto-switch back to reality and unstick myself from the gloominess with minimal wallowing.

Truth be told, Jenny still dominates my mental state a lot of the time. But each time I remind myself. We are but mere mortals.

So I heaved a sigh, telling the Jenny in me, “Honey, we all die one day. There’s no getting away from it. It's just so sad and too bad that your day came so soon. But it's not yours to choose”. A grudging sigh of acceptance.

So why would it be so bloody hard to accept that she has died? Because in truth everybody dies one day. Nothing is permanent.  But as long as I live, I think the pain will forever be there. Dormant one day, but waiting to be re-triggered and smiting me again on some other day and with greater might than before.

But for the last few days the black clouds have lifted. A sense of calm. The inner storm abated.

Perhaps I had bottled up my grief for too long over the last festive season, even during my holiday in Spain with the kids, I recalled being weighed down, heart sodden by a baggage of gloom and grief. Returning back, visiting her niche again in our church columbarium, as I would every weekend, I sobbed my heart out.  Perhaps it was that outpouring and release that gave the new year a fresh start.

Work was mercifully manageable despite returning from a long vacation. But the holiday season has ended so I can expect the heat to build up quickly in the coming days or weeks. I am bracing myself to the challenge.

But what the heck?  Would I care too much if work starts getting on my goat? I may well decide to pack it all in, saddle up and ride away into the sunset. An earlier than expected retirement could well open up a new and exciting life for me.  So will I still be working when this year comes to an end? I am not sure at all. For now I will  hold onto the job. I will take it a day at a time.

Outside of work, I enjoy reading. But during the months of Jenny’s predicament with cancer, my reading and many other leisurely pursuits was put on hold.  Jenny and I were jointly stuck in survival mode. How could I focus on anything else? Not least reading for pleasure. The only reading that made sense then was the stuff of websites. Fighting cancer, eating the right foods and other health sites, if all these could even be counted as literature. 

After her passing on, my initial reading was still largely bounded by the world-wide-web. Namely, grief sites. I was searching cyber-space for consolation. A virtual shoulder to cry on, perhaps. I needed to learn from other widowers and widows alike. How they dealt with their spousal losses.

But eventually the old reading habit found its way home. What better friend than a dog-eared paperback companion to while away all this time I now have by myself, in the absence of my beloved Jenny?

I had since devoured a range of titles – ”And the mountains echoed”, by Khaled Hosseini (poignant novel of separation and familial love broken up by turmoil of war. Khaled Hosseini is a master story-teller, thru and thru), “A Grief Observed” by CS Lewis (journal of a widower’s grief, presented to me by a co-worker, much attuned to my own grievous state), “Inferno”, by Dan Brown (a gripping mystery thriller in the Robert Langdon series, though not the best by this author), “Whitey”, by Lehr and Gerard O’Neill, “The rise and fall of the Kray twins”, by John Pearson (these two books feature the lives and times of infamous real-life gangsters. I often wonder how real people can be so devoid of basic conscience, much as I abhor violence), “My favourite wife”, by Tony Parson (one of my favourite authors who is so adept in writing about family relationships). Currently I am half-way through a non-fiction, “Thinking like a freak”, an interesting read about how we can make a difference by changing the way we think. 

Aside from reading I spend some of my free time strumming my guitar and going for walks and slow jogs.  As always, my music collection was my constant companion on these solo jaunts in the park. I enjoy the fresh air and intimacy with greenery and nature.

Last Saturday, I spent the evening jamming with a few friends at the Actors bar at the Boat Quay, a small pub where weekend wannabe musicians gather to show off their mettle by performing to a live audience of peers. I summoned enough courage to sing U2’s “All I want is you” and Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m on fire”.  Good thing there were just another two people at the bar. And they appeared to be hard of hearing. So not too much damage done there.

I have always felt it a futile and pointless exercise to make new year resolutions. So none was made this year. Were there such flaws the year before that make it necessary for making resolutions? If so, why wait for a new year to emerge to correct them? It would be a crappy way to start a year making resolutions.

But I did wonder if for this new year I should stop adding to this blog. I did some soul searching.  What do I stand to gain by sharing my heart and pain? In this part of the world I am not sure if such blogs are well accepted. I risk being branded a weirdo. Culturally and socially there is an expectation that people in my situation should just put on a stoic face and lock up the unhappy state. Keep it private.  Revealing too much of your inner feelings make others feel awkward and uncomfortable. Which explains why nobody I know has really talked to me about what I write.

But seriously, I may need to learn to breathe again. To learn to live without her. I would forever be scarred but life for the walking wounded would still have to go on.

But for now I should stop with my musings and aimless rambling. And catch up on my sleep. Good night.

The most wonderful time of the year

It’s a most familiar tune.  Andy Williams I think, played on the radio. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year”.

Is it not? Christmas has always been that special time of the year. A time for good cheer.  A time for giving and receiving.  Presents from everyone, gift-wrapped for everyone else. Family gatherings and food fests. Bright lights glittering the city.  Christmas trees of all sizes and carols playing in the background.

Jenny and I had always relished this time of the year. There was a magic feeling in the air. We would go shopping for presents for the kids, sneaking the loot stealthily into the house and wrapping them behind closed doors. We need to preserve the element of surprise. Shopping was sometime stressful. Not just because of the crowds, but as the kids grow older and seemed to have all their needs and wants met, searching for the right gift that would not bankrupt us was getting to be a stretch.  But still we greeted each coming Christmas with eager-beaver anticipation.

But this last Christmas was a far cry from Christmases past.  I could literally cry. During the previous Christmas in 2014, the mood was already sombre. Jenny was undergoing her 3^rd or 4^th round of chemo having been diagnosed with advanced cancer two months before.  Her life-force was on the wane.  A pale shadow of her former self. But we could still huddle around the Christmas tree together. Quietly savouring our limited moments together, trying to keep our hopes high that the storm would pass over.   

Without her now, the festive season only accentuated the pain of losing her.  The rituals of the season with the customary sights, sounds and smell  now conspire as cruel reminders of her absence. The hole that is now a fixture in my life gapes larger than ever.

So the festive season is not such a wonderful time of the year.  Not for me anymore.

And I saw it coming. So I hatched the escape plan. Break off from the routine for a getaway. And pack off to a faraway land, with the rest of the clan. Which was the main reason for our recent trip to Spain. A holiday to be used as an excuse.

But it is hard to really run away. 

“Wishing you and your family a blessed Christmas and a very happy new year.“

An incessant stream of Christmas and new year greetings bombarded our cell phones.  Well wishes from friends and colleagues back home, with honest-to-goodness intent. Heaped upon us generously from across the globe. Niceties to be exchanged. So I returned the well wishes. Sometimes grudgingly.  I replied each one as would be expected of me. It was the civil thing to do. 

I usually kept the replies short and simple.  No hint of the sender’s morose state. My true feelings kept private. Not to be shared, after all one should be expected to spread good cheer at this time of the year.  Was it not the jolly happy holidays?

We returned from our Spanish retreat on the final day of the year. At home, our domestic helper had put up the old Christmas tree. The plasticky structure appeared  lop-sided and battered but otherwise it still resembled a tree. We bought it to celebrate our first Christmas together as a married couple. So the tree is close to 30 years old. Amazing but true.  It is one of the few possessions we had acquired together that outlasted Jenny’s life as my wife.

Our 30 year old Xmas tree
 

But the tree now stands forlornly at the corner of our living room. The dangling ornaments, used and re-used for many years need replacement.  The tiny light bulbs encircling the tree, flickered weakly. I asked my helper to dismantle and pack up the fixture, as Christmas was well over. But she reminded me that it was too early.  After the twelfth day she would.  I was in no mood to argue on that.

So Christmas came and went. And I was relieved to move into the new year, leaving the last festive season trailing behind.  Breaking away from the routine to bond with my kids at a faraway country was immensely helpful. But I am unsure if I could afford such lavish cop-out plans in future years. I guess the future will take care for itself.

Not many people could truly understand the darkness of bereavement. That of a lost spouse. It is not difficult also to put on a mask and pretend to be happy. But during the holiday season, the grief we feel is heightened by festive happenings taking place all around. The rituals of the season remind us what we were deprived of. So I was glad to put this festive season behind me.

But wait, next month will be our Lunar New Year.  Another festive season to deal with.  And even more intensely celebrated than Christmas in our part of the world.  Looks like déjà vu all over again.

 

Our Barcelona holiday

So we set off for another year-end vacation. Barcelona, over Christmas and returning on eve of New Year day. It is the first time in recent years that we could nail down a common time when everyone in the family are free to go together.

When the kids were still schooling it was easy enough to plan for holidays. The year-end school vacations presented the best opportunity for all to go. Holidays together were great for family bonding 24/7. But now, with my elder boy on tight work schedules, and the other two in college, we have not had much luck in packing the entire flock to fit our holiday plans.  Jenny was never too excited about travelling without at least one or two kids in tow. A good experience should be shared. That was her unyielding mantra since children crashed into our lives. And her heart was always with the children.  With only tiny fragments left for me, I knew where I stood in the line. And I am fine with that.

But for this December festive season, viola - I could get all three available. For Spain and Barcelona, a tantalising visit beckoning.  But sadly, the travelling band is not complete. A vital piece missing, now that Jenny has left us.

The flight on Emirates airways went smoothly enough. We had a pick-up arranged for us to bring us to the Airbnb apartment we had booked some weeks ago.  Which was nice given that we were all worn out from the long flight. Staying in an Airbnb apartment would be a first for us.  It was much like the typical self-catering apartment but slightly cheaper.

So how did the vacation go? Free and easy as always. We never believed in trying to cover too much ground. Well, if you still care to read on, here is our travel journal in brief…

The Sagrada Familia

 Day 1 – Bought two-day train passes for everyone that allow us unlimited train and bus trips in the city.  First stop was the Sagrada Familia, a Gothic church building that appears to be perpetually under construction with the famous Catalan architect, Antonio Gaudi adding his unique touches. The outer church façade is impressive indeed, but marred by the looming presence of 3 tall cranes, fingering the sky along with the many church spires. 

We opted to save on the tickets. Having visited countless cathedrals across Europe, many far grander than this one so we were doubtful if was worth spending money on admission. This would also be the first church we have encountered that charges admission fees. Could Spain be in such need for revenue generation?

We spent the rest of the day strolling around the city centre and at the waterfront area. The city have great vibes but enough of street beggars to tell a different story.



Parc Guell
 

Day 2 – Visited Parc Guell, another of Gaudi’s grand if not somewhat gaudy creation. Located high on a hill-top, getting there would have been a vigorous climb but mercifully, much of the ascent was aided by escalators. Someone painted a “Tourist go home” sign on one of the escalator steps to remind us we are not so welcomed. An unhappy resident probably, who got tired of the unending stream of tourist intruding their privacy perhaps. But I'm pretty sure even they would find the escalators useful. And would these mechanical fixtures have even been installed if the park was not such as a popular attraction for visitors all over the world?

Afternoon was spent strolling through the Gothic quarters, the oldest part of Barcelona. Totally enjoyed the walk through the many narrow cobbled alleys and plazas. Almost transported back to medieval times. Visited the Barcelona history museum and walked through the remains of a sprawling archaeological site built since Roman times, more than 2000 years ago. A very impressive curative display of Spanish history.

Had a delicious Christmas eve dinner at a somewhat swanky restaurant downtown. Their juicy ribbed veal, tapas and seafood paella are worth dying for.

Day 3  - Christmas day.  We checked out to make our way westwards to Zaragoza, a city about 300 km away. Rented a car at the Sants Estacio or train station. Turned out to be a vexing 3 hour wait before the car arrived. Got totally flustered. Zaragoza, 300 km away would be a 3 hour drive.  Turned out to be longer, due to heavy fog and it was dark by the time we arrived. Again we stayed at an airbnb apartment, but this one was really a private residence. Tried hunting for a restaurant that can serve a decent meal befitting of a Christmas day dinner but all the restaurants nearby were closed. Managed to grab some hot food served at a small cafe. Simple dinner but were thankful that we got our fill at least.

Day 4 – Strolled over to the Aljaferia palace, a fortified Islamic medieval palace built in the 11^th century, one of the major attractions at Zaragoza. From there, we walked to the city centre along the river Ebro. Chanced upon an Irish pub which shows live screenings of English premier leagues football. Watched the Stoke vs Man United game (Stoke won!) and later the big match between Liverpool and Leicester City (Reds won!). By the time the matches ended at 6.30pm, the city centre was crowded with people – Zaragozans mostly and a few aliens like us, all congregating in Christmas celebratory mood.  Tried searching for a restaurant that can serve us a good meal but they all appeared to close early.  Food-wise, Zaragoza was a major let-down.  Fortunately my boy’s culinary skills spared us from starvation.  We picked up essential foodstuff from a nearby super-market and back to the apartment, in no time we were tucking into delicious chicken stew. A gastronomic delight that would have made Mum so proud too!

Zaragoza city centre was full of people

Day 5 – Checked out early and prepared for the long drive back to Barcelona.  Approaching the city, we detoured and drove up the monastery located high above the Montserrat mountain with its very unique rock formations.  The panoramic view of the city from atop the monastery was simply breath-taking.

Checked into our 3^rd apartment we rented via Booking.com. Supposedly a 3 bedroom apartment about 8 km from Barca City centre but we struggled to locate it.  The address given was wrong and without internet access we could not access the contact number. As it was getting late we drove back to the city for dinner. Thankfully most Spanish restaurants understand the value of free wifi. We finally located the apartment and settled in.

Day 6 – We set off in the morning for a ½ hour drive to the sea-side town of Sitges, known for its picturesque and pristine beaches and many sea-front restaurants. The late morning sun, shimmering like jewels on the Mediterranean sea provided a stunning backdrop for lots of photo-taking. We had seafood lunch at one of the myriad of seafront restaurants.

Drove back to Barcelona city centre and had a simple tacos dinner at the Gothic quarters.

Day 7 – Our last full day in Spain.  Drove to the town of Figueres to visit the Salvador Dali Museum to satiate the artsy cravings of my daughter C. The 1 ½ hour drive was followed by a more than 1 hour of queuing for tickets. I suspect that the long queue time was a deliberate scheme to mitigate overcrowding of the museum building. Inside, we were consumed by Dali’s surrealistic and mystical art-form. It was a unique journey into art leaving us both dazed and inspired.

Back to Barca, we spent the remaining time strolling through the city.

Jenny would have been absolutely thrilled if she was with us for this trip. A self-drive holiday, sight-seeing in exquisite historic towns, walking through the cobbled streets, looking through the many shops with their quaint and colourful souvenirs on offer. Sampling the delicious local food-fare. It would be the perfect holiday for her.

So everywhere I go, I could not shake off the fact that she is missing from our travelling troupe. I pictured her in our midst. She would be wearing her black trench coat, in her skinny blue jeans or black slacks, carrying her bright red knapsack behind her that she uses only for her travels. Such exotic trips without her sometimes put me into a sullen mood, detached from the many attractions and sights. But no regrets on making the trip. The bonding experience with my three kids was priceless. Jenny would give a thumbs up too.

Packing up for vacation

Where is my dark blue woollen sweater, that fuzzy warm and cosy one that I have worn for so many year-end winter holidays?

I ruffled through wardrobes, cabinets and old luggage bags that we used to store away much of the bulky winter wear acquired over the years.  I could retrieve all sorts of woolly jackets, overcoats and fluffy apparel, some new and not-so-new ones. But not a trace of my favourite woollen sweater.

If Jenny had applied some kind of schema on how all these stuff are stored up, it remains an unsolved mystery. But for each family vacation, a year-end ritual since our kids were all old enough to travel with us, she had always taken full charge of the luggage and packing.

“Just let me have the clothes you want to wear and don’t touch anything else”, she commanded with no-nonsense authority. Good sense told me not to interfere.  A woman and her half-packed luggage were not to be messed around with. She always pack early, at least a good two weeks ahead of the vacation, sometimes even earlier.  And she has refined the process to an art-form, bringing along every item she could conceive a need for.  All the while keeping within the luggage weight limits.

So where would our travels bring us to this year?

A 9-day vacation to colourful Barcelona. Catalonian country. Spain in the winter and in Christmas. A dream holiday for us. And one that Jenny and I had been putting off for some years in the past, thinking that we could always go the following year. We were stalling on this destination because we could not pin down a date that all five in the family would be available. So we took off for less exciting destinations, since not all could go. Thinking that there will be other years that we could still make it happen. After all Spain will always be there, awaiting our conquest.  

But of course we have no inkling, not a clue that for Jenny the years would run out, so soon.

So I find it hard to approach an otherwise exciting holiday in a far-flung country with the same kind of enthusiasm as I had in the past. Even for Spain.  This colourful country, famed for its flamenco, magnificent tacos, beautiful women in ruffly dresses and angry bullfights. Alright, forget the bullfights. It is a cruel sport and a major turn-off for animal-lovers like us and thankfully most parts of Spain have outlawed this hapless tradition they once called sport. 

Spain would have been the epitome of an exciting country to visit. When Jenny was by my side.  Each time we plan our holiday, booking our hotel apartment or browsing the net, sussing out attractions and interesting places to visit. Our family vacations were mini-projects to be worked on together. But some tasks are better done divided. Like the packing and the booking of flights and accommodation which she duly took care off. Come to think of it, I did very little for these “mini-projects”. Aside from handing over my credit card.

So why did I even bother to go this time? Well I tossed the idea to the kids. Spain got their engines rumbling and once they confirmed their availability I bit the bullet and forced the airline booking. Payment made, there would be no turning back. No wishy-washy indecisiveness that could creep in when the real hassle of preparing for the long haul trip kicks in. Like having to pack.

Common sense tells me I should still travel as long as health permits.  Jenny loved travelling. And she was the source of my infection, the day I got smitten by the travel-bug.  Jenny would feel let-down if I deprived myself and the kids of travelling because she is not with us.  This much I am sure of her.

True, the family is now so incomplete. A vital piece is missing. And it is hard to muster and whip up the same enthusiasm and excitement as felt in the past, whenever the date for our impending vacation approaches. Perhaps we had taken one trip too many. Perhaps the kids have grown also. Robbing them of their childish fervour. Sad but entirely inevitable.

But mostly that dour pre-trip feeling that gnawed away my enthusiasm is plainly because she is missing. And she will be missed more so during our travels. Spain will come with some pain. I will just have to brace myself for it.  

Never mind the woollen sweater. It’s an early morning flight tomorrow and I am done with the packing.

Adios, amigo.

About moving on...

Do I want to move on? The simple and honest answer is no.

If moving on means leaving her to drift away, banished to the nether reaches and deepest recesses of my memory, so I can start anew. Because I do not want to start anew.

Just a few days ago, as I was browsing my Facebook account, I came across a link shared by my boy W.  A response to a person grieving.  My son must have been thinking of me.  Or was he also similarly gripped in grief? But what caught my eye was the statement that the response is the “best Internet comment of all time.” A bold claim indeed. Might be worth a read.

http://magazine.good.is/articles/best-comment-ever

That grief hits in waves is true.  Very large ones at first and eventually diminishing. But the scars run deep, as deep as the love I feel for her. I could relate with everything written in that posting. The article offered good advice, beautifully crafted and definitely worth sharing.

I can accept that Jenny has died. In truth, I have no other choice. It is pointless to think otherwise. My mind is not capable of conjuring delusions of any sort, so this is not the time to fool myself. Even as the thought of living in this physical world where she is no longer a physical part of is uncomfortable and unreal.

Hence I am not resisting. But while I can accept the change (her absence now), and what I cannot change (bringing her back), it is too much to expect for me to just get moving on with life. And be back with the normal, as if nothing had happened.

I am not sure how long I will need to grieve. Right now it seems like I will be grieving for the rest of my life. I have read elsewhere that grief is none other than the love we feel for the person we lost. My love for Jenny has not changed with her passing. I will be grieving for a long time then.

And I will hold on to many of her things. 

Jenny’s demise was akin to a mighty ship sinking, as said in the Fb posting shared by my son. And all around me there will be floating debris, remnants of the wreckage. I need to cling on to stay afloat. To hold on to what she has left behind for me. Her photographs, to remember her various postures and expressions.  Her soft pillow and worn out cotton bolster. Now bringing me such comfort each night.  Her clothes that hang patiently in her wardrobe.

Perhaps it is too early.  Way too early. I have to accept that grief is something only that old cliché time can heal. But I am doubtful that I can ever re-claim my life and start anew.

So how do I move on, now that Jenny is no longer here to share space and time with me?

Dragging myself home from work, the house is unusually quiet. Soft clanging of utensils from our helper in the kitchen. The kids often spend long days out, at work, studying or hanging out with friends. Some days one or two or if I am lucky, all three are in. We would dine together, sometimes at the table or in front the TV. No fuss meals. They are usually cheerful, quite unlike their father who usually needs cheering up.

I would retire early into my bedroom after dinner.  Or what used to be our private chambers, the master bedroom of the house. I would spend most evenings alternating between my paperback books and browsing through other grief sites on the iPad, now a recurrent habit. Sometimes I strum my guitar. I enjoy watching music videos also or cover versions of my favourite songs to pick up new guitar tricks.

Jenny and I had spent most of our evenings together in this spacious room, where aside from our king-sized bed there is ample space for a sofa set and coffee table. Jenny had spent many relaxing hours couched on this sofa, imbibing an endless diet of Korean dramas, her favourite past-time.

I would be sitting on my side of the bed, staying clear from hers. Respectfully so. I had stashed away her large comforter blanket to spare it from collecting dust. So except for her pillow, her side of the bed looks bare and empty. It mirrors the emptiness I feel inside me.

Occasionally on Friday evenings there are invitations from friends to meet up for dinner or drinks. I could relax and even enjoy my time with them. Sometimes we chill out at pubs, where the music is loud and heavy. I could get all wrapped up in the music alone, being a music-lover at heart. But always each meeting would end with the same hollow feeling.  I remind myself to limit such bouts of carefree fun and laughter. It seems improper. It means I am not adequately mourning or thinking of her. The vibes are out of phase.

So most of my evenings are times spent by myself. These are times I look forward to and try to have more of.  By myself within the silence and sanctuary of my room I never really feel alone. In fact I feel her presence stronger than ever as every item in our room resonates with her.

So that’s how I move on.