Fighting for me

After 5 years, I have closed a chapter of my life.

My heart is breaking. But you know what, I've finally done something for myself.

I have not settled for less than I deserve.

Five Years and a Box in the Sky

Today marks 5 years. And this last year, seemed like the longest and roughest time ever.

I have sat and asked myself "Why?! Why was this last year so difficult for us?" We've argued so much more, we've yelled so much more and I have said it out loud far too often "Get out of my house!".

I recognise and realise that this is part and parcel of life and this thing we have that has no label to fit. And it is not reason enough for me to fly off the deep end and fret. It is how it is - people change, people grow, lives changes, paths shift.

There's gonna be a new box in the sky soon: the 4th in a short span of 5 years. And I hope that this would be my last, our last. And in this 6th year and moving forward, I hope this box in the sky will eventually be something more than just space and matter.

Even if I have to continue to just pay rent for it, and not mortgage, I would gladly do it just to have you by my side every other Sunday. We do not need the money that a new job would bring just to pay a mortgage. Cos at the end of the day, instead of being a home or have the possibility of a home, it would be my prison without you.

At this end of a very rough year, and the beginning of new one, I am grateful that you are still around. That you fight my battles for me. And while it may not be conventional, you've been there for me far more than anyone else has.

For that and everything else you are, I love you and I am grateful for the blessing of you!

Scream I Must

How could it be, that only 5 Sundays ago, we ran home to shower up, grab blankets, socks and sweaters so we could be by your side? How could it be, that only 5 Sundays ago, I curled up on the floor by your bed the whole night through? How could it be, that only 5 Sundays ago, you could still give me a smile and a thumbs up when I asked if you were feeling alright?

I have been telling myself each time it hit me, these weeks past, that I am actually not here, not in the country, or that you've gone back to JB - that's why we've not seen each other for so long. And then I tell myself, that is not quite right either, so for the last year or so, with the aid of technology, no matter where you or I traveled, we still saw and spoke at least once a week.

And then I get angry with you, for leaving me behind. For going off by your lonesome self, leaving me to fend for everyone else. To sort out your affairs. To tie up your loose-ends. To figure things out for myself. To have to depend on others who perhaps now feel I am too much of a pest.

To say I miss you, is an understatement. Just like the word "condolence" which is suppose to convey all things unspeakable, "miss" does not begin to describe the emptiness that is now exposed.

Tonight I want to sit and scream at the top of my lungs. Too hell if I scare the shit out of my lovely neighbours - this girl needs to let it out, let it rip, let it run lose and wild.

Cos right now, a month in, I have held it in enough and I have held up it enough. It's time to claim my space, my grief.

The Grief Has Come

I recall another time, of a similar scene - me sitting at my desk, heaving like I am choking and finding it hard to stop the tears from falling. And I am familiar with this scene and what it is called.

For the last 3 weeks, I have been indulging in what my Irish colleagues call - Occupational Therapy. Mindless working and constant motion. Never stopping to be still and just be. And now, 3 weeks have passed that I have been wearing black, with another week to go before the colours can come out again.

I am hesitate that this week to pass, for me to once again switch my clothes in the cupboard into their correct order of purpose. For it would mean that Dad's been gone a month. And I have been without his voice, his smile, his touch, his whole being for the same length of time.

I understand now why some folks prolong their mourning. It provides some form of false pretense, as if the colour cloak you from the pain of missing someone so dear and so loved, so very badly. But I also know that prolonging something that needs to be addressed, changes you on the inside. You become so well at blocking it, you simply become numb.

I know on 27th March 2013, Dad would want to see me in the brightest of my colours. Because if there is anything that he most wanted out of his death to those who are living - that we continue to live, and live well!

But it doesn't deny the fact that the grief has arrived at my door.

How Soon Is Too Soon?

This morning, I am stuck with the thought: we seemed to have moved on. And the question beckons - have we done it too soon?

Are we not suppose to sit and stare into space? Are we not suppose to mourn and bemoan the fact that life cannot go on cos Dad's not here anymore?

Mum, Fabian, the children, Aunt Cat and to some extent, myself included - we seemed to have forged new ways to do things. Today, the elders are heading to the grocers with a family friend driving them. And while I am so proud that they are carrying on, I also feel a slight pang that goes "Hey! You can't do that!"

I know wherever he is, Dad sure would be proud. I just hope he doesn't think that he is no longer missed. Cos as much as life goes on and the great world keeps spinning - there is a still a big gaping hole that stares at us in our face.

Just Plain Angry

There is suppose to be 5 stages of grief. Yet, I only know one - Anger.

I am so angry, even Ben thinks I'm in a bad place, and my BFF responded with a "HUH?!"

What am I angry about? A lot of things. Who am I angry at? Only 1 person. And it's shameful cos he's not even alive to defend himself anymore.

All I ask for is this: one lil simple sign - to let me know as you always do - that I am not broken, but merely slightly bent. Otherwise, we both know where this road is gonna lead to.

And you and I both know - that is the road that lead furthest from you.

Empty Chairs

My world stopped turning 2 weeks ago, when I got a call saying Dad was rushed to the Emergency Room. He went in fully dressed, he came out in a burial shroud.

We laid him to rest yesterday. Since then, I cannot help my imagination from spinning out of control. The darkness. The silence. All these things will be his companions from now on... 6 feet underground.

I have not addressed his death. I may have been saying out-loud "My daddy's dead" but no matter how many times I say it in my head or to folks around me, it is not sinking in.

This is a conscious effort to let it rip. And I am failing miserably.

My Father's Child

My dad put his house in order during our recent trip to Singapore. He made sure he visited the homes of my cousins and had a meal with each of them. He visited with his brothers, except his eldest - but he had that boxed off in a visit before.

Most importantly, he reconciled my Mum with her siblings, whom she had been estranged from the last 9 years.

As I sat a reflect on the week past, as well as the hours ahead when we make our way once again to the doctor's office for the latest update on what's going on in Dad's body - it hit me hard that I may lose my father soon.

I have been strong and pushing on the last 8 months. Keeping everyone sane and real. Yet, today I understand why everyone has been resisting my efforts. Today I understand why I have been at times the "visible enemy of cancer". Today as I sat in my favourite corner at the pub, I could not for the life of me, imagine the future without my Dad.

And because I cannot do that, I now wonder - how am I going to carry everyone through when the time comes? How am I going to sit by his side and help him cross over in peace and serenity?  How am I going to do all this when I am already breaking down inside with grief and pain?

Yet, as I shared Dad's efforts and actions the last week to my associates, the Ambassador remarked "Your Dad is a strong man as it takes a lot to do what he has done. You are his child and you will draw the strength you need from that."

So while there's a grief that can't be spoken....There's a pain that goes on and on.... I shall go forth today in that knowledge.

I am his child. His blood runs in mind. And as it courses through my body, he will give me his strength from the beyond.

You Came

My dad has severe abdominal pains late last night. It must have been bad cos he would always put off having to intrude / disturb me until he really has to. And so, at 15 mins to 11 pm, I get a call, asking if I could go home to take him to the hospital.

As Mum and I sat waiting in the ER way past midnight, for his number to be called, my phone beeped a text saying "Give me 10 minutes". Now you have to remember that for a person who lives daily without any hope in Hope, that is not something you say to said person.

But true to the text, in strolled a face I would never in a thousand years expect to see, on his own accord, walking in the doors of the hospital, with a bag of food and drinks for Mum and I.

And so it has to be said here (cos I would likely never have the guts to say it out-loud):

You came. On your own. When I lest expected it. And you stayed till we knew Dad was going to be fine, even though it would mean you would only have 4 hours of sleep before you had to go to work.

And introduced yourself to my folks, after 5 long years of saying no you would never met them. And you didn't hold yourself back when we spoke to the doctors and all that.

Part of me want to run for the hills cos it has been so long since someone stepped up and showed me I could lean on them when I needed to. Part of me is scared shitless. Part of me is wondering what happened that made you change your mind.

But you came. And that is what matters.

Moments Like These

My mum and aunt went shopping for Chinese New Year yesterday and I drove them.

As I watched them pick out clothes for my dad, selecting the brightest of reds and the funkiest of designs, happily laughing at each other's selection, I know at the back of their heads, the dark cloud hung: that this may be the last one for him.

"You have to make this the best," said my friend Mary as I sat chain-smoking on her balcony and drinking copious amounts of wine. "You will find yourself during the break to Singapore, moving between moments of joy, sadness, tiredness and frustrations. But you have to take it in and make it the best! Be in the NOW."

I did not realise how hard it is when someone so close to you is ill. Especially if you are constantly thinking "could this be the last?" Yet, living in the NOW is the most important thing you need to do.

I am so mentally tired, even my hair hurts!

But I know I need to push on. The time will come when I can rest. But not yet.

Driving Ms Barbsie

I sat my dad down this evening to run through with him the things his doctor has told us to watch for. It was something I had to do, because my dad can be a stubborn man who tries to mask anything and everything over.

It is a topsy-turvy world I live in right now. Whilst he would like to live life as normal as he can, I know that he is now restraint by limits. But like I said before, stubborn man that he is, he has and will continue to try to test said limits.

As I told a cousin of mine the day I last saw Dad's doctor, perhaps I am trying too hard to protect him. Perhaps being 2 steps ahead of him is not doing either of us any good. After all, our last episode of this bubble-wrapping saw him blowing up on me over the phone.

One of our greatest unspoken issue is his ability to continue driving. And when the time comes when he is no longer deemed safe behind the wheels. I just read something from the Galway Hospice Foundation website - a piece by Prof. Joan Borst who recounted the day her father stopped driving.

"Driving was part of his identity and made him an independent man, a husband and a father; roles of worth. In comparison to the news of a brain tumour, maybe learning he would no longer drive seems insignificant, but I knew that deep down it was hugely significant for the both of us. The pain and grief I felt was a signal that my father's ability for care for me was ending."

My day would come when I have to be in the good professor's shoes. I hope and pray that when it comes, both Dad and I would be shielded from the pain and grief, and that we would do it with a large amount of acceptance so that it would be as dignified as in the days when he drove me around.

Until then, I think I shall let him drive when the opportunity arises. After all, it is not everyday that I get driven around like Ms Daisy.

Doing What Feels Right

I took the day off yesterday, got into my car at 5.30 am after an hour's sleep and drove off to the airport. I headed home to say goodbye to my uncle, my father's eldest brother.

It was a most difficult journey to make. The physical aspects of it - a whole day in a tiny hospital ICU visitor's room, endless walking to and fro to check on him. The emotional aspects of it - being surrounded by people who are holding on by a thread, their families standing around hearing the slowing bleep of the heart monitor. Yet, it was a journey that I had to make.

I had once written, that the only real legacy we leave behind when we leave this world, is our children. And I think in the last year or so, I have exemplified the legacy of my parents as well as my grandparents. For to them, nothing was and is more important than that of family and unity.

My dad is not able to travel, nor manage the emotional stress that comes with an very ill brother. My mother cannot leave his side because the doctor instructed her so. While it is painful to acknowledge that I have stepped up into my parents' shoes, I have to accept that this is the circle of life.

As I try to wear off the emotional baggage that comes with a trip and a situation that we're living in, both from my extended family and my own immediate family - I am at peace. Simply because I did and is doing what feels right.

And I know that right is right simply because it was ingrained in my bones and my whole being, just as the blood that feeds my veins is the same blood that runs through my uncle and my cousins.

All Things Past

It has been a tough morning for me today. A new year has meant nothing more than the changing of a table calendar. For the weight of yesterday still hangs heavy over my shoulder.

My dad's cancer is back. Some where in this thing he calls his body. And while things are inconclusive, he has decided that he will trust in God and not do anything anymore.

This knowledge brings with it some form of finality. For with his dicey situation, not knowing where it is at means that we cannot treat it. And to not treat it would eventually mean certain death.

Even in that certainty, we have to remain uncertain. For if we do not know where it is or how big it is, we do not know how long.

I have been thinking I steel myself against the very worst because I am a person who dares not hope. I have been concentrating my thoughts and struggle on the fact that I am the one born without the hope chest. My Pandora's box threw itself wide open way back then and even Hope got out before the lid could be shut on time.

And if I continue down this road, I would have missed the opportunity to profit from this experience, this bonus time with my dad. And it would be like my Camino all over again - to plan and trained and prepare but through all that, I missed out on the scenery, the mysteries and the joy of simply walking that pilgrimage.


There is a lesson to be learnt from all this. I know it deep down in my bones. But if I keep looking out for a sneak peek of the lesson plan, I will have missed the lesson itself.




If life, if the past is to mean anything - it is that the present is NOW, not tomorrow, not next year.