"FOC" - Music to My Ears

 

I took my father's watch to Rolex at Tong Building on Monday for battery replacement.

The Filipino Front Desk Officer greeted me with a wide grin and I said I was there to 'change battery for the watch'.

She took a look at the watch and said,"Yes, this watch needs battery."

I asked,"How much do you charge to change the battery?" My father had a 2008 receipt which had '$30' clearly printed on it for battery replacement. He said the price has since increased. My brother last replaced the battery for $50. I would expect the price to further increase to at least $80 but I bore a secret hope that it remained at $50.

To my utter surprise, the lady replied,"We don't charge for changing of battery."

I was stunned. I must be dreaming.

I repeated,"No charge?"

She affirmed the repetition,"There's no charge."

I clarified,"But you used to charge for changing of battery."

She replied,"Yes, but for now, we don't charge."

It's free? At Rolex, an ostentatious, luxury brand for watches. They don't want the money?

Yay!!! 

There's something that doesn't need money in Singapore! 

I waited around for the receipt and feasted my eyes on the watch displays that priced from a humble $6xxx to $39xxx before walking out of the door feeling really lucky.

A catch: the watch would need servicing which starts from $850 if it does not move after a battery replacement and they would give me a call to let me know.

They called two days later to inform me that the watch was ready to be picked up with no hiccups.

Another Hospital Stay

My Facebook newsfeed is flooded with friends who have gone on holidays. One went to Taiwan, another is in Europe, and yet another - a teacher, is in Spain.

As for my colleagues and I, we are not to leave State till next Tuesday evening.

Life's unfair like that.

The last week was an eight-to-five work week, the kind that requires your presence even when nothing is going to be done.

And my father was admitted to the hospital. If I had visited him at the hospital, you can be sure that I would collapse onto the bed by the time I reached home. It was good for a dieting woman who got to skip dinner without too much effort though.

I first received an sms from my brother saying that my father had insisted on going to a Malaysian hospital when I was at work a fortnight ago.

The bags were packed and his passport was already in his pocket.

I called back and persuaded my father to remain in Singapore. It does not take a genius to know that I had no faith in a Malaysian hospital, much less in one that would not know what my father had gone through the previous year.

I had once visited a cousin at a Malaysian hospital and was appalled at the state of it. My cousin's arm was slashed by a love rival in the city area, or so I heard, and was transferred to a government hospital soon after he was admitted to a hospital. His rusty bed was among at least ten or twenty other beds in a huge hall. Some nurses were doing their stuff at the other end of the hall. A few fabric windscreens existed to shield the view from others when they needed to examine a patient. It reminded me of the 1950s to 1970s medical scenes I watched on Channel 8 drama serials. I was shocked that Malaysia was still so backward in their medical advancements.

I managed to persuade my father to visit the GP (General Practitioner) we just visited the day before to get a doctor's letter before setting off for the General Hospital.

My father had been complaining about general discomfort and weakness after his last major surgery and no doctor or physician or temple or church could help him. I had suggested that he do a full body check-up to find out the problem, thus the visit to the GP the previous day. The GP had proposed to get my father to have a full assessment at SGH since he also could not help my father but he needed some time to pen a letter of reference. But my father clearly could not wait anymore.

At the A&E Department, the doctor ran some tests on my father and diagnosed that he had 'dangerously low level of sodium' in his blood and suspected that he had lung infection so he was admitted to the hospital. A four-bedder room.

After 4 days, my father was worried that the bill might snowball over time since there was no sign that the doctor was going to discharge him, so he walked out of the ward and insisted on being discharged.

And he went home on a Friday.

On Sunday, he woke up with a swollen mouth and neck. His tongue was so swollen that he could not even eat! So back to the hospital he did.

Infection of the floor of the mouth, the doctor said.

This time, my father requested us to put him in a C class ward so that he did not have to worry about the bill. 

And by then, that a $200k medical bill was a reality had stuck in our mind. We signed him up for the nine-bedder ward.

So my father stayed in the hospital for another week. In the course of the week, the doctor diagnosed that he also had SLE (Systemic Lupus Erythematosus), an autoimmune disease which was very rare for an elderly. But it explains why none of our parents have Hyperthyroidism, another autoimmune condition, but at least three of us do.

The good news is: he was discharged yesterday :)

Another good news is: my biopsy report states that my nodule is benign, meaning not cancerous or malignant. However, that was within expectations. I had read up online and the articles concurred that nodules with thyroid problems are usually non-cancerous.

Discharged, Finally!

My father was admitted to the hospital on a Monday, the day right after my last post.

The operation was a success. My father would be able to consume food through his mouth within 10 days.

However, I was starting to worry that I might not have enough money in the bank for the stay when the doctor continued to keep my father in the hospital after 8 days.

As if in an answer to my prayer, I was having lunch when the hospital called and informed me that my father could go home yesterday.

I was thrilled.

So at 4.30pm, I was there to pick my father up. And I prayed repeatedly for a bill well within my means.

I was grateful that the bill really was within the doctor's estimation.

Today, my father had threadfin porridge, and he managed to down the fish too. It was an achievement as he could not even swallow a teochew porridge rice grain a day before, the first time he ate solid food since 3 months ago!

Saved for the pain from the huge, fresh cut on his stomach, my father is happy that he is returning to normality and will be able to enjoy food the way he used to.

Months of anguish and pain. I hope they are things of the past, real soon.

My Father is Not their Priority

Alas, I was in denial when I said my siblings had stopped shouting and screaming at me over my father's matter.

Yesterday when I was at my parents' place, my third sister adopted a very hostile tone with me as she 'talked' to me.

I had gone to my parents' place to speak to my father. I was worried about the operation. I wanted to be sure that he feels the way I feel about the 'need' for the surgery.

I asked him,"Are you scared?"

He replied,"Even if I am scared, I still have to do it, right?"

I mused,"Actually, if you don't do it, you will still live. You won't risk dying on the operating table."

He said with undoubted certainty,"If I have to live with a feeding tube like this, I'd rather die!"

So we are on the same page.

I went on to tell my father he should let his friend who had visited him during his first stay at the hospital know about his stay for the second operation.

When my third sister heard that, she immediately 'said',"NO! You MUST NOT let your friend know! After the operation, you will have an oxygen tube inside your mouth. You will have different tubes all over your body, remember?!! You CANNOT ask your friend to visit you DURING the operation. You CANNOT talk right after the operation!"

Duh. Who will ask their friend to visit them right after the operation?

Little did I know that was just a prelude to the impending scolding.

As I was sitting in the living room, my third sister 'asked' me what I would do if there were complications, meaning 'where (which hospital) are you going to put him if there are complications?'

I said,"Huh? I can't watch him die, right?"

She said,"He said he wants to go back to Malaysia to die there if there are complications."

My father nodded his head.

Well, that settles it, doesn't it, if it comes to that? So why ask?

Then came the bottomline,"We DON'T HAVE money!" (reads: Don't ask us for money to treat the complications.)

I didn't think of asking them for money if anything happens, anyway!

She started harping on the complications, complications, complications.

I kept quiet. The doctor had mentioned that risks for complications would be low ie. 2 or 3% compared to the last surgery.

But I knew she was not in a state to listen. So I didn't say anything.

Then came the real thing.

"NEXT WEEK IS A BAD WEEK FOR US! YOU WANT TO RUSH INTO IT! 5TH BRO-IN-LAW NEEDS TO WORK. I NEED TO WORK. YOUNGEST SISTER IS STARTING HER NEW JOB. WE CAN'T DRIVE HIM TO THE HOSPITAL!"

I was shocked,"I didn't ask you to drive him or us to the hospital! I will take him there myself!"

"YOU WANT TO RUSH THE OPERATION! IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO HIM, YOU HAVE TO HANDLE IT!"

My father was upset. It was clear to him that my third sister was vehemently opposing to him going for the operation.

He spoke up,"I am for the surgery. You should not keep talking about negative things. What complications? Doctor already said it's very safe."

"HE IS A SPECIAL CASE. EVEN 5% CHANCE, HE GOT IT!"

I couldn't talk to her at all.

I could have explained to her that for the first operation, I was the one who asked the surgeon, in everybody's presence (excluding my father),"One of the reasons for not wanting to go through the operation is the great fear that he might die on the operating table. Can you give us a number on what the survival rate for the operation is?"

The doctor replied,"95%. We are not worried about the operation. We are more worried about the post-operation. He is a high-risk patient. High-risk because of his age. We are worried that his body may not be strong enough to fight the infection after the operation as there would be a large area of infection due to his condition."

Apparently, my siblings had only heard what they wanted to hear:

Our father had a 95% rate of survival from the condition!

If they had listened attentively, and googled for my father's condition, they would have known that survival rate for my father's condition was low. Very low in fact. Many die within 24 hours of nil treatment due to infection.

If not for the fact that he was in the private hospital, under the care of the competent surgeon, he would have died.

But I couldn't tell my third sister all this.

She was not in the state of mind to listen to me. She just wanted to shove "WE DON'T HAVE MONEY TO PAY FOR THE OPERATION!" down my throat.

I told her I didn't have the intention of asking them to pay.

She continued to harp on her complications,"Did you read the fine prints? Do you know that the hospital can transfer him to restructured hospitals if you can't pay?"

To which I replied,"By then, it wouldn't have been vital already. The operation would have been done."

"If you don't have money to pay, YOU CAN GO BANKRUPT!"

I said,"Bankrupt, bankrupt then."

She appeared agitated by my nonchalant response.

She said,"The 5th sister has guessed correctly. You just want to leave us out of the matter and do it your way."

Well, why don't you hazard a guess why I have to do this?

She 'explained' to my father that after I pay for this operation, I wouldn't have the money to pay for the first operation - and it has not been paid.

The thing that really hurts is this: my siblings were talking behind my back, when I am ready to fork out the money for the second operation alone to let my father go through the operation as soon as possible, purely out of love for my father.

It was also clear to me that my siblings had this 'plan' in mind: to let me settle the bulk of the bill for the first operation while the rest of them split up and pay the remaining sum.

As the devil's advocate, William thinks that they are so angry with me is because they feel that I have 'spoiled' their plan. They were hoping that by saying,"I don't have money." they either do not have to pay or pay less for the bill. And they were shocked to find out that I wanted to play the same game by claiming that I don't have money after paying for the 2nd operation.

Yes. I won't have enough to pay for the first operation after paying for the second, but I have never harboured the thought of claiming "I don't have money" even if I don't have. I would return to working full-time. I would try to think of ways to bring in more money to pay off the bill.

Everything can wait. My broken bedroom door without a knob can wait. My full-height shoe cabinet can wait. My bomb shelter feature wall can wait. Coco's education fund can wait (even though I know it can't). But my father can't wait.

I left in a huff. I could not stay in the house a second longer. My father was asking my third sister to stop. She would not.

In my utmost anger, I hurled a vulgarity phrase at her before I left.

Not the best testimony for God. But I have had it up to here.

They are so blinded by the lack of money or the reluctance to part with their money that their judgment is blinded, and accuse my father being blinded by his desire to have the second operation.

They are so anxious to keep their money to themselves that they are not willing to share how much they have in savings even when I told them openly that I have $40k, thinking that it would set their mind at ease to share since I have taken the first step in sharing.

They are so selfish towards my father that they would insist that the restructured hospital is better when clearly, the doctor at the restructured hospital does not have the relevant experience at my father's case and my father would be his guinea pig if he ever goes there.

They are so blinded by their unwillingness to pay for the bill that they insisted on delaying the treatment. They claimed that my father was not ready for the second operation when three doctors had already given the green light for my father to go under the knife, after questioning and checking, on top of running tests on him to make sure he was fit enough for the second surgery.

They insisted that my father should have the physique as any other 70-year-olds before he could go for the operation. I questioned that possibility,"Have you gone on a diet before? He doesn't consume meat or rice. For an adult, how can a milk diet suffice? How can milk alone provide enough fats or nutrition for an adult body?"

They said they haven't gone on a diet before, but milk is sufficient for an adult body.

This is how blinded they have become.

I asked William if I could have done it better, to avoid having the scenarios of my sisters shouting and screaming at me. Was it because I refused to discuss with them when they called for a discussion?

They held a discussion at my parents' place after my father was deemed fit, by the doctors, to go for the next operation.

They asked me to attend it at 3pm. I told them I was not free as Coco's exams were near.

At 5pm, my mother called. She asked me if I would be attending it. They seemed to be waiting for me.

I said no.

I asked my sister what they were going to discuss since it was straight forward: Father wants the operation at the private hospital, and he wants that surgeon who did his first operation.

She refused to divulge more but asked me to simply turn up.

My father told me the next day that they had pressured him to go to the restructured hospital and also, delay his treatment till the first bill's review was over.

I told him no. He may die if he goes to the restructured hospital because the doctor is not confident and he has never done this before.

William said that they are angry with me because I did not go for the 'discussion'. And the 'discussion' was not meant to be a discussion. It was meant to be a session where they pressure me to agree with their decision of delaying my father's treatment and going for the restructured hospital after the delay.

"Don't even think about you changing their mind at the 'discussion'. It was meant to change yours."

I was still hopeful,"Could I have prevented all the shouting and screaming from happening by coping it better?"

"No. They have different priorities. As long as their priority is not your father, there is nothing to discuss. They will not agree with you."

My confidante colleague asked if it could be because my siblings thought that I was eyeing my father's wealth and had ulterior motives behind my 'rush' for the surgery.

I replied,"My father has no wealth."

I have read a story about a guy whose wife was suffering from a terminal illness.

He spent all he had just to search for a hope.

His colleagues were talking behind his back,"He should not have given everything just to treat his wife. He is so stupid. He should let her be."

The guy wrote that they were saying the things they did because they did not have a family member suffering from such an illness. If they did, they would also give all they had to treat their loved ones.

And I had always thought this would be our stand.

Now I know, those colleagues that the guy had would not do what the guy did even if their loved ones were dying.

My father is not suffering from a terminal illness. He could be normal again and live for at least another 20 years after the second operation. He wants to go for the operation.

It is simple to me. I will give all I have to treat my father. It is a 90% success rate and complication risks are 2 to 3%. Why shouldn't I? If any of his children is suffering like this, my father would not hesitate to let us go for the second operation either, even if it means incurring a great debt.

I may be jumping to conclusions, but my gripe is: my siblings want me to absorb the bulk of the costs despite knowing that Coco's varsity education would be at stake when I take out my savings. For all their talk of love for Coco, they don't have any qualms of it happening. For all their talk of how close-knitted a family we are, they are determined to keep their money theirs and make me spend mine.

There are 6 or 7 of us. If we split the bill up, it is bearable. Each person bears the load of less than $20k. For me alone to bear the bulk, it's a heavy load on me. My elder sister said this,"Those who have money, fork it out. " The spirit behind it was to encourage everybody to pool the monetary resources together, but it seems to me they have taken it to mean that 'I don't have money' is a convenient excuse to bill themselves out of the need to pay.

A Mixture of Prayer and Worry

I had a big fight with my siblings.

All six of them wanted my father to delay his surgery or go to a restructured hospital for his treatment - because of the high costs involved at the private hospital. They kept insisting that my father was not ready for the surgery. My father sank into a state of helplessness and hopelessness again. I was sad to see him like that.

I asked the high-EQ Coco if I could be in the wrong. If not, how could six of them were unanimous in wanting my father to go to the restructured hospital or delay his surgery?

Coco felt that if she were them, she would think that I was being selfish. 'You made the decision. The choice (of the hospital) is yours. Yet you want us to pay for it!'

Hmm ... that makes sense.

But William said,"How can wanting  to spend more on your father for a treatment be selfish? You mean you like spending more? They are the selfish ones. They want to save money at the expense of your father's life."

I confided in a close colleague and she said,"Because it's my father, if he wants the private hospital, I will pay for it. If we don't trust the doctor or the hospital, it will make us anxious or uncertain, and it will affect us mentally and physically."

I decided to liaise in secret with the private hospital. I arranged for the surgery to be booked on Monday. Fortunately or unfortunately, the clinic called me when I was unavailable, and it called my sister to inform her about the details of the surgery, and my siblings were in the know.

Most of them came to 'accept' it, or at least, they stopped shouting and screaming at me or pressuring my father to go their way.

My elder sister drove us to the hospital for the pre-admission today.

The actual admission will be done on Monday.

I was happy at first, after the admission was confirmed.

Then, in the evening, as I walked home with Baby from her ballet class, fear suddenly gripped me.

Will anything happen to my father during the surgery?

Will there be any complication that prolongs the stay in the hospital, like the last time?

Will I lose my father?

I tried thinking for an answer in vain.

The only answer is prayer.

Please pray for my father for a smooth and successful surgery, and a speedy recovery to normality.

Good News :)

My father was discharged from the hospital after a 43-day tumultuous stay.

He couldn't wait to get out of that place, and I totally understood it.

I already felt like it was an eternity when I stayed at the hospital for 3 days! The treatment for my excessive bleeding after a caesarian was utterly painful. You get broken sleep every 4 hours - for medication or blood-pressure taking. You get worried about whether there would be more complications that require more painful treatment. And in my father's case, he had to worry about the hospital bill that jumped by thousands every night.

He got ready to leave at 11am and made a big fuss when the nurse came around just before he left to feed him through his tube. He refused to stay any longer. But it was all good in the end.

That happened nearly 3 months ago.

He has been home, with milk fed through a tube that goes into his stomach.

It has been miserable for a man who loves food.

Although the doctor mentioned that my father could have another surgery done within one to three months to get his remaining oesophagus reconnected to his stomach so that he could consume food through mouth normally again, my elder sister insisted that the doctor was giving us false hope. She said that the internet says that patients with perforated oesophagus normally do the reconnection within six months to one year.

It was bleak for me, at least. And I think my father suspected it to be the case too. We just stopped talking about the reconnection so that he didn't feel so bad about it.

My mother stopped cooking. Everybody abstained from eating in his presence. We even tried not to mention 'eat', 'food', 'hungry', 'lunch' and other food-related words when he was in earshot.

Last Thursday, when my fifth sister took my father for a review at a restructured hospital and enquired about the possibility of the reconnection surgery, the doctor was positive that my father was ready for it. However, he said that he had no experience with my father's case ie. having a two-part surgery for a perforated oesophagus. He had only done surgeries that remove and reconnect the oesophagus in one sitting. He also insisted on doing a scope to measure the length of the remaining oesophagus, which my father absolutely resisted. The breaking point for my father was: the doctor stated that there was a possibility of the reconnected oesophagus leaking or disconnecting, and if that happened, my father would have to survive on milk that feeds through his nose, for life!

The next day, we took him to the surgeon who operated on him to remove a large part of his oesophagus. We checked with him if my father was fit enough to have the remaining oesophagus reconnected to his stomach. And he said yes, after some checking and questioning. He needed to check with the cardiologist if the heart is strong enough for the second operation though.

We had tentatively booked the surgery some time next week.

I am excited about it. My father will be able to eat again!

This surgery will set us back by yet another $30k - $40k.

My sisters, as usual, hope that he goes to the restructured hospital to save costs, but I am glad that my father insists on going private. I don't know how we are going to pay the bill. As it is, we haven't settled the last bill yet. Even the surgeon urged us to go to the restructured hospital to save costs. But I know  this doctor is the only one we can entrust our father's life with.

The restructured hospital doctor mentioned that to survive a perforated oesophagus is very rare. To survive an operation from a perforated oesophagus is yet rarer. And to survive a second operation from a perforated oesophagus is the rarest! He probably never saw it (I assume this myself - the way he put it!). So how can my father go to him?

Please continue to keep my father and our medical bill that is under review in your prayer. I find that prayer had been a source of comfort and solace to my father when he was in the hospital. And it has been powerful. For so many times when situations were life-threatening, we prayed, and my father became well. For a high-risk patient, coupled with old-age complications and weaker-than-average heart and lungs due to heavy smoking, it was nothing short of a miracle that my father's life-threatening conditions became better or well over and over again.

I overheard my fifth sister telling my father that he should follow her to church after he was well and he nodded his head. For a proud man who proclaimed that he was his own god, I can't help but sometimes wonder if this incident is something that God 'allows' to happen to bring my father to Him? I can't imagine my father opening his heart to God in an otherwise strong and healthy physique.

Please pray for us.

Looking Good (With Lots of Prayer)

It was Day 40 in the hospital last Saturday.

He was re-learning walking with the physiotherapist when I reached the ward.

After close to 40 days of lying in bed, he had lost all his muscles and feeling weak.

The physiotherapist was very assuring. 

He insisted that my father had at least 85% of his strength back after getting him to bend his legs and suspending his leg in the air independently. My father then felt confident that it was not some unknown or suspicious factors that were causing his perceived weakness.

The doctor finally removed the chest tube on Wednesday. My father was getting impatient and feeling irritable over why the doctors refused to remove the tube without a reason.

After the tube was removed, the doctor discovered that my father's haemoglobin level was on the low side. They observed for 2 days before they did blood transfusion for him to up it.

It seemed promising when it went up yesterday.

We were glad that the doctor was finally talking about discharge.

Then this morning, my sisters said that he could have accidentally tugged at his feeding tube that was stitched into his stomach, and he got a fever - always a cause for concern.

I haven't visited him yesterday and today, so I am not sure if he is well now.

We are looking to have him discharged tomorrow.

Please continue to pray for him.

And a medical bill that is largely covered by insurance and Medisave. The last we knew, insurance was only covering a quarter of an exorbitant bill. $40k out of $188k isn't that great. He has another operation to do. We need the finances. Please pray for us.

Tomorrow

The doctor didn't remove the chest tube that drained out the old blood today. He said,"Tomorrow."

The surgeon said to ask for the physician's advice, and the physician could not be the one who removed the tube.

It was Hari Raya Puasa. We could only guess that the doctors didn't want to mobilise the other doctors 'if anything happens'.

Let My Father Go Home, Lord

After the last scare, we received not-so-great news from the doctors, that my father had blood clots or 'old blood' in him, the remains of the internal bleeding.

The doctor gave us 4 options:

1) leave the blood clots in there and risk getting infection
2) have a CT scan to check where it is located
3) insert a thicker tube to, hopefully, drain the clots out
4) inject medicine to dissolve the blood clots and, hopefully, drain them out via the existing tube. However, there are risks involved, with excessive bleeding and immediate collapse being the most serious ones.

My father was sick and tired of having surgeries and procedures done on him.

He opted for '4' and we were fine with it.

The first day the medicine went in, about 650 to 700 ml of old blood was drained out.

The lung physician estimated that about 1 litre of blood clots were in there, so he suggested injecting the medicine a second time to get the remaining of them out, and if nothing else came out, they would have done whatever that could be done, and the tube would come off him. The risk of having excessive bleeding remained.

My father agreed.

Today, another 55 ml of old blood got drained out in the morning.

The doctor said that the tube would be removed tomorrow, and we could discuss discharge with the doctor-in-charge.

My father can't wait to go home. It's been more than a month since he was admitted to the hospital.

However, the doctors advised us to send him to a community hospital to 'rehabilitate' him. They surmised that he would not be able to walk or go about the daily activities independently yet by the time he is discharged.

It occurred to me that my father hasn't heard about this, but he would certainly feel sad that he couldn't go home.

He has been trying very hard to recover. When he was asked to walk with a walking aid during his physiotherapy, he walked very fast for a patient who had not been down the bed for a month.

I am quite optimistic that he could go home though, at the rate he is going.

Another Roller-Coaster Ride

My father was suspected to be bleeding internally as the chest tube connecting to his chest was filled with fresh blood.

He looked weak and hopeless.

He was beginning to feel that he might never make it home.

The doctor requested for a chest scan or x-ray.

My father said no.

"I want to go home," he said.

I was worried as I read the updates from my sisters via Whatsapp.

After some time, they updated that my father was willing to do the scan and even asked them to ask the doctor who would perform the surgery if there was internal bleeding.

As usual, I prayed for no liquid in the lung, thinking that the liquid was suspected to be in the lung.

I stood waiting outside the scanning room. I could not sit down. I wanted to get a feel of what the nurses or doctors were communicating.

A nice Indian lady approached me,"Are you waiting for someone?"

I could not hold back any longer.

I wept,"Yes."

She asked,"Is he your relative?"

I replied,"He's my father."

The nurses at the counter stopped their small talks and looked at me. The patient and family members at the waiting area stared.

The lady went into the room and checked out the situation for me.

When she returned, she assured me that they were waiting for my father to settle down before they started the scan.

She assured me that that was a standard protocol and everybody did it.

She got me to sit down and wait while she brought me a warm cup of water.

She also got a nurse from the scanning room to update us on what they were doing.

As soon as the radiologist had done the scan, he emerged from the room and told us that there was internal bleeding indeed. However, as the area collecting the blood did not have any major organs, it was not critical. He would try to find the artery that caused the bleeding and block it via a fast procedure. A surgery was the last resort.

We waited for half an hour.

Our relatives from Malaysia arrived. They were my father's elder brother, elder sister, elder brother-in-law, his youngest sister and his eldest brother-in-law.

They were visibly worried. We tried to assure them that the doctors were treating my father's bleeding.

When the doctors were done, they said that they blocked out 2 arteries and they hoped they found the right ones.

When I visited my father the next morning, the bleeding had stopped.

By the afternoon, he was deemed stable enough to transfer to the normal ward.

And we were relieved, once again.

We are praying that nothing else would happen again.

My father is too exhausted from all the scares and trauma.

Another Heart-Stopping Moment

While I was at work, I received 6 missed calls.

When I called back, it was from the hospital. The nurse said that my father was panting badly, so he would be sent to HDU (High Dependency Unit) for observation.

Two of my sisters went down and watsapped us the information:

The doctor suspected that there was liquid in the lung. He raised two possibilities:

1) It could be water or
2) internal bleeding, for which a surgery would be in order.

My father would need to have a scan done to confirm the location of the liquid.

We were awfully worried.

I prayed for the seemingly impossible: that there was no liquid in the lung.

The scan was done. Amazingly, the doctor said that the liquid was NOT in the lung! However, it was outside the lung, taking up the space the lung would otherwise have to expand when breathing in. This explained why my father's breathing was compromised. He had been having short breaths and panting badly whenever he had to be moved, like turning when wiped, or getting up from the bed to sit on a chair next to the bed.

The doctor explained that the procedure involved inserting a tube to drain the liquid out. However, he did not know what the liquid was. If it was just water, good. If it was blood, it would be worrying. On top of that, the risk of inserting the tube was the possibility of bursting one or more blood vessels, which would result in bleeding.

He had to tell my father what he wanted to do to see if my father wanted to let him do it. My father nodded tiredly.

I prayed with Coco and Baby outside the room.

The procedure was over in about 10 minutes. According to the doctor, it was 800ml of water suppressing his lung and there was no bleeding due to the procedure!

We went to take a look at my father and he looked visibly relieved.

The next time I went to look at him, he was already fast asleep!

Thank God even crazy dreams come true.

Glad Tidings

I am glad to say that the cardiologist told us that although there was an indication that my father's arteries had blockage, they were considered 'mild to moderate', not 'severe'. So there was no need for him to undergo any invasive procedures.

My father does not want to go through another operation after the last three he had, so it was great news for all of us. :)

The fact that the cardiologist wanted to meet us at 7.30am at the hospital was worrying for us. Yet none of us dared to postpone the conference as we were worried that it could be urgent, since she requested to meet us at such an unearthly hour. But we were just glad that nothing awful happened.

My father needs to be able to sit on a chair for at least 6 hours, and walk and relieve himself on his own before he can be discharged. None of us would tell him that as the longest that he could sit on a chair was 2.5 hours. We don't want him to exert himself just to hit the 6 hours.

He has been in the hospital for 18 days.

Pray for my father, won't you?

Thank God, Even Crazy Dreams Come True

As usual, when school reopens, the number of my posts dwindles.

The reason is really because my father is in the hospital. He went to the hospital when he had a piece of mutton stuck in his gullet for 3 days, causing him to be unable to eat or drink.

Unfortunately, something happened and it caused his esophagus to be removed. And subsequently, he was in and out of ICU and many scares arose eg. fevers that indicated infection, lungs collapsed, blood clots travelling to his lung which was life-threatening. Some were real and some were false alarm. We felt exhausted from the constant stress and the travelling to and from the hospital. To date, my father has gone through 24 scans, and some are as long as 2 hours. You are talking about radio active scans. And he is not able to eat or drink. He can only be fed some protein and isotonic liquids through a tube that is inserted into his stomach.

Tomorrow morning, the cardiologist would conference with us on my father's heart. My father is so exhausted from 3 operations that he told us that he would not want any more operation even if he needed it.

Apart from prayers, I don't know what else I can do. Each time, I prayed for the best possible situation for my father, or for fevers to subside, or for good reports, or prayed against blood clots and blockage in valves of the heart.

My dream is for my father to be discharged from the hospital very soon, in good condition, and that his suffering ends soon.

On top of what happened to my father, I am stressed over P1 registration, like how I was 8 years ago.

This year is made worse because of the 40 seats reservation for Phases 2B and 2C. And for some strange reason, this year sees a huge jump in enrolment at Phase 2A1. Such figures were never-before occurrence and they coincide with the policy of 40 seats that was introduced in August last year, which meant it was too late to join the alumni association since the deadline for joining an association was 30 June! Naturally, it is suspicious.

Anyway, I hope that it is because of the movement of the alumni in Phase 2A2 to 2A1 to ensure that they are safe.

Till next Thursday when the results would be announced, my fingers are crossed.

I am so stressed that I can't sleep. When I switched on the TV, a blonde girl was singing,"Thank God, even crazy dreams come true."

Please pray for me to have a seat in 2A2 next week if anyone is reading!

An Encounter with the Malaysia Insolvensi

I have always said that Malaysia is my biological parent while Singapore is the foster.

Sometimes, I watch on TV about how a fostered or adopted child desperately seeks out his or her natural parents, just to realise how crass or materialistic the natural parents are, and feels awfully disappointed.

I would tell myself that this would never happen to me. I was, after all, making an analogy about the parentage thing. And for Malaysia to disappoint me? Come on! HA HA HA!

Recently, it happened to me.

My father bought a shophouse as a gift to my mother about 20 or 30 years ago.

He had bought a few properties in his better days. When his business hit a downturn, he sold them off to support his business, except the shophouse for my mother - because my mother refused to sell it for whatever reasons.

My father was sure that he had paid off the bulk of the housing loan, which stood at RM 90k then, but last year, when he tried to get the title deed of the house from the authority after he learnt that the developer went bankrupt and the Malaysia insolvensi took the house back, the lawyer representing him claimed that the authority wanted documentary proof that he had paid for the house. My father is not the most meticulous person where finance is concerned. He did not keep all the receipts he received for paying off the housing loan, but he did not think that was a case for concern. The incompetent lawyer sent in whatever receipts my father could find and came back telling him that he still owed the authority RM 58k.

Enraged, my father refused to pay the RM 58k.

Subsequently, without any written warning, the insolvensi sent two letters terminating my father's contract, stating that the house was now confiscated by the insolvensi! And if my father wanted to get the house back, he would need to pay RM 140k, the market price, instead!

One shock after another.

I spoke to the lawyer's clerk since June this year, because apparently the clerk was handling the matter.

I told her that we were willing to pay cash upfront and we would like to negotiate on the price - to be reduced to RM 110k.

When I called again in September, after the clerk took too long to revert to us, the clerk said that the insolvensi had agreed to it.

About a month ago, we paid the deposit of RM 11k within three days. In fact, we knew about it on Friday and sent the cheque down on Monday. They promised to call us in two weeks' time and we could have the house after paying the remaining sum.

We waited for more than a month.

I called again last week.

What I heard outraged all of us.

The clerk now said that the insolvensi had not cleared the cheque. They received a new bid for the house and that the new bidder was willing to pay more for the house. So if we wanted the house, we had to pay RM 140k, the 'market price'!

My elder sister was sure that it was a property agent's tactic: to show the cheque to potential buyers and ask them for higher bids if they want the property.

My father was upset that the insolvensi did not keep to what they had promised and had refused to issue a black-and-white to confirm the offer.

It totally changed the way I view Malaysia, my biological parent.

Like how those children in the drama serials feel, I am awfully, awfully disappointed. 'Disappointed' is an understatement. I am disheartened, disgusted.

It is clearly a case of corruption.

Could the drama serials a foreshadowing of what I was to experience?

I discussed with my father about the matter and we decided that we would give up the house if they would not sell it back to us at RM 110k.

If they had stood their ground and insisted on selling it at RM 140k at first, we would not have been so agitated. If the price had been non-negotiable, we would have paid the price.

But the insolvensi is behaving like a profitable organisation - whoever bids at a higher price is the keeper.

The house belongs to my mother in the first place.

In fact, they are withholding RM 22k which my father has receipts for to confirm his ownership on the house.

We have already confirmed that we want the house, paid the deposit for it. How can they say that there is no black-and-white to say that they are selling the house to us at RM 110k?!!

And isn't the lawyer our witness? How can a government organisation not honour what it had promised? How can it get away with all these?

You mean the country is lawless ah?

Totally ridiculous! Singapore's authorities will never do this, even if it's just spoken words.


As a child, I had heard from my aunt how corrupted the police were. Our neighbour's son was a police. Every night, when he went back to his police quarter, he and his team-mates would peel open the squashed notes surreptiously, inconspicuously thrust into their hands during their duty in the day, and divide the loot among themselves equally. These notes were also known as 'kopi money' for bribing the police into not taking the offenders to law. Sometimes, the police extorted money outrightly from locals or Singaporeans who drove Singapore cars in by threatening to charge them for an offence they did not commit.

Eventually, the acts pricked his conscience and the neighbour's son decided that he had had enough, and quit the job.

Like most other children, I naively asked my aunt,"Then why didn't he stop collecting the bribes? He could continue to be a police - an upright one!"

She replied,"Then the rest of his team-mates would wallop him, thinking that he wanted the bribes all for himself."

I had thought that such dark corruption would have ceased in this day and time.

Apparently, such practices are too rife, too rampant, too uncontrollable, such that even in this modern time, the government appears to give consent to them.

Like a wife who's betrayed by her husband, disgust and shock overwhelmed me.

I feel so stupid and lame to have stopped my brother in converting to being a Singaporean. What has Malaysia got to offer for us to retain our citizenship? Any faith I have in its governance is completely shattered by my encounter with the insolvensi, which is supposed to deal with bankruptcy. How ironical it is for such authority to want to take advantage of the situation!

The inefficiency, the ineffectiveness, the inability to converse or exchange in a global language - I reserve my judgement on these. But blatant corruption? I have nothing but an f-word for it.

The Gift

My heart was bursting with excitement as I took a train and then a bus to my parents' place at noon.

I could hardly contain my excitement even while changing my clothes to get ready for the trip out. I kept telling myself to calm down and not to be so excited. Something spiritual might be jealous and Murphy's Law might apply if I went overboard with my excitement.

When we reached my parents' place, Coco and I could not wait to take out the watch. We gave it to my father together. I could not wait to see his expression as he unravelled the gift.

True enough. He frowned, and said,"Why are you so wasteful? Didn't I tell you not to go repair the watch? I didn't even know you took the watch ... ... . You're very wasteful ... (sigh)"

I urged him to try the watch on. He did, and it fitted him nicely.

Coco belted out her rehearsed lines which I taught her, as a 'safety measure',"Gong Gong, the watch is expensive. Please do not pawn the watch."

I saw my father taking out the watch and putting it away. He put on his non-branded watch again.

After a while, I could not hold back my curiosity and asked,"Pa, why don't you wear the watch since it's repaired?"

He smiled and walked over to Coco, and replied,"Coco said that it's expensive and told me not to wear it."

I clarified,"Oh, she asked you not to 'pawn' it, not 'not to wear' it!"

Then he went back to his room to put on his old faithful.

He bought the watch in 1980, an era in which a $500 monthly income would suffice to support a family. The lower-range Rolex watches then cost hundreds, with the lowest being $200. He bought his at $4,000 and gave another similar one to my youngest uncle, his brother. The watch went wherever he did. The only time he took it off was when he took a bath. He wore it even when he slept.

I was browsing the watches while waiting for the receipt to be issued. The one that bore the closest resemblance to my father's watch cost $15k. The cheapest watch was a female Rolex which cost more than $6k. If I don't get the strap changed, I don't know if I would ever be able to afford a new Rolex for my father.

I felt a tinge of pride when I saw the watch on his brown, weathered and slightly wrinkled wrist. My dream came to pass.

The receptionist at the service centre told me that the watch was problematic in a few ways: the glass of the watch is 'badly chipped', the dial and bezel have scratch marks on them, the sides of the watch have dents in them. In short, she meant 'just about everything is problematic'.

Changing the glass would cost $228. Servicing and polishing the watch would cost more than $2,000.

I'll have to wait till I am richer before I can do the rest.

A Mother and Daughter's Heart - At the Same Time

I saw on Facebook that a friend went to Port Dickson and Sunway Lagoon for a holiday.

Ooooh ... ... *envy*

That inspired me to do a search on the net to see if I could net any means to go Sunway Lagoon.

Alas, it's too late.

Coco would be so thrilled to go to a theme park.

Then ... I remembered: I told Coco that we would not be travelling until she proved herself with her results.

It's so darn hard to be a parent. It's so difficult to be consistent and keep to what you say, really. It's often a clash of your own desire and the child's discipline interest. You really want to keep to your word by being strict with your child, yet on the other hand, by disciplining your child, you have to go without the pleasure which otherwise the child would enjoy too!

That's why we have inconsistent parents as the majority.

Then I also remembered: I had burst my budget by spending quite a bit on photography this year. To top that off, I just sent in my father's old Rolex watch for a replacement of the broken strap which blew more than $3k off my paycheck.

I really need to check my expenditure this month.

My sisters were against me repairing the watch. They felt the pinch for me and cautioned me against the likelihood of my father pawning the repaired watch for cash. But it was my dream to repair my father's watch for him since a few years back when I saw the sorry state it was in. And I really don't think that my father would pawn it ever again, because he would know that his daughter paid for the new strap with her very hard-earned money. I am eagerly anticipating his reaction to the repaired watch. Being a typical Asian Chinese father, he would most likely frown upon the money spent ("Why you spend this kinda money on a watch? You huh ... haiz ...") but feel happy inside that his weather-beaten but faithful old watch he bought in his youth is functionally restored.

The battered watch - the strap was so badly damaged my father tied it with strings and superglue!

The repaired watch comes with a complimentary pouch, for the kinda money I pay for a repair job

The spanking new strap!

He quit

My father turned up at my doorstep last Wednesday to keep Coco company till I returned.

One thing though: Coco was not home.

She had my permission to go over to her friend's place to have a pre-birthday party.

What's a pre-birthday party, you ask.

It's a party to celebrate a birthday that's not here yet, but celebrated because the girls wanted an excuse of some sort to gather for fun!

When I asked my mother what had happened (since my father was supposed to be at work), she said that he had quit.

I inquired further from my father.

He said that he received his pay for the first fifteen days that he had worked, and to his horror, he only received just about half of what was agreed on with his employer.

It turned out that his employer had a co-boss who issued the pay check, and he decided that my father would get that little money for the over ten hours he clocked every day.

My father did his Maths and calculated that he was paid less than $4 per hour!

Indignant, he called it quits, literally.

His friend who recommended him the job, as well as his employee-turned-employer, promised to get to the root of the matter and give him a proper explanation.

Well! The nerve of that co-boss!

New Job

Today marks the first day my father returns to the work force.

He just informed me yesterday that it was his last day to take care of Coco for me. Usually, he waits for Coco's schoolbus to drop her at my place, afterwhich he keeps an eye on her, chants his mantra of asking her to complete her homework which almost always falls on deaf ear. Then he will watch the TV till he falls asleep or till I get home - sometimes I reach home at 7pm or even later.

I was worried that he might be bullied by his employer. The last time he worked as a driver for a furniture factory, he felt bullied when the employer asked him to work overtime a little too often, without reimbursing him. I don't want the same thing or something worse to happen.

My father came to Singapore to be a carpentry apprentice in his twenties. His diligence and hard work got him risen to the position of a supervisor, and eventually, he struck out on his own and became his own boss in his late twenties.

He owned a carpentry factory and had 20 to 30 employees helping him to make furniture for Courts and other retailers.

He had two furniture shops, both based in Tampines. I still remember fondly how he would tell us with joy and pride that he owned the first furniture shop in Tampines.

I remember how well my father did: he was a proud owner of two Mercs and two lorries. When I was born, he already had one Mercs, and I remember he took us on a test drive in the new Mercs. As a child, I abhored the smell of leather seats. I often vomited from the almost weekly routine of travelling to-and-fro my Malaysia home. I much preferred the lorries. I loved the natural air (like Sumiko Tan :) ). My sisters and I loved to sit at the back of the lorries and feel the strong wind in our faces.

One night, when we were all enclosed in our bedroom, he opened a briefcase to show us what I later saw on 80's Hong Kong movie shows - stacks of dollar notes. I remember how he animated the 'Wow ...' look: by raising his eyebrows and enlarging his already huge eyes. I was too young to understand the value of money then, but I did know that it was not common to see so many pieces of paper-with-$-sign-on-it. I said 'Wow ...' too because I was very happy to see my father wearing such a delightful look.

It all went downhill when the government created a new policy. I am not too sure which policy that was but it affected the number of Malaysian employees he could hire. He tried to hire Singaporeans to no avail. According to him, Singaporeans are not able to take hardship and are not willing to work hard.

Although the furniture orders continued to come in, he was no longer able to manufacture the furniture at the same rate and quantities.

Eventually, he had to close down the shops.

Today, he is a retired carpenter.

His new job is to ferry workers to different destinations for work. He assures me that it will be fine as he is not required to carry heavy furniture. For someone nearing 70, it would be a crime for anyone to expect him to lug something that causes him to go out of breath.

He is sure that he won't be bullied this time round as the employer used to be his employee when he was running the carpentry factory. They know each other and the ex-employee is not out to seek vengeance on his employer-turn-employee. My father also likes the fact that one of the perks is to be able to take leave 'anytime he wishes', since the prospective employer is kind to him.

Let's hope everything turn out well.

My cravings, leading to pondering about my life

Recently, I've started to crave for thick soup, like the seafood soup with dried scallops as its base near my mother's place, the chicken soup William's mother cooks, the fish soup my father brews. I find myself leaning towards salty tastebud.

This morning, I called my mother to ask her to cook chicken curry for me. I adore her chicken curry, with thick coconut milk, and not too spicy. She obliged immediately and went out to get some chicken wings, because I specifically asked for chicken wings.

Sometimes I wonder how I can survive if my parents are gone.

They are not even saved yet. I don't know how I'm going to get them saved, with the kind of testimony I bear. It's an embarrassment to Christ.

The other day, I saw my mother from afar, with Baby Eden. My elder sister said,'There she is!' I had my doubts: Can that be Mother? This woman is full of grey and white hair. My mother has black hair. Upon walking closer, I realised it was indeed her. How long ago was it that I last took a good look at her? She has aged.

And my father. His lines have deepened and multiplied. And his hair too. More and more white strands have sprung up. He's an old man now.

And I haven't let them enjoy their golden years.

I've wasted so much of my life not knowing what to do, what I can do, and who to love and marry. For 6 years of my life, I didn't get a proper job. I often wonder how different things would be if I were recruited into NIE right after my A levels. It was because I couldn't pass the proficiency test which required you to speak into the radio that I couldn't get in. For 6 years of my life, I drifted in and out of jobs: clinic assistant, receptionist, secretary, admin assistant, tuition teacher ... without knowing where I can go. I wasn't interested in anything. Didn't know where else I can go. I went to do a degree in Banking and Finance at SIM after a few years, only to realise I'm indeed a flop at Maths, and quitted after one year. I went to do a secretary diploma, just to realise I was pregnant. While resting at home during the pregnancy, my mother was sweeping the floor and saw a teaching brochure dropped out and asked if it was mine. I said no because it's been years since I last applied for teaching and the brochure looked different from the ones I used to receive. I looked at it anyway and realised that the criteria for teaching has changed. It was bad news for O level English - it got upgraded from a B4 to B3, but good news for A level GP - it got downgraded from A2 to B3.

Subsequently, I applied for teaching again after Coco's birth. And got in effortlessly because of my GP. I didn't have to endure yet another painful experience of speaking into a radio. Since then, it's a turning point of my life.

William was surprised to know that GP was once prized at A2 for the entrance criteria. He would have to go for the proficiency test too if he had applied for teaching earlier.

You just can't help but wonder,"If only the entrance criteria wasn't that strict ..." I would have had an additional 6 years of teaching experience. Those years of working experiences 'outside' were not exactly pleasant or memorable. And the salaries were very meagre. My 'fate' would have been extremely different. I would be richer, had my degree earlier, although I can't say for sure if I would still get such a good degree.

I really appreciate those interviewers who accepted me, even though I'd daringly rejected the teaching contracts offered thrice - I didn't want to teach for one full year untrained, and not knowing for sure if I would be accepted into NIE after that. I didn't have the confidence of passing the proficiency test and you need to pass the proficiency test before you can be accepted into NIE even when you've done a year of contract teaching. On hindsight, I had even 'boldly' requested for half a year of contract teaching instead of the one year offered, which they obliged! I didn't know that it's a privilege that I could request for it and get it granted until an ex-colleague was sharing how difficult it was to get in then.

My Handyman Ah Pa

I got a few pieces of wall tiles that are bad mismatches in my kitchen:

It happened after we realised that the original placement of the plugs was hazardous - it was right above the hob. William got an electrician to shift the plugs to where they are now, but both the electrician and William did not manage to get similar HDB wall tiles, and William was fine with the different-tone tiles, as well as the half-cut tiles as shown above.

One fine day, I called up HDB and after a few enquiries, I managed to buy 8 pieces of these light blue tiles from a particular contractor at $2 each. After half a year, my father volunteered (again) to do up the wall tiles for us - after relaminating our tv console.

He spent hours drilling and knocking out the tiles:

There was a little hiccup when he drilled the wall tiles to break them down. He drilled onto one of the wires and the whole house' was short-circuited, but it didn't pose a problem to my know-it-all father. He repaired the wire (don't ask me how. He just did it) and everything was back to normal.

The kids got a shock when their grandfather turned around. He got tonnes of debris stuck to his bare torso. By the time a small portion of the wall looked like the above, the whole kitchen looked like it was hit by a nasty tornado, except that things were still sitting upright on the kitchen top.

This is how the kitchen wall look like now:

It would have cost me at least a good $200 to have this if not for my personal handyman.