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llucii listens to... ::
Suzanne Vega's...
...Caramel
Dearest Ray,
My grandpa passed away on Sunday. He was very active and still backpacking all over the globe, travelling at speeds that easily left his grandkids absolutely breathless trying to keep up with him.
10 years ago he was diagnosed with colon cancer that had spread to his kidneys. 3 years ago he had to have an external kidney bag attached to his body but that didn't stop him from backpacking or doing anything else he wanted. A month ago he decided that he was fed up with the stupid bag as it was a hassle to change when he travelled, and it would sometimes hurt when he brushed too roughly against it. As he was preparing a trip for the entire family to drive up to Malaysia and to meet me in Melbourne or Brisbane next year to backpack up to Sydney to visit Rachel, he thought that he'd go for an operation so that he wouldn't need to use the kidney bag anymore. It was a simple 2 hour operation that had only a 5% risk. So he went ahead for the operation on Friday, 3rd November. It was a second postponement of the operation as he was having pre-op jitters before. Bravely, he went in alone.
During the operation on Friday, complications arose. Old scars from previous operations flared up and wouldn't stop bleeding. What was supposed to be 2 hours dragged on to 6. When he came out of the theatre, he came around long enough to let my Aunty Chuen Chuen know that he was in pain. The nurse gave him more morphine and he slipped back into unconsciousness. Later on Friday night, doctors couldn't stop the bleeding from his wounds and wanted to open him up again to see what was wrong. Before he went in for the second operation, my grandma leaned over to him and called his name. He regained consciousness for a few seconds to look at my grandma before closing his eyes again. It would be the last time he regained consciousness.
Despite the second operation in the wee hours of Saturday, 4th November, doctors couldn't find where the bleeding was coming from. They said that the first 48 hours is the most critical and gave it that length of time for his condition to stabilize.
Throughout the day they pumped in a total of 16 litres of blood. He was on a ventilator and his major organs had to be aided by machines. I went to visit him on Saturday at 4pm and stayed til 10pm. I kissed him, stroked his hair and his strong arms, and reminded him about the trips that we were supposed to make together. I prayed with him and was sure that he was gonna be alright. With a confident sense of peace, I spent my time, in between giving him kisses and praying with him in his room in the ICU ward, sitting in the corner reading and catching glimpses of him while nurses shuttled in and out of his room. Occasionally I watched the monitors, not knowing what the jumping numbers meant, but feeling quite sure that they weren't anywhere near as exciting as the dreams he must be having of a round of roulettes in Genting. He loved the thrill of a gamble and he was one lucky striker. He was the unbeatable "Ah Pek" and unchallenged reigning banker at cards & mahjong every Chinese New Year.
At 2am later that Saturday night, the hospital called all my uncles & aunties. They said that his condition had worsened during the night and that they didn't think he was going to make it. They asked that everyone come down as soon as possible to say their goodbyes. They said they don't want to waste any more blood on my grandpa, the feisty hero who never said die, and that they were going to take him off the machines once everyone had come to say goodbye. The family began their trek down to Changi General Hospital. My dad usually chooses the most inappropriate times to let us sleep in. But that Sunday morning I woke up, after an unrestful sleep, with Grandpa on my mind. I went down with my dad and sis at 9am on Sunday, 5th November, having only learnt about his deteriorated condition half an hour before.
When I got to the hospital, the first thing I saw was my mum's eyes, red and swollen from crying. A sudden rush of anxiety washed over me and I ran into the ICU ward where my grandpa was the night before. My Aunt Lulu was already there standing by my grandpa's side, holding his hand and crying. I leant over the bed railing and kissed my grandpa's puffy, abnormally yellowish forehead. (He was a rosy hue the night before.) I told him that I was here and kissed him again. Choking back tears, I stepped back to let my sister speak to him and asked my mum for permission to put some vibhuti (holy ash) on his forehead, which I did as I reminded my grandpa about the time he went to India and got to meet Sai Baba and touch his feet. I reminded him about our travelling appointments. I told him that everything was gonna be ok because God's with us. I prayed with Grandpa somemore, kissing him, telling him how much I love him. I asked him if he could see Swami and told him that he should follow him. I told him that God would lead him to the direction he was supposed to go and not to worry or feel scared.
As the hours dragged on, anxiety turned into suffocating desperation and I felt like I was drowning again. The more members of the family arrived, the more my desperation grew. Every person that turned up meant one step closer to shutting down the machines. I kept asking Grandpa to focus on my voice and not to pay any attention to everything else that was going on. There just too much mumbo jumbo talk about death, funeral rites and reference to my grandpa as tho he wasn't there... as tho he already wasn't there.
By the time the family was preparing for the first machine to be switched off, I was sitting in the corner of his room again, this time confidence replaced with the desperate, rhythmic chant, "Follow Swami. He will lead you to the right direction. But if you wanna come back, tell Swami, and he will bring you back. If you feel like you don't have enough strength to make it back on your own, use me. Give me a sign and i will fight with you. Use my strength, my energy, my love. I will fight for you, Kong Kong, I will fight for you. Just give me a sign..."
At 12.50pm on Sunday, the ventilator and final machine was turned off. The monitor was still attached. Numbers were still jumping on the screen and my grandpa never gave up. For fifteen minutes or more, with no other organ functioning, my grandpa's heart continued beating. The doctors came in and pulled the curtains around his bed. Everyone trickled out of the ICU in tears, regret and shock. I stayed back. I heard them pull out the tubes and I heard them remove the numerous drips and bags that were attached to my grandpa. My ears were picking up every sound but I couldn't tear my eyes aways from the monitor that was visible above the curtain railings. I was staring at the screen and I saw it go blank when they switched the monitor off. The numbers were still jumping...
They pronounced my grandpa's death to be at 1.15pm, Sunday, 5th November 2006. 2 days was all it took to take my grandpa's life away.
While the tears have dried up and the shock is wearing thin, my heart is still all at once numb and in pain. I am torn between acceptance of fate, happiness at his reunion with God, and anger that maybe they turned the machines off too soon. I cannot help the thought that keeps repeating in my head, that this isn't the way he would have wanted to go. There are too many things left undone. He was only 83 years old and still had 10, 000 balls of energy left to go. He was so passionate and zestful up to the very end.
I know in time, my heart will heal, the pain will numb and I will only have fond memories of this wonderful, wonderful man, who loved life, his family, the sea, using his skilled hands to make anything his genious mind could conceive, mathematics ingeniously applied to the art of gambling, and travelling the world, too much to ever reveal the secret of his hidden, prized and most coveted, secret stash of chocolates.
As we cremate his beautiful but lifeless body tomorrow, and scatter his ashes in the sea that he so loved, on Friday, may Fire and Wind bring Bliss that we have yet to find on this very mortal plane.
With love and mourning,
Sabrina
black llucii at 9:25:00 pm
My grandpa passed away on Sunday. He was very active and still backpacking all over the globe, travelling at speeds that easily left his grandkids absolutely breathless trying to keep up with him.
10 years ago he was diagnosed with colon cancer that had spread to his kidneys. 3 years ago he had to have an external kidney bag attached to his body but that didn't stop him from backpacking or doing anything else he wanted. A month ago he decided that he was fed up with the stupid bag as it was a hassle to change when he travelled, and it would sometimes hurt when he brushed too roughly against it. As he was preparing a trip for the entire family to drive up to Malaysia and to meet me in Melbourne or Brisbane next year to backpack up to Sydney to visit Rachel, he thought that he'd go for an operation so that he wouldn't need to use the kidney bag anymore. It was a simple 2 hour operation that had only a 5% risk. So he went ahead for the operation on Friday, 3rd November. It was a second postponement of the operation as he was having pre-op jitters before. Bravely, he went in alone.
During the operation on Friday, complications arose. Old scars from previous operations flared up and wouldn't stop bleeding. What was supposed to be 2 hours dragged on to 6. When he came out of the theatre, he came around long enough to let my Aunty Chuen Chuen know that he was in pain. The nurse gave him more morphine and he slipped back into unconsciousness. Later on Friday night, doctors couldn't stop the bleeding from his wounds and wanted to open him up again to see what was wrong. Before he went in for the second operation, my grandma leaned over to him and called his name. He regained consciousness for a few seconds to look at my grandma before closing his eyes again. It would be the last time he regained consciousness.
Despite the second operation in the wee hours of Saturday, 4th November, doctors couldn't find where the bleeding was coming from. They said that the first 48 hours is the most critical and gave it that length of time for his condition to stabilize.
Throughout the day they pumped in a total of 16 litres of blood. He was on a ventilator and his major organs had to be aided by machines. I went to visit him on Saturday at 4pm and stayed til 10pm. I kissed him, stroked his hair and his strong arms, and reminded him about the trips that we were supposed to make together. I prayed with him and was sure that he was gonna be alright. With a confident sense of peace, I spent my time, in between giving him kisses and praying with him in his room in the ICU ward, sitting in the corner reading and catching glimpses of him while nurses shuttled in and out of his room. Occasionally I watched the monitors, not knowing what the jumping numbers meant, but feeling quite sure that they weren't anywhere near as exciting as the dreams he must be having of a round of roulettes in Genting. He loved the thrill of a gamble and he was one lucky striker. He was the unbeatable "Ah Pek" and unchallenged reigning banker at cards & mahjong every Chinese New Year.
At 2am later that Saturday night, the hospital called all my uncles & aunties. They said that his condition had worsened during the night and that they didn't think he was going to make it. They asked that everyone come down as soon as possible to say their goodbyes. They said they don't want to waste any more blood on my grandpa, the feisty hero who never said die, and that they were going to take him off the machines once everyone had come to say goodbye. The family began their trek down to Changi General Hospital. My dad usually chooses the most inappropriate times to let us sleep in. But that Sunday morning I woke up, after an unrestful sleep, with Grandpa on my mind. I went down with my dad and sis at 9am on Sunday, 5th November, having only learnt about his deteriorated condition half an hour before.
When I got to the hospital, the first thing I saw was my mum's eyes, red and swollen from crying. A sudden rush of anxiety washed over me and I ran into the ICU ward where my grandpa was the night before. My Aunt Lulu was already there standing by my grandpa's side, holding his hand and crying. I leant over the bed railing and kissed my grandpa's puffy, abnormally yellowish forehead. (He was a rosy hue the night before.) I told him that I was here and kissed him again. Choking back tears, I stepped back to let my sister speak to him and asked my mum for permission to put some vibhuti (holy ash) on his forehead, which I did as I reminded my grandpa about the time he went to India and got to meet Sai Baba and touch his feet. I reminded him about our travelling appointments. I told him that everything was gonna be ok because God's with us. I prayed with Grandpa somemore, kissing him, telling him how much I love him. I asked him if he could see Swami and told him that he should follow him. I told him that God would lead him to the direction he was supposed to go and not to worry or feel scared.
As the hours dragged on, anxiety turned into suffocating desperation and I felt like I was drowning again. The more members of the family arrived, the more my desperation grew. Every person that turned up meant one step closer to shutting down the machines. I kept asking Grandpa to focus on my voice and not to pay any attention to everything else that was going on. There just too much mumbo jumbo talk about death, funeral rites and reference to my grandpa as tho he wasn't there... as tho he already wasn't there.
By the time the family was preparing for the first machine to be switched off, I was sitting in the corner of his room again, this time confidence replaced with the desperate, rhythmic chant, "Follow Swami. He will lead you to the right direction. But if you wanna come back, tell Swami, and he will bring you back. If you feel like you don't have enough strength to make it back on your own, use me. Give me a sign and i will fight with you. Use my strength, my energy, my love. I will fight for you, Kong Kong, I will fight for you. Just give me a sign..."
At 12.50pm on Sunday, the ventilator and final machine was turned off. The monitor was still attached. Numbers were still jumping on the screen and my grandpa never gave up. For fifteen minutes or more, with no other organ functioning, my grandpa's heart continued beating. The doctors came in and pulled the curtains around his bed. Everyone trickled out of the ICU in tears, regret and shock. I stayed back. I heard them pull out the tubes and I heard them remove the numerous drips and bags that were attached to my grandpa. My ears were picking up every sound but I couldn't tear my eyes aways from the monitor that was visible above the curtain railings. I was staring at the screen and I saw it go blank when they switched the monitor off. The numbers were still jumping...
They pronounced my grandpa's death to be at 1.15pm, Sunday, 5th November 2006. 2 days was all it took to take my grandpa's life away.
While the tears have dried up and the shock is wearing thin, my heart is still all at once numb and in pain. I am torn between acceptance of fate, happiness at his reunion with God, and anger that maybe they turned the machines off too soon. I cannot help the thought that keeps repeating in my head, that this isn't the way he would have wanted to go. There are too many things left undone. He was only 83 years old and still had 10, 000 balls of energy left to go. He was so passionate and zestful up to the very end.
I know in time, my heart will heal, the pain will numb and I will only have fond memories of this wonderful, wonderful man, who loved life, his family, the sea, using his skilled hands to make anything his genious mind could conceive, mathematics ingeniously applied to the art of gambling, and travelling the world, too much to ever reveal the secret of his hidden, prized and most coveted, secret stash of chocolates.
As we cremate his beautiful but lifeless body tomorrow, and scatter his ashes in the sea that he so loved, on Friday, may Fire and Wind bring Bliss that we have yet to find on this very mortal plane.
With love and mourning,
Sabrina
"disappearing in a snow storm,
riding on waves,
walking on mahjong tiles,
a handsome deck of Ace & Kings,
Forever dripping in bitter chocolate...
See you 'round, Kong Kong!"
~In Loving Memory of
Michael Ng
1923 - 2006
riding on waves,
walking on mahjong tiles,
a handsome deck of Ace & Kings,
Forever dripping in bitter chocolate...
See you 'round, Kong Kong!"
~In Loving Memory of
Michael Ng
1923 - 2006
black llucii at 9:25:00 pm
drooling...
aching for life...
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