My mum battled cancer for 7 years. Some days she would stumble up the stairs, in a state of near collapse. Her fragile arms suffocating in plasters, her face white and sunken. The long hours of chemotherapy devoured her energy. Sometimes the doctors could not find her veins. They would poke countless holes into her flesh before they could find an entry point to inject the needle. Despite all this, she would still greet us with a smile, and ask us about our day. She just suffered in silence, and that hurt me more.
I felt helpless. I wondered why she got cancer and why not me. I wished that she could somehow transfer the pain to me. I cried in bed every night, wishing that her cancer would magically disappear. But that only happens in Disney movies, and I knew I was trapped in the movie of life.
My mum struggled to breathe. There were times when her wounds caused her to bleed through her shirt. I feel sick when I think about the open wounds on her chest that she had to live with. Never once did she speak about her pain.
Swimming
I remember a time in Primary 3 when she brought me and my sister out for a swim. She sat there watching us because her wounds forbade her from entering the water. While we were swimming, she suddenly started to bleed profusely. The blood had soaked up her orange shirt and she desperately tried to dry it with crumpled toilet paper. She brought us out of the water and we hurried to change. My heart was cold and I was close to breaking down, but I knew that it was the last thing I should do.
So we speed-showered. It was a blur - I was so afraid she would leave us there and then. Yet she kept assuring us that it was all okay. By then, her entire chest was dripping red.
Exams
Mummy loved us in all languages of love. Nearing our exams, she would buy us small gifts from Kinokuniya to encourage us to press on. On the day of our exams, she would wake up extra early to make a ‘100 marks breakfast’ using a row of tomatoes, or bread cut in special shapes, alongside 2 sunny side ups. She always told me:
“En, 你可以的”
Whenever I heard that I genuinely believed I could do it. (“En, you can do it.”) In primary school, she would make bento boxes and deliver them to school for my lunch. On Fridays, we would eat char siew rice with a braised egg. It was our special routine. We knew the char siew stall auntie downstairs, and she anticipated our visit. Before school started, we would go to Botanic Gardens to exercise. I would ride a scooter beside her, as we talked about anything and everything. We would bring the leftover Gardenia bread to feed the ducks. In the car, we listened to 88.3FM, as I belted out our favourite Chinese songs. I never got bored with mummy.
Hair Combing Adventures
To get ready for school, I always took 10 minutes to comb and tie up my hair. If one strand popped out, I would ask mummy to help me tie the whole thing again. It’s funny how times have changed - I don’t even comb my hair these days. Every day after arriving home from school, I would scream from the bottom of the stairs “MUNCHEDAPOOOOO” - my favourite nickname of hers for the season. She would welcome me at the stairs. I loved seeing mummy when I got home. She would ask me about everything and entertained my questions and stories. I miss looking forward to reaching home to a hug.
Pen Refill Tragedy
I remember once in Primary 5, my mum was crying on the sofa. I was scared. I had never seen her cry before. She said:
“妈妈没有用，连 pen refill 都不能买给你”.
(“Mummy is useless, I can’t even buy you pen refills.”) When I heard it I told her that it was super unimportant, that I could easily get it myself. I hugged her, and she went back to rest. I ran into my bedroom and cried into my pillow. Guilt wrapped its fingers around my heart and wrung it dry.
I couldn't believe that in her deteriorating state, what she cared about most were my needs. I was sucking her energy from allowing her to heal faster. Pen refills were the least important thing. But to her, we were her world.
Her Ex-students
Once, my sister and I went out with her to catch up with her ex-students. It was the coolest meeting ever. I remember laughing a lot and enjoying all the stories they shared. Her students shared that they hated PE and going to school. But it was my mum who made them look forward to school - because she showed them that she genuinely cared for them. She made them feel like they mattered and carried huge potential to do great things. She imparted values and life lessons, and that changed them.
In those moments, I felt so proud of my mum. I wanted to be like her, to bring this light into the lives of other people. She gave this gift of belief to everyone around her. She could make you feel like you are more than you think you are. She made me believe that.
My 12th Birthday
On my 12th birthday, mummy went to queue for the famous Toa Payoh beef noodles. She queued for 30 minutes, then she went to get 12 Cupcakes for me. That was my first time eating 12 Cupcakes.
I knew my mum’s chemotherapy was expensive. I never knew how much though. But I just tried to save as much as I could. At the school canteen, I would choose to buy a plate of fried rice for 60 cents instead of a bowl of noodles for 70 cents. I got frustrated with my sister whenever she begged our parents to go to a restaurant. I loved hawker food. To me, if I could settle a meal for less money, why not?
That birthday, I had a hunch that it would be the last birthday mummy would celebrate with me. I remember it to be bittersweet. I was so touched by the 12 Cupcakes. But at the same time, I couldn’t help but feel like crying. How about my 13th, 14th, 15th, 20th birthdays? How was I going to make it alone?
I pushed the thought away, and just savoured each of the different flavours. Mummy watched me try them.
Showers
Each time before I showered, I would scream, “MUNCHEDAPOOOOOOO! I BATHE AH!”
She would give her usual “Orh!” from wherever she was in the house. If she didn’t respond, I would shriek it until she heard me, before I closed the toilet door. It was like I needed her signal to bathe, although I would already be naked. I just liked to know that mummy was there.
Chemotherapy
Mummy battled cancer for 7 years. Fighting cancer is entering a battlefield against a 1000-men army armed with machine guns, while you only have one feeble rusty sword with your family and doctors. But your army carries faith - one that wills for some miracle that all the guns are spoiled.
I hated chemotherapy. It sucked the life out of her. When I was in kindergarten, I saw her lose all her hair. I loved to touch her head. It was furry and nice. But I also knew that it would be hard for her. We went to pick a wig with her. We bought colourful bandanas for her to cover her bald head.
I wanted to just snap my fingers and make it all okay. For mummy to be well. She won’t have to go through all this torture of losing her hair, of undergoing treatments.
She would put her wig on a blown-up balloon in the kitchen for it to keep its shape. In the dark, it looked like a human. My sis and I were creeped out by it. Once again, mummy found joy in the little things. She told us she put it there to deter us from stealing sweets from the fridge.
Playing Games
On some days, I would play my computer games, while mummy fed me udon. I loved the games where we searched for items on the screen. We would compete to see who could find them first. Sometimes, I would find it but pretend not to, so I could let mummy find it first. I wanted her to enjoy it as much as I did. Turns out, she did the same as me.
She was a master at memory games and board games. Mummy and Pa have collected board games since they got together at 20. I loved our collection. From Masterpiece to Monopoly, to Priceless and Payday. Each one holds a special memory in my heart. I remember my sis used to kick up a fight when she was about to lose. My mum would be the one comforting her, while I tried to donate some money to her.
Looking back, that was hilarious.
Observing Mummy - she could talk to anyone
In my earliest memories, I remember observing mummy a lot. She was someone who loved to talk to anyone - and everyone gravitated to her. She carried this aura of warmth that made people feel like talking to her. Regardless of how old they were, she could make conversation with them.
Entering a gathering where I didn’t recognise anyone, I stuck with mummy. She would be the one introducing how to call who and who to me, while I just smiled and said “hi (whoever)” really softly. I would watch her eyes light up as she talked about something effortlessly. They would both laugh - and once again, I wanted to learn from her. I didn’t know how she did it.
When our family from the UK came to Singapore, she would always be the one who organised our family gatherings. She would coordinate the dates with every family member, the places to stay, the places to eat, and everything you can think of to have the best time in Singapore. She would rearrange the food routes to fit the availability of people in our family.
At these gatherings, she was the life of the party. She made sure that the quietest people were taken care of. She engaged the kids who were bored. She made an effort to make people feel comfortable. I felt like she played such a big role in the family - what would we do without her?
I remember Pa telling me once,
“Mummy was closer to my aunts than I was.”
Learning
Mummy was good at Chinese. In fact, she loved Chinese - I could never relate. But because of her, I believed I could become better at it. I practised my 习字 (Chinese vocabulary) and tried to memorise 好词好句 (good phrases) for my compositions. I convinced myself that I had some of her love-for-Chinese genes in me.
My parents never believed in sending us for tuition. They believed that we should learn independently and if we needed help, they could help us. So in primary school, mummy was my go-to tutor. I asked her for help in all subjects - even art.
Field Trip To The Zoo
When I was 8, I went on a school field trip to the zoo. We were tasked to complete a drawing of one of the animals we saw. Too afraid to present an ugly illustration, I asked my mum for help.
I was fascinated by the polar bear she sketched for me. The shadings of its fur brought it to life. I aspired to draw like her. 11 years later, bringing this polar bear to life left me crying.
It made me realise that perhaps I can do life without mummy. I don’t want to, but I have to.
In lower primary, mummy sourced for the best assessment books. She marked out exercises for us to do and went through queries we had. As her condition deteriorated in upper primary, I began to do these exercises alone. Mummy trained me well, and I wanted to make sure I could do it even without her telling me to.
A few weeks after she passed, I was determined to score in my PSLE. I asked pa to bring me to buy revision booklets. As I brought the stack of past year papers home, I felt so pumped. I couldn’t wait to dive into them. When I told my best friend about my newly bought treasures over the phone, she told me I was crazy.
When I had questions, I began to find answers online. I needed to learn the concepts well, even if mummy wasn’t here anymore. I devoted time to reading more Chinese.
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