The skies turned grey as I sat next to the bed and rested my hand on Dad’s forearm. I couldn’t be sure if he was still breathing, and I watched in anticipation for the slow rising of his chest again. A few minutes earlier, there were false alarms. He breathed, but the span between each inhalation was a long, still silence. Yet, after what seemed like an eternity, he would draw another life-giving breath. This time, he didn’t.
Back in September 2020, Dad was diagnosed with colon cancer and was due to undergo a fairly straightforward keyhole surgery to remove the assailing growth. Things took an unexpected turn when he started to bleed uncontrollably after the surgery, to the point of needing frequent blood transfusions. Two more surgeries later, the situation didn’t get better and he landed a spot in the ICU, given that his blood count was precariously low.
I remember a particularly heartbreaking incident that left an indelible mark on me. After being wheeled to the ICU, Dad was just rousing from his last surgery as the anaesthesia was wearing off. That was the moment he suddenly began to panic. With a ventilator tube lodged in his throat to help him breathe, all he could do was make moaning sounds with his hoarse voice over and over again in great distress, trying to communicate with my brother and I. I’d never felt so helpless before in my life. We started throwing out options for him to nod or shake his head at, but he got increasingly frustrated that we couldn’t understand him. I brought out my notebook and pen for him to write but he was too drowsy to be able to form anything legible. The nurses then decided to up his sedative dose to keep him in a calmer state. It also seemed to settle him a little when we acknowledged that having the tube down his throat was uncomfortable. Only much later did we find out that he was trying to tell us to help bring his car for servicing, which we all had a good laugh about because, priorities?
That was the first time I’d stayed the night at a hospital and since it was during the pandemic, the family room was apparently unavailable for use. My husband and I spent that agonizing night taking turns to fall in and out of sleep on the hard plastic chairs right outside the ICU, constantly worrying if a staff would tap us awake to present us with bad news. Each time I jolted to consciousness, I would go into the ICU to check on his vitals and say a prayer for him.
I distinctly recall the doctor telling us that it was imperative they identify the source of the bleeding and remedy it quickly, or this might just be it for Dad. She suggested opening him up once more but sought our consensus first as his internal organs were terribly swollen from the past few surgeries that they already had difficulty closing him up during the last one. Choosing between a high-risk surgery or death? Those are not the choices one would ever wish to be presented with. We consulted every other medical contact we had to explore options while the doctor discussed it with the rest of her team. By God’s grace, a third option surfaced – to do an angiography. Even then, it wasn’t guaranteed that the location of the bleeding would show up as it would have to be actively bleeding at the time they take the X-ray. There was nothing we could do but pray.
Thankfully, they found the source of the bleeding and the doctor got the results she needed to work out a solution. Dad was finally on the road to recovery, albeit one that was still fraught with many challenges. He was physically weak and lacked an appetite. He struggled to move about, needing assistance with basic activities of daily living. Soon, his morale began to dip the longer he stayed in the hospital. Friends and family rallied around him to encourage him, even as he continued to look to God for strength. We eventually managed to negotiate for him to be on home leave, and boy, could we see the difference in his mood and motivation. He started to regain his weight, his strength and most importantly, his independence.
What came next was the hurdle of chemotherapy. Dad thought long and hard about it, and given the reports of all the potential side effects, it was an extremely tough choice to make. He ultimately decided to go for it with much prayer and hope from heartening testimonies of friends who experienced mild to no side effects. Eight cycles, eight arduous months of regular blood tests, visits to the National Cancer Centre and multiple pills in assorted colours added to his daily diet. Thankfully, he only had to contend with very mild side effects that didn’t drastically affect his quality of life. He was declared cancer-free by the end of it, a significant milestone that brought about much relief and thanksgiving. Taking his mandate very seriously, he went back to serving the Lord in any capacity possible, sharing his powerful testimony of God’s faithfulness.
Things in our family changed. We had a lot more meals together, there was greater appreciation for what each did for the other, and we freely shared the deeper parts of our lives with one another that were previously withheld. We could verbalize our heartfelt thoughts and feelings, things we needed to say now that we’d been given that second chance to. There were no holds barred, nothing important left unsaid, hopes and wishes openly discussed. It is a pity that this had to happen for us to come together as a closer family unit, but I know God always has His reasons.
This smooth-sailing period of normalcy didn’t last long enough though. During one of the routine check-ups, the doctor noticed that Dad’s blood counts were off. Rapidly increasing white blood cells and blast cells, and an alarming decline in red blood cells and platelets. He ran through the treatment options with Dad, none of which held promise given that this blood condition was so rare and there was limited literature on treatment efficacy. This time, Dad said he would let things be. No more injections, hospital visits, pills and the like. He stood by his decision even as his blood counts continued to be of concern at each subsequent doctor visit. Past a certain threshold, the doctor said it would become an aggressive form of leukemia. Dad would have three months or less.
Despite this heart-wrenching news, Dad pressed on in his service to the Lord, dedicating his time and talents to the communities he was in. Prayerfully, he didn’t experience much pain or discomfort throughout this period, going about his day as he would usually. Our family meals carried on, his golf activities were a-go, church and ministry took up much of his schedule too.
The deterioration was sudden. One day, he was able to drive my husband and I back home after one of our family dinners. The next, he had trouble walking and keeping his balance. Day by day, we could see him losing his mobility, his strength, his appetite. Eventually, he was effectively bed-bound. Even sitting up was extremely effortful for him. My husband and I began going over almost every night just to spend time with him and the rest of the family. We’d play the guitar, sing songs, crack jokes, and listen to him share his stories and inner thoughts.
On Saturday morning, Mom called and sounded urgent, asking me to head home to watch over Dad. She had just given him some Panadol as he was moaning loudly earlier, presumably in pain. When my husband and I arrived, he was breathing rapidly in a laboured, almost desperate, manner, his eyes wide open. I held his hands and stroked his clammy arms from all the cold sweat, comforting him to the best I know how. Again, I felt such an intense sense of helplessness as to how to alleviate his discomfort. At one point, he swallowed deeply, which cleared his throat and allowed him to breathe a little more openly. After a while, his rate of breathing suddenly slowed, his eyes no longer in that shocked state. He genuinely looked more relaxed as if drifting off to sleep. Then, he just stopped breathing. I remember this happened around 12.40pm and I was still very much in disbelief. By the time Mom and my brother rushed in after I informed them, it was pretty clear Dad was finally at rest. He was home.
The rain fell heavily and steadily. As we held his hands and waited for the doctor and casket services to arrive, it continued to pour relentlessly. Some might say the heavens were crying, but my husband once said when Dad was in the ICU, that rain was a sign to him that God was there with us. I am inclined to think this was the case.
Throughout this entire journey, Dad exemplified what it meant to trust in the Lord. No doubt, there were times of questioning and negotiating, but it always resulted in recognizing that God’s will ultimately prevails. He committed his last days to fulfilling the Lord’s calling for him and constantly challenged us to do the same. Fighting the good fight, he was nothing short of courageous, steadfast and true.
During the brief wake we held for Dad, the outpouring of love was overwhelming. People came in droves to say their last farewells, to the point where the venue ran out of chairs and they had to find standing room along the sides. It testified to the tremendous impact of the life Dad lived, how he left such a tangible mark in the lives of so many, whether young or old, wealthy or poor, celebrated or ostracized. Some of them were deeply grieved to not have been able to catch up with him earlier. From the various conversations, the same few things kept coming up across everyone’s experience with him – that he was a funny, easy-going, energetic guy who had an amazing passion and talent for worship. He always brought people together with his charm and charismatic personality, making all feel at ease and included. Another thing that resounded again and again was how he was described as legendary. The legendary goalkeeper, the legendary worship leader. Even people much younger who’ve never met him before came sharing the stories they heard about him. I learnt so much more about Dad from these people who loved him dearly. He was our defender, our encourager, our laughing trigger, our comforter, our worship leader, a friend in need and a dad who loved.
On the day of cremation, it poured once more in the morning. That was unusual because for the past two days, it was clear skies early in the day, followed by thunderstorms only in the afternoon. We prayed for good weather during the sea burial later but the clouds remained grey throughout the journey to the crematorium to collect Dad’s ashes and back home. Only when it came time to make our way to Changi Jetty did the rain surprisingly trickle to a complete stop despite the cloudy skies.
Setting out on the bumboat, we began to see the sun’s rays reflect softly on the clouds above us even as we scattered Dad’s remains and the flowers at his final earthly resting place, a fitting return for a seaman.
Every time I look back on this experience, it never fails to amaze me how God’s plan is always perfect, just as He designed Dad’s journey. From the timing in which things fell into place, the seemingly coincidental occurrences that were a result of things set in motion long before, to the precious life lessons and values we gleaned along the way. His faithfulness and ever-present comfort sustained us through difficult moments, drawing our family closer to Him and to each other than ever before. And His goodness through it all is impossible to deny, clearly evident in both the little daily details and the big eventual outcomes every step of the way. After all has been said and done, I can’t help but sense Dad exclaiming, “If only you could see me now!” with the widest smile on his face ❤
Dania Experiences 