Death is sad. Even when it's of someone you hardly know. I was rudely reminded of this today, Thursday, 20 September 2012.
My old man had been recuperating in the geriatric ward at the University Malaya Medical Centre for the past ten days. Until today the medical staff, otherwise known as doctors and nurses, hadn't been very forthcoming or specific about what he's down with. Doctors are all Shakespeares with serious handwriting issues. All they could provide me was the old reliable "he's old and has lots of phlegm and needs complete rest". Hardly ground-breaking stuff. I could easily see that even without the benefit of six brutal years at medical schools. He's officially 88, but I guessed he's at least 90, or 92, who really knew. At this late age, it's his business to have plenty of phlegm.
Yesterday a young houseman came in and proudly announced that he (my father, not the doctor) would be discharged early next week. It's as explicit as I could get out of the medical profession. I thought economics was the only dismal science.
Don't get me wrong. There's every reason to admire these doctors for their high energy, deep passion and virtuous subculture. In these dark days of corrupt contracts and paranormal politics, they're the shining lights who'd go out of their way to sustain the fragile life of a 90 year-old, whatever it takes. You can never pay them enough.
Yesterday a young houseman came in and proudly announced that he (my father, not the doctor) would be discharged early next week. It's as explicit as I could get out of the medical profession. I thought economics was the only dismal science.
Don't get me wrong. There's every reason to admire these doctors for their high energy, deep passion and virtuous subculture. In these dark days of corrupt contracts and paranormal politics, they're the shining lights who'd go out of their way to sustain the fragile life of a 90 year-old, whatever it takes. You can never pay them enough.
Visiting my sick senior was high on my daily to-do list. It's easy for a retiree, all I'd to do was cut back on the English Premier League and do away with Arsene Wenger. You'll never know whether you've seen or done enough for your folks when they're healthy and you're sinking into the corporate mire. So visiting him now looked like a productive way of fighting back this attack of conscience. Problem was, he's so weak and wispy that it's hard to tell whether he knew it's me. Or whether he'd mistaken me for a male nurse. Well, he might not know me, but I still knew him, if that's any good.
A geriatric ward is exactly what Disneyland isn't. Thick, restrained, unhappy. But there's as much to experience, learn and take away. What's on offer isn't so much the trials of the sick but the quirks of those by the bedside. I made it a point to roam the ward like a busy school prefect, exchanging notes and sick stories with fellow caregivers. Technically I might not be a geriatric, not yet. But I didn't really feel out of place here. The common denominator here is stroke. Every other patient here is struck by a stroke. Not a pretty sight, but so inspiring that my way forward now is a strict monastic diet of alpine water and dragon fruits.
Next to my father's bed was an 81 year-old Chinese lady. She had daughters and sons, but a daughter-in-law was actually looking after her here. I wasn't really sure what's going on, but this heart-of-gold should be rich soon. There's one lady who's so driven and fired up that she took care of not just her stroke-stricken mom but also other patients around her. Must be a former oil and gas CEO with a leadership hangover.
Three beds away, a youngish 73-year old lady named Zaiton was recovering from, you guess, a stroke. I'd never seen any of her family members by her bedside, not while I was around, but there's a maid from Manila to keep her company. When my sister and I dropped by yesterday, the friendly Filipina told us that the patient was good enough to be discharged tomorrow (today). My compulsively curious sister fired away no less than 100 questions about the patient and the maid, and I'd to pull her away before she could move on to the next patient with another 100 questions. Anyway we're happy for Zaiton and the maid and wished them well.
My sister and I came in today and were about to settle down when the maid grabbed my sister. Zaiton had passed away half an hour ago! Stunned, we rushed to her bed. Her remains were still there, a hospital-issue light green cloth tightly wrapped around her, all alone. To think that she's supposed to be discharged today, man, what's sadder than this?
My sister took out her Surah Yaseen and her sweet pitch broke the silence. I tapped the iQuran app on my industrial-size Galaxy Note and read quietly (so glad I bought this android). Not really sure what else we could do, we just stood by until a sharp-dressed man, probably her son, came in about an hour later to claim her. He signed some papers and left, without a word and another look at her mother.
I was tossing and turning at 2 am. That bed ..........
A geriatric ward is exactly what Disneyland isn't. Thick, restrained, unhappy. But there's as much to experience, learn and take away. What's on offer isn't so much the trials of the sick but the quirks of those by the bedside. I made it a point to roam the ward like a busy school prefect, exchanging notes and sick stories with fellow caregivers. Technically I might not be a geriatric, not yet. But I didn't really feel out of place here. The common denominator here is stroke. Every other patient here is struck by a stroke. Not a pretty sight, but so inspiring that my way forward now is a strict monastic diet of alpine water and dragon fruits.
Next to my father's bed was an 81 year-old Chinese lady. She had daughters and sons, but a daughter-in-law was actually looking after her here. I wasn't really sure what's going on, but this heart-of-gold should be rich soon. There's one lady who's so driven and fired up that she took care of not just her stroke-stricken mom but also other patients around her. Must be a former oil and gas CEO with a leadership hangover.
Three beds away, a youngish 73-year old lady named Zaiton was recovering from, you guess, a stroke. I'd never seen any of her family members by her bedside, not while I was around, but there's a maid from Manila to keep her company. When my sister and I dropped by yesterday, the friendly Filipina told us that the patient was good enough to be discharged tomorrow (today). My compulsively curious sister fired away no less than 100 questions about the patient and the maid, and I'd to pull her away before she could move on to the next patient with another 100 questions. Anyway we're happy for Zaiton and the maid and wished them well.
My sister and I came in today and were about to settle down when the maid grabbed my sister. Zaiton had passed away half an hour ago! Stunned, we rushed to her bed. Her remains were still there, a hospital-issue light green cloth tightly wrapped around her, all alone. To think that she's supposed to be discharged today, man, what's sadder than this?
My sister took out her Surah Yaseen and her sweet pitch broke the silence. I tapped the iQuran app on my industrial-size Galaxy Note and read quietly (so glad I bought this android). Not really sure what else we could do, we just stood by until a sharp-dressed man, probably her son, came in about an hour later to claim her. He signed some papers and left, without a word and another look at her mother.
I was tossing and turning at 2 am. That bed ..........
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