Self-body image and the post- millennial teen

Of millennial excess and obsession with self- body image...

"To be beautiful means to be yourself. You don't need to be accepted by others. You need to accept yourself."

Thich Nhat Hanh

Growing up in the eighties, I was always called chicken legs or pancake face for my high wide cheek bones. Being from Penang and of part-Sumatran Peranakan blood, I was never the quintessentially fair maiden of Chinese bloodline, who plasters Hazeline Snow on her face to become even that much fairer to exude the stereotypical look of fairness and beauty.

My teen years were a blur of poetry writing, essay perfecting, Sweet Dreams reading, Scrabble-playing and plenty of books, playing tricks on teachers and gossiping about boys that didn’t really exist in our all-girls school and hiding myself behind the comfort of uber thick and uncool photo-gray glasses.

Did it affect my self- esteem? Surprisingly no!

Was I even aware that I was entitled to one? Perhaps not.

I was born very boyish looking, with fairly large (for a Chinese) dark eyes with double eye-lids and features that apparently weren’t terrible Chinese and a large nose with high cheek bones.

As my adolescent best mates grew breasts, mine probably stopped when I was 14 and a half, and it has stayed that way since. With my narrow hips, I was often also called 'no waist' by family members.

Hence, angular, awkward, chicken-legged and dark, I wasn’t exactly anyone’s dream teen girlfriend material, not to hetero- boys that didn’t exist nor the lesbian girls in my Convent school.

Instead, I grew and nurtured my inner Ninja-of feminist traits of confidence and intellectual and emotional strength, and acquired a self-esteem that suffered no fools.

In 6th form, I almost caused a scandal by dating the handsome and most coveted Head-boy, a boy of mixed parentage, Bollywood eye candy of sorts. I quickly discovered that looks aren't everything.

In summer school in Hawaii, I was smitten by a blonde long -haired hippie poet, who introduced me to Jack Kerouac and Milan Kundera, my summer romance, which I thought could pass off as Brad Pitt and he thought my almost purple hair was too beautiful for words.

I had my fair share of boyfriends until I met my better half, with his curly hair and Tin Tin t-shirts and the gentlest, kindest, funniest man in the world, who still rocks my world after 18 years together.

Did I let my body image and pop culture affect my crucial life decisions?

Luckily not.

For I was fortunate enough to be shielded from feeling shite about myself from looking at fashion or lifestyle teen magazines which celebrated sexy bikini- clad models, waif thin, smooth ivory skin, yet with boobs spilling out like no tomorrow. I was cocooned from all media of self-loathing.

-I didn’t have internet websites like Pro -ANA sites giving me thinspiration, no thank you.

-I didn’t have photo-shopped, air- brushed models with 6 -pecs and skinny arms jumping out at me to tell me that I was fat, ugly, gangly, uncoordinated , flat-chested, short.

-I didn’t have K-pop stars who look like fake double- lidded clones, and post -plastic surgery success stories staring at me at tell me that I needed my eye lids fixed, or my bulbous nose streamlined or needed a tummy tuck.

I remembered Karen Carpenter dying of self- inflicted starvation and my no nonsense mother telling me how tragic, silly and unnecessary that was. And I believe her till this day.

So, I never had the propensity starve myself( for I was taught to love food and to enjoy it or go hungry and offend my ancestors), or have the urge to throw up, or to be of one particular skinny, cool, gorgeous look. I did have a hideous Diana Ross perm once and carrot jeans and big T shirts and large loop earrings.

Now, I am so aware, so alarmed and SO TERRIBLE SADDENED, by young girls self- harming or starving themselves to look a certain part or to grab the attention of somebody or create a drama or some show because of popular culture and in internet. Too many, too soon.

I know every child, every teen operates differently.

Kids these days have too much. They roll in a world of excess. Often the fault of indulgent parents who believe they are providing the best. These excesses of wealth, time, social media, have become a paradox of what is really wrong in our society today.

The need to carve the perfect image for social media, the pleas for help, the medium in which young children can vulnerably subject themselves to these threats; that never existed during my years of being an adolescent. From a young age, they have it ingrained in them that they need to look a certain part- fair, light-haired, sharp features, thin. Everything being so instant and constant-Twitter, Instagram, Snapshot.

Pecs , muscles and working- out have become de rigueur lingo for these modern adolescents.

They have so much yet can take so little. With all the excesses, the fragility within seems to have gone on overdrive.

The irony.

Admittedly, on the cusp of turning 42, I’m still not too keen about my seemingly permanent dark eye circles but I know that my slight mummy tummy is a testimony and a souvenir from having given birth naturally to three healthy, delightful, mindful children who I am fiercely and fearlessly protecting from the excesses of self- loathing, self -harm and depression.

I’m blessed that my husband thinks my chicken legs are sexy and that he loves my face, freckles, crooked teeth and all. Even my small boobs, spots of grey hair and all.

So, mothers, love your bodies so your daughters and sons will love them too. We are so guilty of sometimes proclaiming that we feel bloated or fat or have a bad hair day, and surely we are entitled to that, we think, but think of your child, your mentee, your niece, your charge, all listening to those words of self- doubt which may turn into little seeds of self- loathing or a pattern for life-long self-criticism.

We all want happy, healthy, mindful children and we hope we are raising them right. So every day, my kids know that they are lovely, thoughtful, generous, gentle, strong, loving, appreciative, helpful, genuine and kind instead of beautiful, pretty, stunning, slim, or handsome( though my little prince is a self-professed praise junkie).

And oh yes, they have survived many stereotypical situations to do with self-image:

My eldest girl has been classed too black to be Chinese by sales-women in Hong Kong and in KL.

( I tell them I had several husbands, or sometimes I tell them we have Hawaiian blood),

My second daughter gets told she has very Asian eyes and could be Japanese( well did I tell you about the dalliance our fore -mother had with the Emperor?)

Our son gets told he’s very good looking all the time.

( I just tell him not to let it get into his head and no conceit is allowed!)

As for staying fit and healthy, though they are aware of their mum cutting down carbs at dinner time, our family has a fond, fundamental and familial love for cooking and food that they know that not eating is not an option and keeping healthy is. We love it that our three children have healthy, happy appetites and are game for all kinds of cuisine.

Oh, how did we survive body image issues in the 80s? I guess we did survive it all through the heck and lack of it all.

We were lucky not to have the internet. The threatening evil portal where you can be made to feel inadequate, small and ugly. The TV shows of the time did not make me want to do crazy things to myself. I wanted to shoot JR like everyone else, but not myself.

Debbie Gibson and Tiffany just made me want to be wholesome and good.

Unless you are always and constantly keeping your teens in check and that they are lucky enough to have healthy, encouraging peers, or have build a really warm and open relationship with them, it pays to check on the websites and chatrooms that they are on, on their laptops, on their smart phones and in their heads. It's also important to know their friends.

I say this an educator of many teens, and as a self-professed life coach to many students, who in fact gave me that title a few years ago, and as a mother to a teenager, a tween and a 6 year old.

It only takes a tiny nudge before any negative impact on self -body image can spiral completely out of control. Though we are lucky now to have access to psychologists and hospitals which can offer professional help to look after these issues, staying safe is better than sorry.

Love, love, love your children and pray that words like anorexia, bulimia, depression, self-harm and self-loathing are Greek words in your family’s diction.

Every family is different, I know.

Love thyself first and always, and always and forever, keep your children in your circle of faith, hope and love.

---R Dec 10 2013

Diary of a Wonky-Eyed Girl

17 Sept 2012

Possibly the most unglam photo of me online-just before my discharge from the American Hospital of Paris. But with my seeing eyes wide open and oh so happy!

It has been exactly two months since my delicate emergency eye operation in Paris. How fast does time fly? Some of my lady friends are still teasing me about being 'fancy', to end up in, of all cities, gay Paree, with a surgery. After the surgery, I still had about 6 weeks’ worth of holidays, half of which was spent mostly in Europe. I had three weeks left upon our return to KL which was spent with follow up check-ups with my KL doctor then a few relaxing days in Singapore with my second sister and a couple of precious nights in Phuket with my husband sans children. Despite the one long haul flight home and 6 short haul flights that I had undertaken since my surgery, I am all good.

My eye about 2.5 weeks after the surgery- in Amsterdam.

Apart from that I have been home, trying to do what I DON’T do best. Relax, rest and stay still. About 3 weeks ago, I went back to work, and though challenging, I am getting used to it by now though it involves a lot of fine eye work!

On a daily basis people, I have colleagues and students asking me about my eye. People are quite sweet and very genuine with their concerns. Some are quite direct, others, nosey. Like one day last week, the library girls asked me why one eye was smaller than the other. It’s so Malaysian and so in your face and I patiently explained to them the lazy eye syndrome as I am not using my right eye as much. They looked shocked & almost felt sorry for me! Or when an elderly church member exclaimed loudly, ‘Wah, your eyes are still red, ah, you poor thing! You must Lie Down, Lie Down!” or this other person who kept making MY eye problem HER issue! or they stare, and ask if I am in pain. I am not! I think next time, I’ll just keep my sunglasses on and spare people the awkwardness. But mostly & thankfully, people are kind and concerned.

About 4 weeks after my surgery, back home in KL.

So I thought I’d write a diary.

You know that endearing classic Van Morrison song, “Brown- eyed girl”? Now hubby sings that song to me except he has changed the lyrics to ‘you’re my WONKY eyed girl. It’s one of my all-time favourite songs, so I don’t mind. “Wonky”, my eye still is though my visual acuity(with silicone oil) is now about 6/12 or 6/15 on most check -ups. I had to go off my steroid drops because my ocular pressure shot up so now I am steroid free. However at the last check up, my opthalmologist has detected that I am starting to show signs of cataract. I wasn’t surprised as my dad had his cataracts done when he was only 38. I know cataract problems are usually linked to geriatrics. I am hardly one, YET, but my eyes apparently are. SO he will monitor it at my next retinal examination, and he may just FIX ME UP at my next surgery when he removes the silicone oil. And NO, I am NOT going back to Paris for the second surgery and to do a spot of shopping, ladies! Though it's very tempting!

Every day is still a blessing. I did not go blind. I am blessed. I can see! Medical science and amazing surgeons do exist and they are great.

I have heard of WORST cases of retinal detachments.

I have been lucky. Last week I stumbled upon a blog by a guy in Canada who had 4 successive retinal detachments on the same eye and finally, he had a similar eye operation as mine, but he kept going blind. He stopped updating his blog at the end of Sept 2009, so I shudder to think what would have happened to him. I only hope he’s fine.

My scary wonky eye look!

I have got used to relying on my untreated eye MORE which has become a habit, which is bad for my treated eye, so I had to change the prescription of my glasses temporarily to even out both eyes. Hey, bring it on, last week my GOOD eye came down with conjuntivitis, as though saying “GIVE ME A BREAK!” Sometimes I go without my contact lens on the untreated eye so I use my wonky eye so it doesn’t get lazy or smaller. I try to read with only my wonky eye only for at least 20 minutes a day. I also test my eye sight by closing one hand one each eye on a daily basis, sometimes a few times a day! :) At the back of my mind, I worry a little bit about my 'good' eye too. The French doctors have discovered that I have signs of lattice degeneration( where the periphercal retina becomes atrophic) on that eye. Laser thereapy has been recommended but my opthalmologist here says to leave it alone at the moment. Let the macula-off retinal detachment eye recover as much as it can first.

As I shared in my poem, I am VERY paranoid of floaters now- any spots, or flying mosquito or black dots in the distance can sometimes shake me to the core. At my morning hill walk today, I saw a bird in the distance, and thought it was a floater in my eye, that’s how scary it gets, sometimes. But mostly I am very calm. I am very conscious of my head position especially when lying down. I try not to look up at the ceiling AT ALL COSTS. I still sleep on my side, or on my front, very conscious of the viscousity of the oil in my eye. A couple of weeks ago, I made the mistake of looking up into the sky when taking a shower, and saw bits of floaters ABOVE the silicone oil level, and panicked. My dr here says it’s ok, it’s the oil that’s causing the instability inside my eye. It looks like we are going to have the silicone oil removal surgery on the first week of Oct. My KL surgeon is going to France for most of September and he shoots off to Italy for a congress in mid Oct and he wants be around from early Oct till mid Oct to monitor me in case there are any complications post-silicone oil removal.

Fingers crossed. SO my next surgery using local anaesthesia will most likely be on Oct 3.

In these 2 months, I have heard of 3 other people having retinal detachments over the summer. So I know I am not alone, one man is in his 50s, a lady in her 30s and a young man, just 22. So it’s not exactly an age thing. One guy I know can't play tennis anymore as he keeps missing the ball! Thank goodness I am not into contact sports.

I have gone back to most normal activities. I can drive easily but gently with one side of my contacts. I have resumed my weekend 12km hill walks by mostly looking down, and I stop myself from running on rough pavements. I haven’t started swimming again, at least with my head fully submerged in the pool. Because of the incisions in my eye, sometimes the redness flares up, especially now that I am off my steroid eye drops. I am not sure how chlorine will react to it but I am sure it will be ok.

The specialist eye centre that I go to in KL is always FULL of patients!

I still daren’t go for my monthly facial yet, lest the manipulations cause any redetachment. I can’t walk our big dog Sparky, as he’s huge and he might yank my eye off. Luckily, I don’t wear any eye make-up so that hasn’t been an issue at all. I have been taking more berries of all kinds- goji berries, blue berries, eye berries:)and been drinking copious amounts of fresh carrot juice. For whatever it’s worth, if they don't help my eyes, I am keeping my other internal organs healthy. It's funny that it takes something like this to force me to keep my head down, literally!

I miss, miss, miss CARRYING my 5 year old and swinging him about. He’s about 20kg and that’s the weight that I am not supposed to haul, at least not yet until I am a 100% sure I am ok. My greatest struggle really is to remember that I need to take it easy. But sometimes that's easier said than done.

My students, bless them, are used to seeing me teach in my shades as sometimes the glare from the sunlight outside or the florescent lighting in the classroom can be unsettling. There is no pain, but just a mild discomfort when the glare hits my eye. I can also feel that my cataract is setting in. Oh joy!

I still hate getting my eyes dilated every time I am at my eye clinic. The KL dilation drops seem to be so potent that I feel awful for hours on end- and can’t use my eyes to read for at least 6-7 hours afterwards. The nurse says it's because my iris is too small that they have to top up the dilation dose for me. The ones in Paris were fine after just a couple of hours. I am not comparing.

As for reading, it’s part and parcel of my occupational hazard so how do I cut down on that? I must know when to rest my eyes when they get tired.

In the meantime, being wonky-eyed has its perks- I get to wear my Chanel shades all the time, get cat-whistled, “Hey, Jackie O,” and my Year 7s think I am a dictionary with cool shades, and best of all, my other half has hired a personal driver to chauffeur me around. What more could a girl ask for?

I could SO get used to THIS! Wonky eyed tai-tai!

And please don’t laugh at my eye pictures here- they were a personal photo journal to track the progress of my healing!

I am keeping everything crossed & praying that Oct 3/4 will be a success!

Till then, c'est la vie!

A bit of wonky-eyed glamour!

R- Sept 17 2012

Travelogue Brugge: Beer Country

Travelogue Brugge: Beer Country

Map-reading, a week after my eye surgery. Ensuring that we do not get lost:)

I never ever thought I would enjoy a glass of beer, that is, until I got to Brugge. After my retinal eye scare in Paris the week before, the last thing I wanted to think of was stress. So Brugge was a complete opposite of that. I could relax. It was fuss-free, small, compact and medieval and magical all at the same time. And the beers were dirt cheap and in the pleasant & cool summer heat, so refreshing and downright delicious. It started with a sip off my husband’s glass. After my costly medical emergency(read previous post on Travelogue Paris), he was ready to have more than a few glasses of beer to zone out, chill out and vege out as we continued our Euro Tour de force with kids, luggage and an invalid wife of sorts, et al. After that thirst-quenching sip, I was ordering beer, in restaurants, and buying them off Carrefour’s shelves. So unbecoming and unfeminine of me. But wheat beer is yummy, and so dirt cheap( I think I already said that) that it made sense to drink it instead of water! And I think good for healing!

Bruges, as one may spell it too, is beguiling, enchanting and pretty. It’s so small that our three kids could waltz through her entire streets and see all the main sights in a day. The homes are very modern inside though they look like they were build for bucolic Flemish people thousands of years ago. It was so so pleasant, and quiet after Paris, with their crazy taxi Merde-chanting drivers, surly waiters, crowded Tour de France tourists, Mona Lisa paparazzi, and determined Eiffel tower climbers. Yes, it was crowded too and extremely touristy, but it was postcard pretty and very quaint, and you could find yourself on an empty bench by the canal looking at whimsical ducks and think, yes, you could spout poetry or paint a picture here. So Brugge really is when our Euro vacation began. As much as we didn’t let my surgery in Paris affect us too much, everyone had been walking on eggshells on whether mummy’s eyes would get elbowed by a rushing tourist rushing into a slamming Metro door or if walking up & down staircases might not be good for her recently reattached retina!

In Brugge, you walked slowly or rather, ambled- everywhere. On cobbled-stone streets, where you can hear the merry clip clop of horse drawn carriages( filled with gullible tourists), you also hear the belfries all over the small city go ‘ding dong ding dong’ all day. Like a mini-Venice, Brugge has its fair share of pretty canals, historic alm houses, ancient churches and atmospheric breweries. Spires and just bucolic people ambling about gently, probably high on the delicious wheat beer they have drunk copious amounts of.

The many pretty sights of this UNESCO Heritage City

It’s a great place for children, as they do star jumps in the squares such as Mkrt and City Hall . Kids too enjoy the canal boat ride that meanders through the city, that lulled my son little T into peaceful slumber. The chocolate museum is fun and informative, as are the cheese shops for our cheese-loving children, and chocolate shops abound, and cute, pretty Tin Tin merchandise along with amazing and delectable biscuits of all kinds. And in Brugge, you'll find shops selling the prettiest Christmas ornaments, not made in China. My favourite spot, has got to be the Beguinage(could I have been a nun in my previous life?) I don’t know, but it was such a peaceful little slice of heaven, I genuflected in the church within the compound and gave thanks for having my eye sight restored just the week before. We stayed at a lovely family-run B & B and the owners had reconstructed a former butchery and a fish shop into a modern, contemporary home inspired by Philippe Starck, one of my favourite designers. Their garden used to be part of the countryside of the ancient city of Brugge. It was also here that M and I, after the kids went to bed with the eldest in charge, managed to sneak out for a “just the two of us” dinner, at dusk on a lovely summery day. It was very romantic, the clip clop of horses gadding about, smiley waiters who all spoke perfect English with no trace of an accent and bells ringing all around us at just the right intervals and a gentle dusky breeze blowing. Apparently, lucky us, we had missed miserable rain by just a day and we had lovely sunshine with lots of ice-cream and waffle stops in the two days we were there.

On our last evening, we stumbled upon a lovely restaurant close to the Beguinage with a courtyard garden, so private but chock-ful of blooming hydrangeas and had the most enjoyable family meal there. These hidden surprises, all unplanned and stumbled upon, is always what makes family holidays so special. Till today, I can remember every single word that each of the children said & the expressions they had on their faces at that meal and how S enjoyed her rabbit stew( she's always determined & adventurous to try something local everywhere she goes), little T enjoying his baby lobster pasta shared with Mummy, Belly Boo had a whole roast chicken by herself, and my better half, a happy man with his frosted beer glass of Belgian beer and a beef stew & all of us feeling completely relaxed.

Dinner on our last evening in Brugge

So Brugge, will always be special, for its quaintness, its lovely quite streets and pretty buildings, but most of all for it cooling wonderful Belgian beer that makes it oh so drinkable. Another ice-cold glass, please? We’ll definitely be back. Our son picked up Shakespeare there, from a T-shirt! “Shakesbeer, To beer or not to beer!” After all, he’s got to continue with his education!

Family with a beer vespa!

Travelogue Paris: Rendezvous at the American Hospital

Travelogue Paris: Rendezvous at the American Hospital of Paris

My retinal detachment drama

Two days after my discharge from the American Hospital. Our only en famille photo in Paris.

Most ladies who go to Paris end up with a handbag or two, whether a LV, a Chanel or a Birkin. I ended up with the Hermes of eye surgeries. Ever since we got back to KL, I have been inundated by questions such as, “What happened? Why did you get an operation in Paris? What IS a retinal detachment? Were you in pain? You mean you chose Paris for the surgery? Why not Singapore, if you don’t trust Malaysian doctors? (Haha, I had to laugh at that one, and the little faith we have in our poor surgeons).

So, here’s my story. A blow by blow account of my treatment du jour through my lenses.( no pun intended!)

First of all, a retinal detachment is NOT an elective thing, it’s almost a silent but acute emergency. It’s definitely not like, “Okay, I am flying to Seoul, and getting my nose done!” It’s not like I know that on July 16, when we arrived in Paris, I would suddenly emerge from a dark plane in CDG into the early morning summer sunshine to see hundreds of annoying floaters swimming in the periphery of my visual field. It’s more like as the day progressed(We managed to take the children to Place de Vosges( my favourite square in ALL of Paris) while I sat on a shady park bench just resting and enjoying the fresh cool Paris air, walked through the Marais quarter,sat down to watch buskers & dancers on the Ile St Louis bridge & finally, in submission, sat down for Mass at the Notre Dame where I fervently prayed for 3 important things, one of them was 'DEAR GOD, PLEASE HEAL MY EYE'), the floaters would still be there, but later that evening, it felt as though half my contact lens had peeled off, and my visual field got slightly opaque, with a shadow cast on my the bottom left side of my right eye.(I think the exact moment this happened, I was at the local Marche Prix buying milk, cheese, ham & eggs with family, and I remember telling M : I have to go back to our apartment NOW to lie down as I really didn’t ‘feel well’ (as though lying down would help reattach my retina!) So, those were the symptoms- floaters,a shadow and opaqueness, then flashes of neon in the darkness, all in silence. Spontaneously detaching. Silently but surely, urgently. Painlessly...

First day in Paris; fun with the kids despite my retina slowly detaching itself silently.

Citing jet-lag and tiredness( I had been so looking forward to some time away from KL after a hectic and quite challenging year at work- the last 6 months have been really tough and stressful, and I just needed this break to clear my mind from the reality of work life.) So on the evening of July 16, I dropped off to bed by 8.30pm while M and the kids watched a movie- I think it was a cartoon called A Monster in Paris, which he had downloaded( all Paris movies) prior to getting to Paris being a hopeless romantic that he is). I slept restlessly then woke up at 4am Paris time, and this time, I knew that I HAD to go to a hospital that morning. The neon flashes in the dark had become more frequent, and I just didn’t feel right. I could still see okay but I calmly & silently prayed in the dawn light, & waited for M & the children to wake up.

When Martin woke up at 8, we rang up his very amiable and friendly Paris-based client/now friend G who happened to be in their farmhouse in the Loire at the time, but she very quickly phoned her ophthalmologist for an appointment. However, being July, he was already away on vacation. G suggested we go straight to the American Hospital in Neuilly- sur- Seine. I quickly googled the American Hospital and got the exact address and read up their homepage and we got dressed and got a taxi there. (Now, what I didn’t know then that green and clean Neuilly-sur-Seine has had its fair share of famously rich and well -heeled French top guns.) It’s a leafy upmarket suburb west of the centre, on the fringes of central Paris, just beyond Arr 17. The infamous DSK was born there, Sarkozy and Hollande both grew up there. SO, you can imagine my hospital bill later! :) Our lived-in Filipino helper, who used to work for a royal Syrian/Lebanese family in Beirut later told me that her employer had a mansion there, next to the Imelda Marcos’ and were friends with them. Her previous Ma’am had had brain cancer and had treatment there and it’s an excellent hospital. Ok, had we know it then, would we still have gone there? Without a doubt of course. A retinal detachment is not something to be taken lightly. When you are abroad, the best place you will feel is in a hospital where you would receive the best treatment.

The corridor of my ward at the Hopital Americain de Paris.

My point is, the French have one of the best health systems in the world and even if I had walked into a public hospital, I would have been fine. But the American Hospital is excellent- so good and efficient that I was seen too within 45 minutes of my arrival. They even asked if we needed a Mandarin or Cantonese translator! 187 patients to 400 doctors? The second we arrived at the hospital by taxi, we were ushered to the Ophtalmological Suite 3. The attending doctor was an older doctor, with a pot-belly named Dr L. He was nice enough, but dismissively French with all the flourishes that we typically associate Parisians with, and he announced to us after examining my eye, confirming my WORST fears, in a French-accented English: “YES, you have a retinal detachment. You need an operation!” We asked, “Dr, could we fly back to Kuala Lumpur immediately and have it done there? His answer: Yes, you can fly back, but you will lose your sight. ( Okay, that was reassuring, NOT, Dr!) Us: Let’s schedule for an operation straight-away then. Dr L then rang his colleague on his mobile, spoke in rapid French about ‘this patient with an emergency retinal detachment from Malaysia’, and immediately confirmed that the surgeon would see me at 6, and the operation would happen that evening at 7. “I can’t do the surgery for you, but my colleague, much younger than me, about 40 who is a retinal specialist will come later. He's good. Don't worry. Start fasting."

Suddenly, it SANK IN. I started processing- 'OMG, SURGERY, in Paris?' The costs involved were the last thing on my mind. I knew that side of things would get taken care of. But an actual surgery in an operating theatre, with anaesthesia and scalpels and scrub nurses, in a foreign country?( I think I had been watching too many episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and have also listened too much to my brother in law who is a consultant anaesthesist and his sometimes funny cum horror OT stories over the dinner table!) I thought of my poor children, my sweet husband, my parents? my 2 sisters? my dogs! What if I don’t wake up after the surgery? What if... what if...? For someone like moi, who essentially likes to be in control, (As my husband says of me, you are a formidably strong woman, and that’s what I love about you), I have NEVER had anaesthesia in my life. Even with the au naturel birth of my 3 children, which were quite textbook, I was in complete control of my labour, my obgyn and the nurses. But to 'go under'? To have someone cut open my eye(my EYE?!!!) and do stuff to it? I masked my fears behind the bravado of a loving mother and put up a brave smile for the children and M. Secretly, I was a little terrified.

Trying to stay brave in front of the kids just before my admission.

I first thing I did was try to ring my Dad in Penang. For some reason, we couldn’t get him on his mobile, so I had to speak to Mum instead. We Leng daughters know that when there are emergencies, we always speak to Dad first, not Mum. Mum loves us to bits and is a wonderful woman, but she’s also a Chinese Hokkien mother. So she was like, “What, an eye operation? In Paris? Aiyo, why like that? Why didn’t you look after you eye? You shouldn’t have flown, must be the pressure and high altitude. (Okay, how do I explain to Dr. Mum over 10,000km away, that no matter how much I ‘look after my eye’, if my retina was going to detach, it will just detach regardless??) Anyway, it was nice chatting to you, Mum, I feel better already! Next, I whatsapped my best friend D, my prayer pal, and admitted to her that I was scared. Later on, I sent a short text by whatsapp to my sisters and my other best friends who by then were getting ready for bed in KL to tell them what was going on. My great tough-cookie friend, S, who had surgery on BOTH her eyes to fix both her retinas a few years ago assured me all will be well! “You’re in France, babe, you’ll get the best treatment. So just relax, you’ll be fine.” Their support and encouraging words held me together. And faith kept my spirits up. Together, we had a mini family conference cry, just to let things out. The children were amazingly strong. My eldest was stoic as ever, my two younger ones held me close. I could see M trying not to break down and I felt really bad putting him through this.

My patient tag!

By 1.00pm, I got admitted as an official patient at the American Hospital of Paris, short of checking into the Crillon or George V, the smooth English-speaking staff assured me that I would receive the best treatment.I thought of Yves St-Laurent doing the same, years before, before he died there. ( No negative thoughts, no negative thoughts!) I spoke to my KL ophtalmologist as he was having his dinner KL time, who advised me to use silicone oil & wished me luck! M was sorting out the insurance at the same time. The kids, bless them, had the ipad to occupy them; the only times they ever were hooked on the ipad to distract them was when I was at the hospital.

The kids were immersed in a game on the ipad: we allowed them that small treat only during my time in hospital and at the doctors' to distract them from the reality of the emergency.

By 2.20pm I was checked into my room no. 516. All rooms are single, so the patients get all the privacy they needed, watching French TV and drinking copious amounts of Evian water, if you are not fasting or on drips and they even give you a set of Peckniffs' mood therapy toiletries! The last time I had Peckniffs' mood therapy was in our hotel in Shanghai a couple of years ago. I started smiling, amused, to myself, to console myself of the COST( & irony) of this Hermes operation! But again, that was the last thing on my mind! At least, I’ll smell nice, I thought!

My room!

Once settled in my room, I asked M to take the kids out for a walk and for a late lunch. Neuilly -sur- Seine, especially where the hospital was located, was unfamiliar territory to us as tourists. Leafy boulevards with gated mansions don’t result in too much entertainment for kids. Just before that, my debonair anaesthetist, Dr K came in to ask me some questions. Do you smoke, what’s your health pattern? ( I thought, wait till I tell my bro in law, E about this impeccable PR skills of his Paris colleague!) He was surprised I haven’t had any epidural for my 3 children but I feebly joked that I was trying to save my husband money but look where that got me? His response, in effusive accentless, English was “May this be your last one, Mrs Leng."-possibly NOT the best thing to say to a girl who was about to go under, but it became a standard joke between us in the next 3 days! ( I was also too tired to correct him to say that I was not really Mrs Leng,( but actually Mrs LEE nee Leng) and that it's not de regueur for Chinese women to adopt their husband’s surnames when they marry but I didn’t think this was the right time for me to be so gungho about my feminist ideals either so I smiled back at him.) Then the rigmarole began, nurses and orderlies started streaming in. My blood pressure was taken, my blood( oh yes, I discovered that the veins on my right elbow joint may be fat and look really juicy but no blood can be drawn out of there. If we had known it then, I would have been poked and prodded so much).

I was weighed, had my temperature taken and then given some antiseptic to wash myself my top to toe. So that I get squeaky clean for the OT. I changed into that dreadful hospital gown that labels you officially as a PATIENT! You'd think that with the room rates they charge you at the American Hospital, the least they can do was to give you a silk dressing gown, all sterilised of course! I thought: Good one, Renie, from TOURIST TO PATIENT! Then the paperwork came, the signing of the CONSENT FORMS! I did them quickly and kept my fingers crossed. Alone, in my room at last, I started to pray again and my fear slowly evaporated, and I managed with one failing eye, to write a letter each to the four most important people in my life ---to dearest M and the 3 munchkins. Only then did the second reality hit me, I was well & truly going under, and I better get out of the OT with my eyesight fully restored, if not for me, for THEM!

With my iphone and complimentary WEEFEE (They bring you a new password everyday!), I managed to google my surgeon to see who this person was who was going to operate on me. The first page on google netted some positive results- I was relieved that he was consulting for the American Hospital, had a double-barrel surname, was in a medical video on youtube and has written copious amounts of research papers, and was Chief of Surgery at Hospital Foch so he must be be pretty impressive.

By 5pm, the nurses popped by to give me two happy pills, atharax which is a very sleepy anti -histamine, and a relaxant. I felt drowsy straight away, and suddenly felt much better. Now I know why some people are hooked on drugs! When M & the kids came back, we prayed together as a family and I was starting to languish into my own drug-induced world of a new druggy! The kids too started to feel tired and were falling asleep on my bed as by then they were a little worn out and jet-lagged.

After 6, the orderly brought a wheel chair to take me down to the eye examination room to say that my eye surgeon ( & an assistant surgeon who, I recall reminded me of Steve Jobs) was finally here to see me. The second I met him in my drug-induced state, when he shook my hands firmly and smiled very kindly, and told me that it will be alright, I INSTANTLY felt much better. Dr PK, is so not your typical Frenchman or alpha male surgeon. Not that I have met too many of them in my lifetime. For starters, he’s really warm, reassuring and very nice. He seemed very sincere and had very kind eyes. And even with my wonky eye, I could see that he was a bit of an eye candy( again no pun intended). And for a girl on drugs and about to go into surgery, that truly is a bonus. ( As my girlfriends later tell me, “Trust You to get a dishy doctor, for most of us would probably end up with an old fuddy- duddy, grumpy one"). In the words of my best friend D, "Well, if you are going to be operated on, what better person than a Mark-Ruffalo looka-like!"

But seriously, it’s not the eye candy bit. But more that he completely radiated compassion and emanated kindness and a genuine honesty that you don’t get from surgeons especially. There was no showiness, cockiness or abruptness that I have experienced with other male doctors like : "Trust me, baby, I’ll fix you right up with my scalpel.” Lucky me, I got a doctor who took his Hippocratic oath very seriously. He examined my eye thoroughly( I was down to only counting fingers by then), listened to me intently, and patiently drew an eye and two holes to show 2 TEARS in my retina, on a piece of paper and explained that he was going to perform a VITRECTOMY in my eye. At that drug-induced stage, I wouldn’t have cared if it was my appendicts or heart or brains that he was taking out, as I was suddenly overwhelmed by drowsiness, nothing too intense was registering really. (Sorry). I remember him telling me he does 400 of this type of surgeries a year which I thought was reassuring. I later looked up the meaning of vitrectomy only AFTER reading the surgical report and am glad I had no idea what it meant BEFORE the surgery! As M was with the kids in my room, I requested that the surgeon explain to my dear, worried -sick husband what he was going to do to me and he kindly consented to, and that really reassured M so very much that he said it made him feel so much better straightaway.

Soon, I was transferred onto a gurney trolley & wheeled into the OT. Drowsy, in semi-induced state, with a detached retina in one eye, and no glasses on the other, it was all a haze to me. I recognised Dr PK’s voice saying hello and Dr K my friendly anasthesist saying hello, and my male orderly, who looked Algerian, was so sweet, he kept reassuring me on the way to the OT to not worry and that I was in the best hands. All in all, the best bed-side manners I had ever encountered from all the staff. I remember seeing a window, and joked with them,"Wow, an operation with a view; at least we're not in the basement!" At about 7.20pm Paris time on July 17, I had my FIRST EVER dose of general anaesthetic. The second Dr K told me that he was going to put me to sleep, I was knocked out completely!

I wouldn’t know what exactly happened to me in that two hours when I was operated on, but all I know, in layman's terms is that advanced medical science and an excellent, experienced surgeon can do wonders. In most cases now, retinal detachment surgeries are done under a local anaesthetic and the patient goes home straightway. ( Had I been operated on in KL, it would have been under local anaethesia.) But I don’t see how that can be comfortable for the patient. In the 2 hours "as I lay sleeping" under anaesthesia, with a clamp to keep my right eye open, Dr PK made two incisions in my right eye, on both sides of my pupil. Through a microscope, he then removed the vitreous( gel like liquid) to get to my retina( which really is at the back of my eye) He repaired the two tears on my retina by cryotherapy, removed all the burst blood vessels-probably sucked out at the same time the vitreous gel was removed ( which were causing the floaters) then reattached the retina and the macula as well. Pretty complicated stuff and such a delicate procedure! ( A month later, I youtubed some videos of retinal detachment surgeries, I was almost sick, & slept really badly after, as it’s not a pretty sight AT ALL, and I am NOT a squeamish person!) The anaesthesia worked so well that I didn’t come to until about 11pm that night. They had difficulty slapping me awake. I may have lost a few good cells but that's a small price to pay.

M was hugely relieved when the surgeon came to my room to wake him up to relay the good news, that the surgery was a success, and all would be well. He then told me that between 9.45 to 11pm, I was delirious, holding his hand, and moaning to him that my eye was painful. But I have absolutely no recollection of this. I remember being moved to my room and onto my bed and had to lie in a face-down position for the entire night as the viscous silicone oil which is a tamponade to help seal the retina flat back to my eye ball won’t run upwards. Normally gas( which will dissolve naturally) is inserted to buffer the retina but that would mean absolutely no flying for at least 3 months. As I had to return to KL in the 3 weeks, silicone oil was used, ( I will, however, need another procedure to remove the viscous silicone oil in the next 2 months which to me is a bugger, as that means the redness of my eye won’t fade for another few months.)

I think I mostly slept well that night in the hospital. I was worried about M and the kids getting home to the apartment so late in the night. The nurses kept checking on me, checking my pressure, my drip, etc. I really felt quite positive the morning after even with a bandage on my eye. I was wheeled down just before 7.30am for Dr PK to check on me but he wasn’t there yet, so the impatient orderly wheeled me back up again. In my sleepy state with my eyes half-closed, I just remembered hazy hospital corridors and busy orderlies and nurses walking about in the early morning, and wondered if the children had slept okay and what M would be feeding them for breakfast. When Dr PK finally arrived, they wheeled me back to the ophthalmology suite and I was reassured by him that my surgery went really well,the worst I would feel was that day, with a sandy feeling inside my eye, and he had even reattached the MACULA which was off as well. ( Having forgotten my biology lessons on the eye, I had to research my macula later, and it’s the centre of the eye that allows us to get a bird’s eye view in our visual field). Because my macula hole was also involved, my visual field on my right eye sees a slight dip/curve when I am reading of looking at straight horizontal lines. The doctor said I didn’t need an eye patch but had to lie on my front or left side for a few weeks. One of the side effects of a retinal attachment is unfortunately an early onset of cataracts( which is in my family history anyway) & in some cases, ptosis( droopy eyelids), etc.

I then returned to my room and pretty much slept through the day. M and the kids got to the hospital by 11, and it was so lovely to see them again, without floaters in my eyes, without the opaque lens feeling. It was so wonderful to see them in high spirits and my fear and doubts the day before vanished in a flash. I was really thankful to be alright. But I think the painkillers were still working and that sedated and calmed me a lot. I even managed to update my facebook status to tell my friends & family who have rallied for me that I was now fine, with my eye sight saved, no less!

I sent M and the kids off to see Paris that I had intended- they happily found their way to the Eiffel Tower and they WALKED up 669 steps up and down to get a bird’s eye view of the City of Light. And they brought back lovely photos to show me. I felt a new awakening by my reattached lense. And a bit subdued. It’s very humbling when something like this happens to you. Medical emergencies are scary no matter what. ( My last one was when I was 20 weeks pregnant with T as we found out that he had a 1 in 100 chance of being a Down Syndrome baby as opposed to 1 in 300, and I had to live with that for about 19 weeks but no matter what, the grace of God was with us then, as it was in Paris with my detached retina).

So I slept and slept, face-down, or propped up with my head down, (probably tired too from a very hectic term, a little bit of jet lag, and just recovering from that along with the shock of surgery abroad.)

I told the good doctor that I would like to stay one more night and then be discharged the next day. So he thoroughly examined again on Thursday, two days after my surgery, and was happy to see that my retina was now flat and reattached, my intraocular pressures had improved as well as my visual acuity. These terms will afterwards become common terms for me as I understood my eye problem better. Oh yes, Dr L, the first doctor, the anterior specialist, who checked me on the first day had found my left eye to be slightly problematic too(with evidence of lattice degeneration and had offered to do a laser photocoagulation for me, but I sought the opinions of Dr W and Dr PK and both agreed that I could do that when I get home. I really didn’t wish to have another medical procedure on my eye, with one retina recently attached and another getting lasered at 4-6 times the price it would cost me to do it at home. Plus if truth be told, I would now actually prefer to be asleep when I am being operated one, and I had told Dr W once that laser surgery to me is worse than being in labour!

One of my meals during my stay. Mushroom poillet and rice with a bottle of Evian!

Two nights after my surgery, I was discharged from the American Hospital. We went to say goodbye to Dr L and to say thank you. In yet another taxi-ride with a slight mad, Merde-chanting French driver, we made our way 'home' and we celebrated by having lunch at the Cafe de Musees near our apartment in the Marais quarter where little T had his first taste of escargots and simply relished them. I just wanted to get to bed and sleep again, and I did. M took the kids to the Tuileries and to Musee D’orsay where the kids had a fun time sneaking photographs of some classic paintings. I was happy that they go to run in the gardens around Tuileries and that they didn’t get lost!

Finally, discharged from the American Hospital, a cloudy summer's day in Paris @ 20 C.

We had a lovely quiet evening as I would do at home. I got used to my routine of a saline eye-wash and instilling various eye drops, including a steroid-based drops and drops for dilation. I only slept on my front with my head down position juxtaposed sometimes with a left-side position. I stopped taking any sort of painkillers the day I left the hospital. Poor little T, who had looked forward to climbing in between us was so mature and understood that he could NOT sleep in-between Mummy and daddy for he might inadvertently kick Mummy’s eye.

The next morning, a Friday morning, we went for my final check up with Dr PK at his lovely private practice( with a very beautiful receptionist), near the Arc d’Triomphe in Avenue Niel in Arr 17. Again, the check-up was very good & thorough, and Dr PK as ever, with his impeccable bed-side manners, was positive and professional and he was determined that we continued with our holiday without any major change in plans. Hence, I was given the all clear to continue with our intended journey, which was a train journey to Brussels/Brugge the following Monday and a flight to Copenhagen the following Wednesday and subsequently two weeks later, another flight to Amsterdam and finally, homeward to KL from Amsterdam. Dr PK was very reassuring, and M, especially felt very comforted by his kindness and generosity. He actually let us leave France without paying his surgical fees as we couldn’t settle it by credit card as his fees were separate from the American Hospital’s. A bank transfer from Denmark was possible a week later. That was kindness and trust beyond belief.

With the kind surgeon who saved my sight.

We spent the last weekend in Paris mainly taking things easier than I would have normally liked it. We didn’t make it to Giverny to see the real water lilies, or to Chartres for the stained glass windows,or to the Phillipe Starck restaurant that I wanted to take the kids to, but no matter, France will always be there, and my eye- sight, possibly not. But as I promised the kids, we did see most of what we had promised to show them- the Eiffel Tower(kids loved it), the Mona Lisa(no big deal), the Arc de Triomphe(symbolic), Champs Elysees(completely over-rated), Parc Villete(comme ci comme ca), walks along the Seine(throughly romantic & therapeutic), the Sorbonne( for inspiration) and on my final morning, we went to Place de Vosges( did I say it's my fav spot for some Muse?) again to look at the square with no floaters swimming this time. And on lovely our final evening, I had the best duck dish that I have had in ages, at a buzzy, provencal bistro near our digs called Chez Janou at 10pm at night with my new Chanel shades on! It was indeed my most 'unforgettable' holiday, ever.

Did I panic? Or wished I had flown home? Not really. You just make the best out of bad situations and stay positive. I rested so well in our apartment in the Marais overlooking a quiet inner garden courtyard, more so than I would have done at home probably. My godsend other half couldn't have coped better and my wonderful children- they were amazing beyond belief!

I do know that I am NOT the anomaly in getting a retinal detachment. On one medical website- the NHS one, it states that it happens to 1 in 10,000 people. 1 in 4 of severe myopes( short-sighted with high power) people have a higher chance of getting it, Asians tend to get it more as we are more Myopic and it has to do with the change in our eyeball (corneal) shape. My myopia has stayed at -7.00 on both eyes since my early twenties and I have worn glasses since I was 11, contact lens since I was 18. And family history counts too- my dad has had eye issues since he was 38 but now at 68, he’s absolutely fine and doesn’t need glasses except for reading. The strange thing that despite my MANY visits to my KL opthalmologist in recent years, NOT ONCE was I told I was high risk in getting a retinal detachment. I was lucky that I had no side effects whatsoever from my first ever GA. I actually woke up feeling high and relaxed! ( But I now have 4 opthalmologists' direct numbers on speed dial, just in case!)

They say that the eyes (les yeux) are the windows of the soul- and what happened to me did open up my soul, however corny it sounds. NEVER ever take your eyes( or any part of your body) for granted; I should know, having also occasionally suffered from another serious recurrent eye problem of uveitis. Don’t take EVER floaters lightly. Get your eyes checked often. My husband now has a private joke with me- “You would have saved your husband a lot more money if you had married an ophthalmologist.”

I have started to take things easy. No more making ten appointments a day and hurtling from this to that, when one would suffice. Me first. Not someone else. Family. Alone time. Walking slowly. Reflection. Naps to rest my eyes. Quietude.

Do I really need a Birkin bag? No. It's more tres chic to have my retina reattached. As for the American Hospital, well, it wasn’t the Four Seasons George V, but it’ll do.

I got to see clearly again, I am so grateful( and very blessed), and it’s a bit je nais se quoi to describe it but it was indeed a miracle. I call it my Paris miracle.

My little nomads helping with the luggage as we head towards Gare du Nord to catch our train to Brussels on our final morning in Paris. My heart breaks into a thousand pieces seeing how intent they were in NOT letting me strain my eye. Bless them.

PS. Had it happened in Siem Reap ten days before while I was there knee-deep in volunteer teaching, perhaps it might have ended up being a Cambodian Catastrophe instead.

PPS. A retinal detachment recovery takes months. I am lucky to be able to see very well with the silicone oil, with only a slightly distorted vision at times if I use only my right eye. I hope that once the silicone oil is removed, my retina will stay reattached and there will be no further complications.

R- August 2012

LESSONS FROM MY MOTHER

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY 2012

Growing up as a child of the 70s and 80s, my mum was well and ahead in the game of being a career and multi-tasking mum. And from her, I learnt these life lessons. I think for the first 18 years of my life, I was pretty terrified of my mother. Here she was,no-nonsense, tall, statue-esque for a Chinese woman, and though we used to joke about her Victorian disposition (when she had her acid reflex attacks or asthmas flare-ups), she was always robust and ready to roll. She was loving, but with that came a very high level of expectations that she heaped on us, her daughters. Speaking proper English with the correct grammar and pronunciation, not using the same connectives when we are narrating a story, using your apostrophes properly, correct subject-verb agreements etc. We were expected to score top marks consistently and do our best- in piano, in our subjects at school( nothing below 85%), and being her eldest , I think I always felt the pressure the most. She juggled a teaching career (being an English specialist and a minor in Geography) and was discipline teacher and senior school head amongst other posts. She used to have a hockey stick in her car as part of her walk-about as discipline head. So you can imagine. For her, the value of a good education comes with a good dose of discipline too!

On weekends, she managed her own very popular Joy Luck Club. ( which also became, for most of my teens and twenties, a source of bitterness and resentment, which I hope I have left behind now that I am older and wiser.) But our meals were always hot and freshly prepared, and very delicious, she would never forget birthdays and I would always get a small party with a cake nearly every year, and would not think twice about spending money on books( of the Enid Blytons and the Bobsey Twins and the Nancy Drews she bought us, then trips to Chowrasta Market to the second hand book stores for classics, and even overseas holidays despite being on a government-school teacher’s meagre salary. When I was 15 and my second sister was 13, she single-handedly paid for and shipped is off to Australia for 2 weeks to be with our aunt, so that we could broaden our horizons and enjoy a special Xmas. There started our wanderlust for travel beyond numerous trips to KL and Singapore.

My mother’s most obvious golden trait is her generosity. I think she learnt that early on from her own mother( Our Ah Ma), who, even during her numerous post-baby recoveries, would share her one rare egg with my mum, her only child( out of 12) to suffer from asthma and therefore needed the nutrients, and hence was always well-protected. Like my Ah Ma, she would do the same with us, though we now have more eggs than we can handle. At restaurants, Mum would always ask us to try the dish that she ordered first, always wanting to share with us what she ate. If she bought herself a new scarf or purse, and if we complimented her on them, she would offer to give it to us straight away. Once, much to my sister’s chagrin, she offered me her LV bag that my sister has passed on to her, haha! And being a fair parent, mum was always and is always fair when it came to the three of us. When my sisters and I were very young, she would practise a true happy birthday celebration for us all. I would get a gift as a birthday girl, and my sisters would get one too. And the same would happen when one of my sisters had their birthdays. This was so no one felt left out. When my youngest sister was old enough to suss out that being born on June 23 was quite ordinary compared to both her sisters’s big bang birthdays (New Year ‘s and April Fool’s Days respectively), I remember hearing mum rock her gently on her sturdy legs and cooing to her that people born on June 23rd was the most special birthdate to have !

Mum’s closet in the 1970s right up to when she retired in 2000 was full of exciting, well- tailored clothes. She has long maxi dresses that were de rigeur in the 70s and smart tailored matching skirt and blouse suits in the 80s. With her we were introduced to Aladdin’s caverns of fabric shopping in stores Sungai Petani, Bukit Mertajam and Campbell Street. Looking for the best rolls of gorgettes, linens and Japanese cotton for her to make the best clothes. Needless to say, I think we are clearly chips off the old block now when it comes to being clotheshorses and style mavens!

From our mum, we learnt that it’s essential to go out of the house with your lipstick on. After all, you never know who you might meet. She would never get out of the house without proper clothes on, which means no shorts or sloppy t-shorts in case she met her students outside of school. Errr, I guess, it’s the noughties now, and I do love my short shorts and I don’t really care how my students view me outside of school but a bit of lip gloss is always essential.

Mum made time to create special moments, though as her joy luck club members increased, it became abundant clear to an adolescent and more aware me that her priorities had changed hence those to me were the most turbulent years of our relationship. They were not all bad, but those were the years when communication was difficult and I turned to Dad more and more despite his strictness and set ways. To say that both my parents have mellowed so much is an understatement. I think an important lesson out of mum here, is that I learnt not to get too emotional and to not use crying as a form of blackmail against my spouse, having seen it done the artful way by her! She’d make me delete this part for sure.

At university, I remember after a particularly bad week of orientation by the seniors, upon ringing home, and hearing Mum’s voice, I burst into tears. Her letters from home were always newsy and full of who had struck 4D in the family and who was treating dinner, or what tricks my dad had got up to up on the mango tree that week! It got more serious when devastatingly our beloved grandmother suddenly got terminal with lung cancer at 75 but mum dealt with that very admirably and recovered from her grief much quicker than the rest of her siblings did. From Mum, I learned to begin to truly honour my own. And I am sorry it’s taken my 40 years to write this for you.

Millie and I especially enjoyed some really fun special moments with her when she was a young mummy, with fun trishaw rides to Georgetown to old style coffeeshops like Kek Seng where she would never allow us to have fizzy drinks, lest we pleaded. She would then remind us of the Colgate advertisement of the girl with bad cavities( she would quote, pointing to our teeth- LAIN JADINYA) It always worked and we would stick to plain water. ( Till today, thanks to her, I stay away from carbonated drinks like a disease) Hence, when we did, it was a WILD treat indeed! Barley ice was as much a treat as a glass of coke. I remember in the late 70s when she had this penchant for Taiwanese movies- ( these days she loves American Idol and The Voice, which she has to fight with dad who will be channel-flipping to watch). After school, she would whisk us off( still smelling of her Elizabeth Arden perfume and in her lovely school clothes) to any Odeons or Cathays that were showing any of those with Lin Ching Xia, Chin Han, Ling Fong Chiao love triangles, set in bucolic Taiwanese scenes. A pure banana Chinese, Mum read the English subtitles as we did to understand what was happening. Mum was and is still a great cook but she wasn’t the world’s most fantastic baker. She had an amazing recipe called coconut biscuits which she used to bake every Chinese New Year. One year, the batch of cookies got burnt, and she was so embarrassed by it. She made us throw them away into the bin outside as she had a visitor coming.

What I most treasure about mum during my school days was that she NEVER missed a single sports day and end of year concert cum prize-giving day especially in Primary school. She would turn up and do the parents' races sportingly, once even got knocked off the pitch by an eager dad. She sat there proudly as I collected my First in the class or year prize and even though she never told me she was proud of me as in the Chinese way, the look of pride I saw when she saw me go up to collect the prizes of the smiles of assurances she gave as I played the glockenspiel, or as Millie read her speech, or Evelynn delivered lead lines in plays were enough to make us know she was well and truly proud of us. For that, I will forever be thankful for her.

Yes, our family is a rare Chinese breed who tells each other we love each other all the time. But any further praise or compliment is often veiled. We all know she is proud of us 3 girls, with all her heart but it’s not in her nature to show us off or be smug against her peers about our achievements. She knows she has raised us well, and being dad’s sidekick, I think one of their strongest strength as our parents is that they always believed in us, and were consistent in what they expected of us. She taught me that it was important to work at a great marriage. And it's okay to sometimes feel like you want to kick your spouse out of the house, but to never go to bed angry with each other.

Mum was with me both emotionally and physically for Isabel and Thomas’ births as she had retired from teaching by then. She gave up a month of her life in Penang to come and look after me and baby, and that in itself is an act of generosity and self-less that I hope I have learnt from her. She let me wash my hair and eat what I wanted though there was always plenty of ginger, steamed fish, chicken in Chinese wine , chicken essence, lots of eggs and copious amounts of red date water, she was the coolest confinement lady ever. We went shopping and she learnt drive from Sri Hartamas to Damansara Heights in my Suzuki Vitara and took Sam and then both Bel and Sam to school and brought them home safely. Anytime we had problems with domestic help, Mum and dad would be on their way in 5 minutes. Mostly they would drive, but Mum would sometimes take the bus from Penang to KL or Singapore to not miss her grandchildren’s special occasions.

From Mummy, we learned to always keep your husband happy (She’d chided us earlier in our motherhood for going to sleep with our babies and leaving the poor dads alone) but to get your way nearly every-time, haha and she lets you know she’s proud of you not through outward gestures but through her special rhetorical, sometime slightly passive-aggressive ways that her way, her advice is still THE BEST! And you never mess with a Chinese mother. If your results are less than par, she wouldn’t be happy. If your hair is unkempt or you are without your lipstick, watch her eyebrows raise. Or as a doting grandma, if you are over-disciplining your child! She would happily point out that you have a zit on your face, and that you are running out of time to complete your Master’s dissertation so you better get on with it( even though you were struggling with inspiration), and on a recent maiden Skype experience with Evelynn my youngest sister, she asked her why she had a congested forehead and asked if is she had put on weight on her face! Through these all, you just get tougher and more immune to loving criticism!

So, this is my parting paragraph, Mum.

I think I am turning into you, and it’s scary( but an honour as well), especially when I admonish my kids, and give them sage advice ala you or when I am trying to win an argument with my husband, haha. Growing up, I used to be more of daddy’s girl, and you, despite being hurt about it, you rose above it and knew that eventually we girls would return to the mother hen, who not only gave us everything that you could but MORE. And I mean everything, you taught us( besides how to play Scrabble), the value of strength and resilience and to not be ashamed of being yourself, and to never ever settle for less that what you deserve. You taught me to me a fighter, and to never give up, and to stay stylish and beautiful. You taught me to GIVE GIVE GIVE, as you have, and then be blessed. You have given me the greatest meaning in my life, Mum. I love you more than words can say.

Mum & her girls at our youngest sister's wedding at Lone Pine May 2010.

Me, Myself and I for 24 hours!!!

(Musings on my solo flight from KL-HK 22 August 2011)
I am a mother of three. So,I am hardly ever, if ever, ALONE. On an everage academic/school year, I would have 100 students under my tutelage. So I am NEVER alone in school either. A 20 minute lunch break without a student popping in is a rarity. I am also a wife, daughter and sister. With an extended family larger than the A-team, and friends from all over the country and the world, (in real life, and on cyberspace), from all social circles, I hardly, if ever find myself on my own. My solitary, disciplined walks, usually taken on Saturday mornings up the hills afford me with 90 minutes of alone time- at best. Or a couple of precious hours at a beauty spa would constitute alone time for me. Twenty minutes by myself in the bath/shower before Junior 1, or 2 or 3, or ALL 3 waltz in( this open plan bathroom idea probbaly wasn't very well-thought out when we were designing our house),- either to chat, show me a painting, or a test score, a poem or just to make me to some inverse writing "I love you, cat, dog, Thomas" on the steamed up shower glass. So, you get my point. I am hardly, or ever alone. Solitude for me is a luxury. Solitude unencumbered is something that I am just no used to. Frankly, it's a little scary. But it's bracing. And a blessing.
But here I am , on a full-service(cheap sale) flight( nice) to HONG KONG, entirely on my own, no family, no girlfriends in tow. For someone who has (in the words or another friend) "a million friends & family" I can be totally stand-offish, not-chatty, unfriendly even when I am travelling on my own. I haven't chatted to anyone since hubby dropped me at Kl Sentral station this morning. I haven't started a conversation with my co-passenger. I don't want to talk to anyone. I have relished in the private moments that is me. Just happy being on my own, immersed in my thoughts, of the individual, and of what defines me.
I can look out of my window at the floating clouds in the cerulean sky and know for a fact that I am on hey, on my own! I can create poetry in my head, or make grand plans of our lives, wrapped up in my happy solitude, and cast worries away. It's a bit of a luxury undefined for this crazy mummy of 3 with a million things going on at home.
I know I am heading for Asia's most bustling and populous cosmopolitan cities, but I am sure I will find peace here. I have a purpose in Hong Kong that doesn't involve shopping or food( I can hear you laughing now)- wait for my next blog post! No,right not, let me enjoy my me time- for 24 HOURS+, before sister dearest arrives from Singapore and all consumeristic anarchy will break loose. I may go to the parks, the Teapot Museum, jog up the Peak, take a ferry to Lamma island, or just shut myself in my ladies' only floor in my hotel room and READ! WHO knows? I may master Dicken's take on utilitarianism when I am here, and finally complete Orhan Pamuk's tome- I am just celebrating being me, myself and I! It's truly liberating.
( though missing the little ones and the man terribly...)

My little haiku embodying how I feel:

Floating with the clouds
My thoughts meld- with love, sleep, life!
At peace with myself.

r
x

Birthdays

Birthdays

For as long as I remember, compared to my two younger sisters, I have always had a blast on my birthday. First of all, it always falls on a holiday. Always, no matter which part of the world I am in. My second sister’s birthday is on April the 1st so she gets a different kind of attention with lots of trickery and tomfoolery involved. (We were wicked!) When baby sis was born 7 years after, her June 23rd birthday was proclaimed by Mum to be the most special birthdate in the universe, so she will never grow up to have a complex on competitive birthdates! Poor sis!

But to me, the 1st of January for a birthday ain’t all that grand, sometimes. The good things were that I always had a birthday cake as it always fell on a public holiday when my career teacher mum didn’t have to go to work, and I had more birthday parties or pressies and red eggs and longevity noodles than the other two hence my love affairs with soirees and such (but my lovely sisters now trump me be earning mega Singapore bucks so life is always fair, methinks :) and they get to escape the ludicrous farce of Malaysian political satires on a daily basis!)

But I remember the first of January as also being the date, as I grew older, when friends are sometimes to drunk to remember to wish me a Happy Birthday or then boyfriends, (and now husband) feels intense double pressures of having to make the day extra special for me. Poor guy(s). And sometimes, I get a triple greeting with Christmas bundled in too.

Thanks to Mark Zuckerberg, a socially-inept IT wunderkinder, my birthday now gets proclaimed for the world , or at least for my 400-ish friends on Facebook to see. So I get a tonne of instant birthday wishes on my ‘wall’. Thanks also to the world of texting and free apps like Whats App, my iphone receives all these exciting beeps announcing yet another message wishing me Happy Birthday along with Happy New Year- a very convenient double whammy.

As technology surges forward, old-fashioned birthday cards have, alas dwindled. My mum, bless her, still has a box of birthday cards in her closet at home, and in it, I am sure contains one very special card dated January 1, 1973 when my Aunt Lillian in Sydney sent me one with a picture of a yellow number one and some little ducklings & a little girl- of the vintage type- wishing her then very little and only niece a Happy 1st Birthday. I used to look at that card over and over again through many rites of passage. 38 plus 1 birthdays later, I am still that old-fashioned little girl who loves her birthday cards and has never thrown a single one away.

Here’s to birthdays! Happy New Year 2011!

Love,
R

PS. I found this picture on google and it is almost like the one my Tua Ee sent me from Sydney dated 1st of January, 1973! Love you!

Hurtling along...

As I write this, I have about 12 windows opened on my PC and a Cambodia guidebook on my desk, along with a Chaucer DVD and students' exam scripts, collation sheets, copious amounts of paper, a Berocca tube somewhere along with quite number of different 'things' on my very cluttered desk at work.( I am sure I have an open packet of ginseng roots somewhere!) It's heading towards the end of the school year but nothing ever stops. I am trying to complete as many tasks at work and at home as I can this crazy June with all my weekends booked up! ( This does not even include World Cup nights)

I have quite a number of posts that I haven't posted yet, namely a few Mother's Day ones( Sorry, Mum) and some travel ones but this is just to say that as I hurtle along through the week, my thoughts are with my blog, that I really don't want to see dying a natural death! So I will prevail, but for now, I just want to say, I am here( but also not) and I will certainly be back!

Happy living!
R