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It was a shock to engineer Kather-ine Ho to see people smiling andjoking not too long after thedeath of their spouses.
This happened at a Christmasgathering for widows and their chil-dren under 12 in 2009.
Ms Ho, 35, recalls blurting out intears: “How can you all be so happy? Ican’t see my future, how I could behappy again or laugh again?”
Her husband, engineer Andy Yeo,had died two months before that, inOctober 2009, just six weeks after hewas diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
Their son was then four and daugh-ter two months old.
Ms Susan Chee, 55, general manager
of Wicare, the support group forwidows which Ms Ho attended, says:“The grieving period depends verymuch on how the husband died –whether it was a sudden accident orsuicide, which are very traumatic andtake a longer time.”
Ms Chee, whose husband died inthe 1997 SilkAir crash in Indonesiathat killed 100 people, says how aspouse copes after a loved one issnatched away – or even after a linger-ing illness – depends a lot on theindividual.
Widows and widowers SundayLife!talked to say they took anything from ayear to three years to accept reality, butmaking practical everyday changeshelp.
Ms Ho – who now serves as commit-tee member in Wifilles, a Wicareoffshoot support group for widowswith kids under 12 – started withmundane chores.
Her late husband had seen to allmoney matters, including the payingof household utilities, insurance andeven her credit card bills.
As a way to expunge her grief,Ms Ho, who was on maternity leave,took that time to “dig out documents,sort out papers and understand what’sgoing on”, before going back to work at
a semi-conductor firm in November2009. She also turned to her extendedfamily for support.
At work, instead of calling herhusband on the way to different meet-ing rooms as she would normally do,“just to hear his voice”, she called ayounger sister instead.
At her request, her father and young-est sister moved into her apartment inSengkang for 11/2 years after theirfour-room flat in Tiong Bahru wasinvolved in an en-bloc sale. Theymoved into their new four-room flat inthe same area later.
She says of their ongoing support:“It’s important for my kids and me tohave the people who love and care forus around us.”
There was also the matter of herchildren’s education.
She says: “With my husbandaround, their education is a sharedresponsibility. Now, how my kids turnout is based solely on my decisions.”
The fear that she was not doingenough led her to push her son tobecome an independent reader.
She turned to a sister-in-law, whoseyounger of two children was about herson’s age, for advice. The suggestion:Sign him up for a phonics class.
She says: “Without her advice andsupport, I would be wondering if I wasdoing enough as a mother andexposing my children to the best oftheir abilities.”
In the short term,even friends and neigh-bours can be pillars ofsupport.
When her late hus-band, a delivery man,died of a heart attack inFebruary 2009, MadamSiti Patimah felt help-less. He was the solebreadwinner. Theirchildren were then 12and nine.
Says Madam Siti, 42, in a combina-tion of Malay and English: “I had nomoney, no job and two kids. I wascrying every day for six months andthe utility bills were piling up.
“Friends and neighbours paid theutility bills or brought food, but I hadto revive my spirit for my children’ssake.”
At her friends’ suggestion, she wentto the Association of MuslimProfessionals at Pasir Ris, where sheattended various skills-training classes,including its micro-business scheme inmassage therapy.
Now, her income as a freelancemasseuse supplements her take-homepay of about $940 as a health-careassistant in a nursing home.
She recalls: “At first, I couldn’taccept his death and I was angry withmyself for being at the market and notat home when he collapsed.
“But I keep telling myself, ‘You justhave to look forward, not backwards.’”
Even in cases of death after along-term illness, it may not be easierfor surviving spouses to cope.
When Mr D. Thong’s wife of 18years died in April 2010 after a 13-yearfight against bone cancer, he devotedmore time to his mildly autistic son.
He would return home from work asa product manager in a telecommunica-tions company two hours earlier thanusual at around 7pm.
Father and son kept each other com-
pany at night, watching television tillthe boy nodded off to sleep in themaster bedroom.
Mr Thong, 55, says: “The directimpact was my performance at worksuffered.”
At one internal meeting to updatethe bosses, he got his sales data wrongand was ticked off for it.
He quit the job last August, went toa school that trains missionaries forabout half a year while workingpart-time in a headhunting firm.
He took up his current post as astudent facilitator in a mission agencylast month.
The many family photos that usedto adorn his old home and photoalbums of their holidays together arenow kept in boxes in the storeroom.
Only one framed photograph of hiswife sits on a table in his bedroom.
He says: “I want to remember mydear wife but I don’t want mymemories of her to be tied down to herdeath.”
For Madam Rosie Lim, the “memo-ries are still raw” and she is tornbetween wanting to hold on andletting go.
Her husband of 42 years died ofpneumonia in July last year. He was 68.
Madam Lim, now 69, cries at theslightest reminders of him – from thesight of his favourite chair in theirfour-room HDB flat in Bedok North to
missing the routines ofshowering and feedinghim.
He had had Alzhe-imer’s disease since2008, with breathingcomplications. She washis caregiver for fiveyears from 2007 untilhis death.
Previously a home-body, she now volun-teers once a month at a
Buddhist association, bakes cookies forstaff of the hospital where her husbandwas a patient and exercises twice aweek at a playground nearby.
Her two married daughters take herout for lunches on weekends. Onweekdays, she looks after threegrandchildren, aged 14, 12 and eight,in her flat, which she now shares witha younger, single sister, who moved into keep her company.
“But I feel very lost, very empty,”says Madam Lim several times duringthe interview, dissolving into tears.
She even thinks of him as she tapsher fare card on bus journeys. Hisphotograph is in her purse. “I say tohim, ‘Pete, you are with me’, as I flashthe card going up the bus.”
On days she finds the loss too over-whelming, the ex-florist spritzes hisfavourite Ralph Lauren fragrance oncurtains in their bedroom to “get hisscent”.
Ms Ho of Wifilles knows what to sayto Madam Lim: Take baby steps.
She says: “The things I used to do asa family of four with my husband andthe kids, like going for weekend meals,I still did because I didn’t want todeprive the kids of that.”
But she took the “whole gang”along initially, including her fatherand two younger sisters.
“So we weren’t a family of three, buta family of more.”
I was about to enter the women’s showerfacilities at a club recently when the unclemanning the towel counter outsidestopped me. “Excuse me,” he said,gesturing towards my son. “He’s too big.”
Confused, I could only parrot: “He’stoo big?”
The explanation for why my boy hadto tag along was on the tip of my tongue:There was no one else to mind him. Hemight get lost if I left him alone outside.And how could he be too big? He wasonly... six.
Then it hit me. Suddenly, I could seemy son through a stranger’s eyes: a leanbundle of energy that, if you can get himto stop moving and stand straight for asecond, will come up to between myelbows and armpits.
Yup, there was no denying it. He’s a bigboy now.
In that instant, I was consumed by aswirl of emotions: a jolt of shock at seeinghim in a new light; a sense of wonder athow fast he has grown; and a pang of lossat how quickly these precious years areslipping by, against my will and control,like water trickling through a clenchedfist.
There was a time when I couldn’t waitfor him to grow up. During his first year, Iwas constantly checking baby books tomark off various developmentalmilestones: when his head would stop loll-ing about; when he would stop requiringso many darn nappy changes a day; andwhen I could safely wean him withoutincurring the wrath of those “breast isbest” fanatics.
I was desperate to know when I couldget a semblance of my old life back.
How nice if human babies were like theyoung in the animal kingdom, I bleatedrepeatedly to my husband. Withinminutes of being ejected from theirmothers’ womb, they would be standingor suckling unaided.
Yet, now that my son is raring to fendfor himself, I’m loath to let go.
“Hey, you are a big boy now so you canno longer follow me into the femalerestroom,” I told him, somewhat wistful-ly, after the episode at the club. “Fromnow on, you have to go with papa or visitthe men’s loo on your own.”
He nodded – too enthusiastically, Ithought. I was the one who didn’t realiseit was high time to sever the umbilicalcord.
When, I wondered, had the lastpadding of baby fat melted off him?When did his limbs, once chubby andclumsy, start to work in harmony andwith such agility?
For some time now, I’ve been free to sitin one corner and fiddle with my cell-phone instead of watching him like ahawk when I set him loose at the play-ground. I didn’t realise that meant we hadcrossed yet another milestone.
Six years on – after a fractured arm (asuperhero stunt gone wrong), two X-rays(bungled attempts to escape his cot thatsaw him landing, head first, on the floor)and a three-night stay in the hospital forsalmonella poisoning – our first-born isstill largely intact and due to enterPrimary 1 next year.
All the signs of his budding independ-ence have been there.
Not only has he been refusing to puton anything I pick out for him, but he hasalso started to dictate what the rest of usshould wear when we head out. “Papa, Iwant you to wear this shirt,” he wouldsay. “I like the colour and you haven’tworn it for a long time.”
Once, he scooted off with our tray at afood centre while I was paying. Fearing Iwould lose him in the crowd, I yelled forhim to wait. Without a backward glance,he shouted back: “I’m going to look for aseat first.”
For the first time since I became amum, I’m starting to miss those dayswhen I was his entire universe.
“Can you stop growing so fast? Whydon’t you remain six years old forever,” Itold him one night, only half in jest.
At six, a kid is perfectly manageable –old enough to articulate his thoughts andfeed and clean himself, but not quite oldenough to challenge your authority orlose all vestiges of a child’s charming inno-cence.
“That’s impossible,” he replied, wrig-
gling out of my embrace. “I want to betaller than you and papa.”
So I wax nostalgic by telling him storiesabout when he was but a prune of a baby:how he fitted neatly, perfectly in thecrook of my arm; how I cried when he hadto remain in hospital to be treated forneonatal jaundice; how his marathoncrying fits at night drove us bonkers.
In turn, he regales me with made-uptales of how he is off to work or a holidaywith his pals. All the stories have apointed reminder: “You cannot comewith me.”
It is not quite game over yet for methough.
He still likes to hold my hand when weare out and has no qualms asking to becarried, especially when he sees his young-er sister happily ensconced in our arms.
I have a place in his (fantastical) futureplans too.
“Mama, when I grow up, I will buy abig castle for you, me, mei mei and papa,”he informed me solemnly one day.
Another time, he wanted to know howand where he can get himself a wife. “Canyou help me look for a good wife?” heasked.
After we worked out the pretendlogistics, I teased: “What if your wifedoesn’t want to live with me and papa?Will you chase us out?”
He pursed his lips and pondered for awhile. “I will tell her she cannot behavelike this.”
Oh, the gift of innocence.I’m not looking forward to the next
phase of his childhood – the start offormal schooling will bring on anunwelcome avalanche of homework,exams and stress, even as his growingindependence and circle of friends drawhim further away from us.
But I know I will look back on it, someday, with the same fondness that I nowhave for those bleak early days, for we willstill play a major role in his life.
It is true that your life will never be thesame once you have kids. It is also truethat once you have kids, you can’t everimagine life without them.
What do you miss most about yourchild’s growing-up years? [email protected]
ST PHOTO: CAROLINE CHIA
Madam Rosie Lim is still grieving over the death of her husband last year but hasgrandsons Gabriel Lim, eight, and Ryan Wee, 12, to keep her company.
Support groups andfamily members canmake it easier to getover the grieving period
Moving onafterspouse dies
It is time I learn to let go
“I want toremember my dearwife but I don’twant my memoriesof her to be tieddown to her death.”MR D. THONG, 55, whose wifedied three years ago
Eve Yap
Seriously KiddingTee Hun Ching
6 connectthesundaytimes August 4, 2013
7connectAugust 4, 2013 thesundaytimes
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