Side-by-side, we braved the cold night, on unsteady feet, on both counts. The sky had started to sprinkle on a light shower of intermittent rain – as I had been told in Meteorology studies, was the right terminology for ‘drizzle’ in Singapore. With one assuring hand held firm, I steadied myself as I peered into the night; then looked to her purposeful eyes.
I watched her eyes sparkle as the blue canopy ballooned at the haphazard flick of a button; this was our shield against the inclement. It was a simple umbrella made off in haste, albeit one with an ever-peaceful Singapore Casket logo embossed; although at that point, I truly felt the logo portended an ominous outlook for me. Burying the pain and discomfort, I swept her up and broke from the brick and mortar enclave as we made haste across the open patch, fixed on our destination.
We arrive at the doctor’s, for the umpteenth time in a week.
As I sat there, allowing myself to momentarily let out my weariness, I looked over my right shoulder to see her shuffling her feet, silent and wary since we entered the room; eyes everwatchful of the man with the foreboding stethoscope, with guarded intent. As I looked to her, Seraphina placed her small hand on my arm reassuringly and said,”Daddy vomit, see doctor, okay”.
A simple yet powerful gesture beyond her years, she was being brave, for me. She did not take kindly to doctors, yet was fiercely protective of me. I recounted the tale of my miserable plight of intravenous drips, jabs and blood test, stemming from a losing battle with gastroenteritis and fever. It was a sullied tale of disgust and distaste; one of a seized gut, nausea, recurrent heaving, and a severe case of the runs.
Like a young hawk, she perched by my side – watching our faces, taking in the unsettling conversation – highly strung yet selflessly protective of her injured kin. Her gaze met mine, with understanding; daddy’s going to be fine. She seemed more certain than I was. I recounted the same sparkle in my son’s eyes, earlier in the day, as he toddled purposefully along the coffee table up to me.
It was late in the morning, sometime between the cocktail of pills and tablets and just before the next retching. Sunlight had flooded across the hall through parted curtains, illuminating a miserable picture, of a pale, twisted man – hair deranged, curled foetal and shivering on my in-laws couch – death’s shadow under a mountain of blankets. Yet the bold little warrior strode precariously up to me and reached with little palm outstretched, to pat me on my cheek.
Deep within me stirred a font, not from the nausea, but from strength I knew not of. In that instant, as he flashed me an accompanying megawatt toothy grin, the pieces snapped in place, I saw from both sides of the mirror. My little Seraphim saw his dad, infallible though weather-beaten, ready to rise from the ashes. Whilst I saw a cheeky cherubim, cheery and unperturbed by the raw scars that still lined his once porcelain visage. My family is my strength, and I am theirs; I have to be strong for them.
I’m going to be thirty in a month’s time, a short three decades providently spent, not squandered, despite several unscheduled detours. I count myself a blessed man for I have had a glimpse of a tomorrow. Simply because, today, my son caressed my sullen cheek and my daughter stood between a rock and a hard place, for me. I will remember this day, as I stand medicated, though not corrected, as a father and husband for life.
This has indeed been the weakest point of my life and I thank God for my angels yet again… I do love them so.
I watched her eyes sparkle as the blue canopy ballooned at the haphazard flick of a button; this was our shield against the inclement. It was a simple umbrella made off in haste, albeit one with an ever-peaceful Singapore Casket logo embossed; although at that point, I truly felt the logo portended an ominous outlook for me. Burying the pain and discomfort, I swept her up and broke from the brick and mortar enclave as we made haste across the open patch, fixed on our destination.
We arrive at the doctor’s, for the umpteenth time in a week.
As I sat there, allowing myself to momentarily let out my weariness, I looked over my right shoulder to see her shuffling her feet, silent and wary since we entered the room; eyes everwatchful of the man with the foreboding stethoscope, with guarded intent. As I looked to her, Seraphina placed her small hand on my arm reassuringly and said,”Daddy vomit, see doctor, okay”.
A simple yet powerful gesture beyond her years, she was being brave, for me. She did not take kindly to doctors, yet was fiercely protective of me. I recounted the tale of my miserable plight of intravenous drips, jabs and blood test, stemming from a losing battle with gastroenteritis and fever. It was a sullied tale of disgust and distaste; one of a seized gut, nausea, recurrent heaving, and a severe case of the runs.
Like a young hawk, she perched by my side – watching our faces, taking in the unsettling conversation – highly strung yet selflessly protective of her injured kin. Her gaze met mine, with understanding; daddy’s going to be fine. She seemed more certain than I was. I recounted the same sparkle in my son’s eyes, earlier in the day, as he toddled purposefully along the coffee table up to me.
It was late in the morning, sometime between the cocktail of pills and tablets and just before the next retching. Sunlight had flooded across the hall through parted curtains, illuminating a miserable picture, of a pale, twisted man – hair deranged, curled foetal and shivering on my in-laws couch – death’s shadow under a mountain of blankets. Yet the bold little warrior strode precariously up to me and reached with little palm outstretched, to pat me on my cheek.
Deep within me stirred a font, not from the nausea, but from strength I knew not of. In that instant, as he flashed me an accompanying megawatt toothy grin, the pieces snapped in place, I saw from both sides of the mirror. My little Seraphim saw his dad, infallible though weather-beaten, ready to rise from the ashes. Whilst I saw a cheeky cherubim, cheery and unperturbed by the raw scars that still lined his once porcelain visage. My family is my strength, and I am theirs; I have to be strong for them.
I’m going to be thirty in a month’s time, a short three decades providently spent, not squandered, despite several unscheduled detours. I count myself a blessed man for I have had a glimpse of a tomorrow. Simply because, today, my son caressed my sullen cheek and my daughter stood between a rock and a hard place, for me. I will remember this day, as I stand medicated, though not corrected, as a father and husband for life.
This has indeed been the weakest point of my life and I thank God for my angels yet again… I do love them so.
