50: Old wounds

I am BIG on the ‘past being the past’, ‘moving on’ and ‘focusing on the now’.  And generally, I am quite proficient.  Of course it helps to be as forgetful as I am with my ‘now’ overflowing with all the essentials I need to keep in mind with the girls’ schedules -- making it easier to bury unpleasant memories DEEP in some hard to reach recess of the brain and heart.  Our move to Singapore, however, has stirred these memories and forced me to acknowledge my past.

To Matt’s delight, I have always had an aversion to shopping, putting the task in my dreaded “only if I really need to” basket.  Possibly, that may have been what spurred him on to propose!  And then one day, shortly after our move here, as we drove past a particular mall, I felt sick in my stomach as I recognized it from my childhood days.  And the memories came rushing in. With the implosion of my parents’ marriage and my father’s disappearance to his ‘other’ family, mom used to banish me out of the house with strict instructions not to return before a certain time.  If I was a teenager, perhaps that would have been music to my ears.  But I think I was not quite 10.  And so, with barely any money in my pocket, I stayed out of the house until the sun had set, seeking refuge from the heat by wandering aimlessly around certain malls.  Till today, I am not a fan of overhead fluorescent lights and malls.  I think my sanity was saved when I discovered I could block out my reality by losing myself in books at the library -- until closing time.

A few weeks ago, I received a letter from the Singapore Immigration office advising me the country did not recognize dual citizenship.  It was a surprise.  At 15, I had not wanted to leave Singapore and move to another country with my father (who was now a violent stranger to me) and his wife (who was not shy about showing her displeasure about being my new ‘responsible adult’).  My naïve self was sure I could find a job, support myself financially AND still go to school.  So I did what any foolhardy15- year-old would do.  I ran away, found a job, and hid at a friend’s house.  Of course my father found me.  And we left soon after.  And the beatings my father used to ‘grace’ my mother (and then the Indonesian and Filipino maids) with, I became the ‘heir apparent’.  I didn’t last long.  Two years later, and nearly broken, I left home at 17.  An unfinished education.  No money.  No job.  No prospects.  No relatives and nobody who cared.   Just some clothes in a bag.  In a country still alien to me.  I felt someone painted a big fat “L” on my head.

I was lucky my first boyfriend’s mother took me in.  But that didn’t last long either.  I felt second-rate and a loser on every level with not-a-bright-future ahead.  If I had known I had the option to go back to Singapore to be guided by one of my many uncles or aunts (my father came from a family of 10!), I think I would have hopped on the next plane -- if only for a welcoming face.  Instead, I left the sanctuary of this kind woman’s house, ashamed I was not good enough for her son but determined to be the master of my own destiny.   Fast forward 29 years, my grown-up self weeps at what my 17 year-old-self went through for the next few years.  But I consider myself lucky because things could have been much MUCH worse. 

But the recent opening of these previously forgotten wounds have not been for nothing.  It has reiterated to me how fortunate I am and forced me to really scrutinize the principal driving motivator in my life: to leave a positive legacy through the next generation.  I know I speak quite openly about my past.  It is not to garner pity but to remind myself that I am one of the lucky ones. 

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4. In Sickness and in Health

 

So.  A few weeks ago, I was relating to a girlfriend about how Matt had come down with a bug after his recent business trip to London which was also compounded by jetlag.  Poor guy just wasn’t himself.  Her response was a flippant, “Oh.  Its probably just the ‘man flu’!”  Translation?  Its ALL in the mind.  I shared this observation with Matt, who in between his symphony of coughing fits and nose blowing, promptly informed that the ‘man flu’ was very real but was up a few notches at “Rambo strength”.  Anyhow, karma was to bite me in the proverbial ass for not realising just how sick he was; when for Valentine’s Day, my lovely husband gave me a kiss.. AND his cold.  The next day, my throat was scratchy and my body ached.  I was NOT a happy bunny! 

I know I can sometimes be a little too chirpy for some people’s tastes.  Example?  If I know you, and I don’t have to know you very well, my hellos are normally followed with a very energetic wave if you are a few metres away.  Otherwise, I may just blind you with one of my power-watt-show-you-all-my-teeth smiles and grab you into a big hug.  I also think nothing of asking waiters or shopgirls who have served me their names just so I can thank them by name and blind them with a smile, no doubt leaving them to wonder if I had just escaped from some mental institution.

Tia, (daughter number two), is constantly embaressed by how friendly or how cheerful I am.  “Mom, please can you stop singing?” or “Mom, please can you stop bouncing around so much?” is often followed by her physically trying to hold on to me (often disguised as an embrace) in an effort to either calm me down or hide me with her body.  Of course this only serves to amuse me and sometimes, if I’m feeling really wicked, I simply exaggerate all the action she’s trying to stifle even more.  Poor Tia!  I know she sometimes wishes the ground would just swallow her (or better, me!) up.  But, other times, I think she’s secretly amused I am so silly.  Mind you, I do tend to balance the silliness with a very stern “have you finished your homework yet” or “why is your towel lying on the floor?  How many maids do you think you have?!” whenever it is required.

Me sick however, is a whole different kettle of fish.  Picture this:  total absence of any kind of smile, flat tone, bedraggled hair that looks like I had been caught in a wind tunnel, and just a general grumpy air.  And DO NOT even THINK of getting me to say anything more than once!  All in all, not a charmer by any stretch of the imagination! 

At the sight of this very obvious transformation, all my three girls speak in hushed tones to each other.. except I can STILL hear them from my bedroom as I have developed extra sensitive hearing where even a pin drop is unbearable.  My bloodshot-light-sensitive eyes lead me to dress in the dark, resulting in quick offers to find their own way to school and back home again – which I gratefully accept and sink straight back into bed again.

Even food becomes an effort as I struggle to get anything down.  After four days of this, and as I feel myself turn the corner with this flu, I ask Matt if I’ve lost any weight.  “Uhm… no?” He responds.  “Really?  What’s the use of being so sick if it doesn’t lead to losing any weight?”  I grumble.  My neighbour however, proclaims I look emaciated from all the weight I’ve lost from being sick.  Totally unprompted I might add!  I thank her profusely and tell her she’s my new best friend.  Matt watches this exchange and quickly excuses himself to watch paint dry on a wall somewhere!

I have to say this though.  As my health returns and my mood bouyed (perhaps thanks to my neighbour’s observations), I feel very grateful for Matt’s patience and his ability to keep his temper in check even when I’m snarling responses to his attempts to carry on perfectly normal conversations with his crazed wife (to be clear, that would be me); and his good humour when I stare stonily into a distance because I am sick of being sick.  A model patient I am not.  But a wonderfully patient husband, he is.

So, next time, when he tells me he’s sick I promise I will not be so blasé.   AND should any girlfriend snigger about the ‘man flu’, I will shush them, tell them to wash their mouth out with soap as the ‘man flu’ is very real and there is nothing imaginary about it.

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