Of Ang Ku Kueh and Butter Cake

As I’m starting this post, I have just removed my Firstborn Child (“FBC”) from his S$29.90 “Eagle Brand A Symbol of Quality” net chair (obviously made in China; I contemplated washing the netting in boiling water but settled for piping hot water from the tap instead) and placed him in his cot after he realised that said chair rocks when he moves, prompting him to let out an unhappy squawk or two. He has also just been fed 3 ounces of Similac from an Avent bottle with a “breast-shaped teat” designed to prevent nipple confusion (they’re probably patented, which I suppose justifies their exorbitant price, thank God these were gifts) and although I have just changed his diaper and he’s not even in the same room as me, the smell of baby poo fills my nose. 

But more on life with FBC later. The long and arduous 37+6 weeks deserve a round up.

***

For the most part, being pregnant was awful (although I am willing to go through it at least once more because I firmly believe that FBC should have sibling/ s). Some instances of awful include throwing up right until the day before I delivered (I felt so cheated when the 13^th week started and the throwing up intensified. It did taper off somewhat but I never knew what would set it off), and feeling guilty every time I went for RPM or a long walk because people would stare at me in a What is this irresponsible Chinese (not angmoh, angmohs can do what they want) pregnant woman doing to her unborn child?!! manner. I couldn’t eat medium rare steak or sashimi or have a gin and tonic, and the exhaustion was overwhelming.

There were good days of course, days when I had tons of energy and didn’t worry about whether FBC would have birth defects or die in the womb because of something I ate or my heart rate at RPM was a tad high, days when I remembered what his conception meant to me and Jon and trusted fully in God’s faithfulness in our lives. Nevertheless, it was a relief when I woke up the morning of 12 September at about 6am with contractions that started coming five minutes apart. I’d always wondered what it was like in the days leading up to delivery – it seemed that women were supposed to sit around waiting for the signs (there are three main ones. Google them). Life had to go on, didn’t it? What if you were doing something like having a haircut, or watching a movie? I suppose I’ll only know if it happens with my next child(ren). But it’ll probably be anti-climatic – just go hospital lor. 

Duh.

The contractions stopped being so regular by the time we got to hospital, but my gynae decided to induce labour because my amniotic fluid level was low. At 8pm that night – yes, I had contractions throughout the day and yes, we waited that long for me to have a scan and for her to make the decision – after I’d had my dinner, the induction of labour (is that what it’s called?) was performed. Essentially, a pill is stuck up your nether regions, and you wait around as the pain intensifies. They even tell you to “walk around!”, because this will help! The registrar on call, a nice man whom I shall call Dr Funny Snarky, came round once or twice as the contractions grew more painful, looked at the graph which told him the strength of my contractions, and cheerily-sadistically informed me that the contractions weren’t strong enough and I wasn’t that dilated yet. He then left me, no doubt assuming that because this was my first child, that I would probably require another pill up there before I dilated enough to have an epidural.

A couple of hours later (two?), Dr Funny Snarky returned, and I snarkily asked him “Are you going to tell me that the contractions still aren’t strong enough?” To which he replied in the funny snarky manner which earned him his nickname from me: “You want the good news or bad news? The good news is, your contractions are strong enough, and you’re 3.5cm dilated. Enough to have an epidural!”

(At this point, all prior thoughts about toughing it out without an epidural had flown out of the window. I never got to hear what the bad news was because I was enthusiastically telling Dr Funny Snarky “YES PLEASE NOW”, but I suppose the bad news was that no one had any idea how long it would be before I was actually in active labour.)

Having the epidural needle inserted was one of the most pleasant experiences in my life. Happy-dural, Dr Funny Snarky called it. The pain melted away enough for me to demand that Jon buy me toothbrush and toothpaste so I could welcome FBC into the world with minty-fresh breath. I recall (as I settled in for a bit of a nap after said teeth brushing) telling myself that I would push as hard as I could when the time came so that Dr Funny Snarky wouldn’t order the level of pain-killing drugs coursing through my system reduced so that I would be goaded into pushing by the contractions.

The next thing I knew, the epidural had stopped working.

“It’s not called a happy-dural for nothing”, Dr Funny Snarky said. “We must see to it that this problem is rectified at once!” (no, he didn’t really talk like that, that’s just my addled memory). The anaesthetist was roused from his slumber (why was he sleeping in a room ten minutes away when I was in such pain?), and he came flying back and reinserted the epidural needle. “It happens, you know, some peoples’ nerve endings are just [rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb]”.

What? (I really do not remember what he tried to explain to me. JUST MAKE THIS PAIN GO AWAY.)

As the pain continued to intensify, Dr Funny Snarky re-entered the room and said he had called my gynae down to the hospital. He also declared that the moment had come to burst the water bag.  

It was excruciatingly painful, worse than the worst menstrual cramps I’ve ever had in my life – and believe me, I have had some periods where the pain from the cramps turned my lips blue and brought me close to fainting. A fat, jolly nurse came in and suggested I try the laughing gas which everyone had told me didn’t work. To my surprise, it did! (Had I known it would be more effective, maybe we could have saved that S$800 or so on the epidural. As if.)

I giggled and talked so much nonsense that Jon kept trying to pull the gas mask away from me.

“This is how Yik must feel when he’s high! Or Soon Tat when he morphs into Tat Soon!” (both visited me in hospital and were duly amused to hear of my last few thoughts before FBC arrived)

“You’ve had enough!”

Try going through labour, dude. I snatched the gas mask away from his hand and held it to my face myself, even managing to ask Dr Funny Snarky whether I could use it as I pushed (a firm “no”).

Active labour, i.e. the pushing part, thankfully came some two to four hours later. I remember the midwife insisting that I “take a look” at my baby’s head coming through because I would be filled with love and be inspired to push (she really said that). I protested vehemently, but she was adamant, and before I knew it, she had placed a mirror at a key position and asked Jon to stick my glasses on.

He had hair. I had seen enough. I took my glasses off.

Forty-five minutes to an hour later (thank God), a small struggling creature was placed on my breast, squalling to the high heavens. My gynae congratulated us, and then proceeded to ask me whether I wanted to see my placenta, which she held up at eye level on a silver platter (stainless steel, really. I only said “silver platter” for effect).

***

[Continued a number of diaper changes, a poo-ed on changing towel and a couple of feeds and milk – sorry, mixed Similac and breast milk – regurgitations later. Do you know that baby poo stains can never be removed from light coloured fabrics completely? FBC is back in said chair which has been adjusted to not move and is peering at the sofa which I am sitting on. Or rather, gazing in that general direction. This part may turn into a semi-rant about breastfeeding, so you are welcome to not read on, and jump to the last third of this post, especially if I have told you all these things in real life]

FBC was a mere 2.49kg at birth. He apparently came out with his eyes wide open, looking curiously around, before he started bawling.

Back in the ward, I approached breastfeeding with vigour. Not because I really believed “breast was best”, but this was my FBC after all, so why not give it a shot? My first shock with the breastfeeding business came when the paediatrician randomly assigned to us came round and said she needed my consent to feed FBC formula because my milk was unlikely to come in so soon and he was born small so he couldn’t lose too much weight. Uh, yes, please go ahead and feed him formula? Why would I potentially endanger the life of my child just so I can breastfeed?  

I think the nurses in the maternity ward were really happy that I was going at it so enthusiastically (pretend only). My nipples cracked and bled slightly, but I applied lanolin liberally, and continued on. One of the nurses who came to my bedside at 2am even commended me on being “so hardworking!”, and wheeled baby back to the nursery so I could rest.

We were discharged uneventfully, and told to return three days later to see the paediatrician.

On FBC’s second night home, some blood appeared in his poo. It wasn’t a lot, and about two poos later, no more blood appeared. Having asked Google whether there was anything wrong with this and being told that that no, it was common, especially from cracked nipples, I disposed of his diapers.

The next morning, we went back to see the same paediatrician who had asked for my consent to feed FBC formula in the hospital. (They should start instituting home visits, does anyone even realise how nerve-wracking it is to bring your newborn all the way back to the hospital when you have only just delivered and are severely sleep deprived?) When we told her about the blood in FBC’s poo, she immediately jumped up and down and ordered a bowel x-ray. She also said things could potentially be “catastrophic”, and a number of other things which I have blocked from my mind but reduced me to tears (you were expecting any less?).

FBC was in any event readmitted for jaundice, and I felt really silly crying all over the place about FBC’s blood in poo problem because I knew the nurses would judge me, thinking I was crying because my baby was readmitted for jaundice. Which goodness knows how many other Asian babies, myself and Jon included, suffered from. Anyhow, I got myself admitted with him, and proceeded to make the best use of my time asking questions about breastfeeding, etc. (between bouts of crying)

All’s well that ended well re FBC’s jaundice and blood in poo issue. When we left the hospital after his jaundice cleared, and at his next check-up three days later, we were told (by different paediatricians, and the lactation consultant – you should be able to clearly tell who said what):

1. Supplement with formula until your milk comes in! Your baby is small and cannot afford to lose so much weight.

2. Let your baby feed for as long as you want! Isn’t it better if he feeds more, then he will sleep longer?

3. Don’t let your baby feed for more than forty to fifty minutes. If he is still not settled by then, supplement with formula. If he feeds longer than that, there will be a negative calorie effect.

4. Go ahead and supplement with normal formula, not hypo-allergenic formula, because we want to rule out a calf milk allergy. Which actually doesn’t manifest itself so early, but you never know.

5. Why do you want to substitute feeds with formula? (because I am severely sleep-deprived and my baby has no issues at this stage differentiating between a bottle and my breast) Anyway, if you do, you should supplement with hypo-allergenic formula because of the blood in poo. And again, why do you want to substitute feeds? You’ve been de-conditioned! (what do you mean?) Don’t come crying to me six months later asking for a wet nurse when your baby has no antibodies (or whatever it is that gets passed on in breast milk).

The only voice of reason was my gynae’s. She quietly told me not to worry about the blood in FBC’s poo, that my milk would only come in about two weeks later, and not to worry about things, especially supplementing with formula. I cheerfully told her I had no issues at all with supplementing, and she gave me a worried smile. Then, I naively thought that I would be impervious to what I would come to realise was one of woman’s ways of playing My Dick Is Bigger Than Yours. 

Breastfeeding was actually pretty alright for a while. I watched the clock dutifully, and if FBC wasn’t done in 40 minutes, I would prepare a bottle of about one ounce of formula which he happily drank unless he was too sleepy to do so, and his feeds were somewhat regular the first few days he was home – every 2 to 3 hours or so.

I can’t remember when the long feeds started, but it must have been around the end of the second week, at the supposed start of a growth spurt. I had stopped supplementing by then. From a record of two hours, they grew to three, and between weeks four to six, sometimes up to four hours. I tried, in vain, to unlatch him when he seemed done, only to have him rooting again about ten minutes later and yelling the house down. Or worse, I would unlatch him and he would fuss and fuss and try to latch himself back on. Sometimes he also kept slipping off and crying in frustration, trying to get back on. His upper lip became so callused that the skin started peeling. Surely this was not normal?

In retrospect, a lot of it may have been comfort sucking, and his cues may have been an indication that he wanted simply to suckle, not feed. And I may have just read his cues wrongly. But I had been told, had read, believed, that babies would know when they were done, would reject the breast if they were not hungry, would unlatch themselves, and I should let him go on – to his credit, sometimes after two to three hours he would actually push himself off my breast with his little fists. And of course, I was terrified like anything that he would lose weight and if he was genuinely hungry and I deprived him, and since I seemed to have enough milk (he pooed and peed like anything), so, alright, I would just let him have as much time at the breast as he wanted.

I was, needless to say, extremely unhappy. Other mother friends kept saying it would get better and I had to persevere, but it got worse and worse. I felt chained to the sofa, felt guilty that I felt that I wanted him to quickly fall into a regular pattern so I could bring him out without worrying that he wouldn’t unlatch, guilty that I thought incessantly about getting back to the gym and running when my body was telling me NOT YET and FBC’s refusal to unlatch. And – this made me feel the most guilty of all – I did not want to become attached 24/ 7 to my child, to have someone depend on me so entirely for nourishment (this was not helped by horror stories of nursing strikes and bottle refusal).

Things started coming to a head after one long night feed – I think I posted about this one on Facebook – and I called the NUH breastfeeding hotline. The lactation consultant told me not to be stressed, to think of the love I felt for the baby because that would stimulate my milk supply, to believe in said supply, and then demanded to know why I supplemented with formula. If you supplement with formula, his stomach will expand because of the formula, and you will not have enough supply to meet his increased demand. I was close to tears then, thinking because my baby was crying in frustration, was obviously tired, the skin on his upper lip was coming off, and when I squeezed my nipples no milk came out. Why wouldn’t I give him a bottle? Which mother would deprive her child of food when he was so obviously hungry? And I had been so assured of my decision when I finally gave him one after 3 hours or so of feeding, proud that I had overcome the psychological formula barrier because I had done what was best for FBC in the situation.

After that, I was determined to not supplement and ride out the long feeds. Everyone was breastfeeding. And after all, I could run long distances. What was so difficult about breastfeeding? Each feed was just like going for a long run.

But as my mood worsened and I started resenting Jon for being so “free” as I sat up night after night nursing, I started questioning my motives for breastfeeding. I’d never actually thought that breast was best, having been totally formula fed (my mother had had an operation for another medical issue on top of the C-section, and she couldn’t breastfeed me) – and I’d made it to law school. I spent hours reading up (whilst nursing), and purchased a book called Bottled Up: How the Way We Feed Babies Has Come to Define Motherhood and Why It Shouldn’t, which chronicles the fall and rise of breastfeeding in America and the extremes to which the Breastfeeding Nazis are going to there (regulating formula, anyone?). It’s an interesting read and is available on Amazon for US$16.99 if you have a Kindle.

Things really came to a head the Monday before Deepavali. It’s all a haze now, but I think a couple of days before that, FBC had spent three hours or so nursing in the morning, and four hours in the evening. I was full of resentment for Jon, hating every minute of nursing, and had spent most of the day in tears. Every single issue I had about having a baby and being a new mother became linked and magnified in my mind to breastfeeding, not just hormones (FYI, the worst thing you can do is tell someone hormonal that all their problems are just due to hormones!). Jon came home from work that fateful day, and I told him we had to talk. At that point, I think FBC had been feeding for close to three hours or so and still did not seem satisfied. He was crying, I was crying, and I finally gave him to Jon so I could shower and continue the feed if he needed. I spent some time in the shower thinking things through and realised that it had come down to a matter of my pride or my marriage. Yeah okay, stop with the melodrama already right? But I’ve always been somewhat dramamama I think. Too bad.

I came out of the shower just as Jon came into the room and after clearing some misunderstandings (which cannot be talked about in this forum), we prepared four ounces of Similac which we fed to FBC, who had continued his yelling whilst I was in the shower. He guzzled it down in less than ten minutes, and fell into a sound sleep for four hours. Whereupon he was given another bottle of formula by Jon, and FBC and I slept soundly for the first time in days.

I decided that day that I would wean FBC early, and although I’m still coming to terms with my decision and dealing with the annoying problem of engorgement and leaking because of substituted feeds, I’m actually starting to enjoy the other aspects of motherhood, even the crying. And especially FBC’s post bottle overdose face, and the realisation at times that it’s him and not Jon who has farted so loudly.

It may have been an issue of FBC’s latch, or one of low supply. One of slow flow, or comfort sucking, or simply a lack of patience on my part. Maybe it’s because he was born small and was catching up. It could be all of these reasons, it could be none of them. Maybe I should have seen a lactation consultant, maybe the hospital should have provided proper breastfeeding education if they wanted to push it so aggressively. I’ll never know what sparked his long, long feeds, but each day, as I see FBC grow and actually see him awake and not exhausted and crying from suckling, I say, Sod Off and Suck It to the Breastfeeding Nazis.  

(Don’t get me started on pumping. I never got more than two ounces and am at this point in time too exhausted to try again. But not too exhausted to write this, of course not.)

***

[Jon has come home at the time I am typing this. FBC has had a mini meltdown, probably because he overdosed on formula and the uncomfortable feeling in his tummy shocked him from his sleep – but it doesn’t matter, because at least I know he has been fed, I can stop guessing whether or not he’s full because he most definitely is, and I can eliminate one need that may be causing the crying, the most important one of all, because I keep hearing, over and over again, that my baby is tiny.]

When the midwife told me to think of my love for the baby so that I would be inspired to push, my “thoughts of inspiration” turned only to Jon, who was holding my hand and looking pained that I was in pain. Some girls may have had dreams about getting married and having children, but my dreams always ended at getting married (and later on, cooking). Having children would be a natural progression, of course, but it was never something I thought about when I was younger. Given what was going on in our lives around the time I found out I was expecting, I thought of Jon and of my role as his wife more than ever. Thoughts of how FBC was a clear sign of God’s faithfulness in Jon’s life tided me through some of the darkest days of my pregnancy (when my gynae told me that I had to stop running, couldn’t eat sashimi, and finally, that I had to REST because my amniotic fluid levels were getting low, putting an end to RPM at 35 weeks. Yes, I had to boast. Ignore me.), and they have tided me through these first few weeks of FBC’s life and guided decisions I have made for him – well, okay, a decision.

Frankly, looking after an infant is Incredibly Boring. Even when said infant smiles, you know in your heart it’s involuntary because when you tell him things like “Hello, do you know me I have been feeding you for the past few weeks!”, he just looks around to see where the sounds are coming from, avoiding your face completely. You tell yourself that he will grow up and recognise you, you should enjoy these days when he does nothing much but cry, eat, poop, pee and sleep; one day when he becomes more aware of his surroundings, sleeping may become well nigh impossible without a battle. But the feelings of Incredible Boredom persist, and you find yourself going slightly unhinged, guilt (not denying some of it is Wallowing In Self Pity) that you don’t feel more loving and maternal joining the mix every so often.

And then you do something like drop hot escargot sauce on the infant’s finger when he’s curled up in his Boba wrap, tied to you during dinner, and after managing to calm him down outside the restaurant, when you think he’s calm and no real harm was done and you make it through the rest of dinner and home uneventfully, you realise that there is a rather large blister on the finger you dropped the hot escargot sauce on, and feelings of guilt and oh dear I am not a very good mother am I assail you even though you know in your heart that these things happen and you shouldn’t bother your paediatrician friends at an unearthly hour with pictures of your child’s finger. Then proceed to drive to the 24-hour clinic at midnight and demand that they sell you an antibiotic cream which you need a prescription for. (The red-haired auntie manning the counter refused, insisting that I had to bring FBC to see the doctor. I went back to the car, rang my mother and cried, then sucked it up and knocked it down like she suggested and went back home to FBC and Jon, who were both soundly asleep.)  

And you realise that feelings of what’s probably love are developing, and it’s okay not to feel much for him now, because after all, he is just another person I have yet to come to know, and may probably never know fully. Because love is a choice, and I choose to continue changing diapers, monitoring poop, cleaning up pee, fretting over nappy rash, and carry on long, rambling conversations with thin air when we go for walks.

Happy start of your seventh week of life, FBC. Mummy loves you, Daddy loves you, Jesus loves you. Mummy and Daddy promise to distribute ang ku kueh and butter cake soon.

Constant Faith, Abiding Love

As I’m typing this, it’s about one and a half months before I know this post will see the light of day (for reasons which will be evident below). It’s about one and a half months before our second wedding anniversary on 17 March 2014, and shortly after PJ’s sermon on marking the milestones in our lives, just as God commanded the Isarelites to set up a memorial before they entered the Promised Land. So this is why I am typing this now, because I was inspired by that sermon and wanted to remember how I felt right now, to share with you at some point. This post will be longer than a Thought Catalog article, but I promise it will be infinitely more interesting and less…annoying.

Here it is, the story of our second year together. That is, what happened besides the washing of toilets, doing of laundry, watching of bad TV and discussing of boybands.

***

Last July, Jon left his job at the Angmoh Firm. Just before he started his new job in October, I discovered a lump at his right love handle. It had been hidden beneath a layer or so of fat (unfortunately, that is what working at an Angmoh Firm tends to do) which he had lost during his break. It felt smooth, as though there was a smallish hard-boiled egg lodged in his right hip. We didn’t think much of it at the time; doctor friends said it could be a lipoma, although it was “a bit firm”, others said it could just be a benign tumour.

Jon got it checked up at the polyclinic nonetheless, and was referred to Alexandra Hospital ("AH") for an MRI scan because the polyclinic doctor rightly didn’t want to brush it off as a lipoma. Miraculously, he got an appointment for the scan about a week after his first consultation at AH.

The lump showed up on the MRI scan as an egg shaped lump just above the muscle bed. It was smooth edged, and was initially diagnosed as a tumour “likely to be benign” due to its smooth edges. Jon was referred to the orthopaedic surgery department at AH, given the tumour’s proximity to the muscle bed. He chose to have it excised and then sent for a biopsy, and the excision was performed on 3 December 2013, just after we returned from our first overseas half-marathon in Siem Reap. We were optimistic, the doctors were optimistic, and it looked like everything would return to normal and we could go ahead and plan for Christmas and the year ahead after he recovered.

The preliminary biopsy results were out the Monday after the Little India riots. I was on attachment to the police then, and I remember that it was a pretty chill Monday, having rightly guessed as I watched events unfold on Channel News Asia the night before that the repercussions of said riots would be far reaching and would end up in the purview of someone with a paygrade much higher than mine.

I was engaged in that great tradition of “speaking IP” – I even remember that it was about some silly argument which escalated into a scuffle  – when Jon called me sounding slightly panicked. I told him that I was busy and could he call me back later, but he insisted on speaking to me there and then, which is quite unlike him. So I excused myself from “speaking IP”, left the room, and heard my husband telling me that the tumour was malignant, a rare tumour called a liposarcoma. It’s a cancer of the soft tissues and is even more rarely found in the trunk as his was.

I won’t bore you with the details, but the days leading up to Christmas were bittersweet, and surreal. We went ahead with our yearly party, me thinking morbid thoughts all the time as I made the shepherd’s pie, marinated chicken wings and diced apples for apple crumble about whether it would be one of our last Christmases together, or even our last. I remember sitting in my car at the carpark at the police station and crying and crying and crying some more and pleading with God to spare Jon. We’d been referred to the National University Hospital ("NUH") from AH, and the doctors there, whom we saw sometime after the Little India riots (really, when did they happen again? It’s all a blur) were bandying words like radiation therapy and chemotherapy about, because Jon’s liposarcoma comprised round cells, which are more malignant, although his margins were clear. His tumour was also about 5cm in length, which put it right on the border of Stage 2/ Stage 3 cancer, as we later found out. What’s more, Jon’s lymph nodes had “lit up” on his PET scan, which could be post-surgery inflammation or could mean that the cancer cells had spread there (which is rare, but not unheard of).

But through it all, I constantly desired to be thankful. It’s amazing how many things there were to be thankful for. It wasn’t the kind of stuff that was just grasping at straws, they were real displays of God’s grace and mercy and His great love for us. For instance:

1. We’d gotten insurance, proper insurance, in June, just before Jon left the Angmoh Firm. Any later, and he may not have been insurable. His hospitalisation and treatment were all covered;
2. S’s wife G was on attachment with THE sarcoma specialist in Singapore, Dr Richard Quek, at the National Cancer Centre ("NCC") at the time we found out about the nature of the tumour. It was S who nagged (as usual) at me to make sure Jon’s insurance was in order, ordered me (like a true AUNTIE) to direct Jon to make various arrangements so his treatment and consultations  could be as subsidised as possible. And it was G who got us an appointment with her boss on Boxing Day, and who offered whatever help she could give as an MO;
3. The speed at which Jon had gotten diagnosed and follow-up action planned – the fact that we knew by December, barely two months after the lump had first been discovered, was nothing less than amazing. Also the fact that the tumour grew where it grew – they usually appear in the stomach, and are difficult to remove completely when they are located there;
4. The strengthening of relationships between us and our families;
5. The overwhelming love and support of our friends – D and AK, all the way from Norway, all the guys, our cell group – especially D and K, my girlfriends, colleagues. 

I’d been struggling with the idea of prayer for a while at the time all this happened. If God wanted things to happen, they would happen anyway – so why pray so hard? Of course this is absolutely fallacious theology and is borne out of sheer human laziness. But through this experience, I’ve seen that God does hear our prayers, and it truly touches His heart when we depend on Him for our needs. The peace that comforted us in our darkest times was often peace that I didn’t understand the origins of. Peace which surpassed my understanding, and peace which I was sure Christ had given, as He guarded my heart and mind.

And now this is where the story arcs, where THE event happens.

I’d earlier mentioned that we were looking forward to planning for 2014. This included trying to conceive (also known in pregnancy forums as "TTC"), which accounts for why I insisted on doing so many half-marathons (in a last blaze of running glory) towards the end of last year, and why I strove so hard to achieve a timing of less than two hours (okay, maybe it’s too somber a story for me to brag about this but – achievement unlocked. Twice. And once almost. 2:06 at the Great Eastern Women's Run. Bleddy hills).

After the good doctors at NUH told us they were recommending chemotherapy, even more scary things you never think about at this age like “sperm banking” came up. So of course we started trying to conceive, although neither of us truly expected that anything would come out of it. Not so soon, anyway.

We eventually decided that Jon would continue treatment at NCC (as noted above), and NCC wanted to do further surgery to cut out even more flesh and also test the lymph nodes which lit up. Jon’s initial surgeon at AH had taken out a narrower margin on one side of his tumour to avoid the muscle bed, and although that margin was clear, it was a little too close for NCC’s comfort. Another thing to be thankful for was that Jon was slated to be operated on by Professor Soo Kee Chee, whom our doctor friends spoke in hushed and reverent tones of.

Following the operation, NCC would then review Jon’s case and if necessary send him for radiation therapy. If anyone is interested, we understand that recent studies have shown that wide, negative margins are deemed probably the most important factor when treating sarcomas.

The surgery was fixed for 21 January 2014, a Tuesday just before Chinese New Year. The Friday before, K made me take a bag of pregnancy test kits home with me after cell group – she no longer had any use for them, she said, because she was having a baby! I hadn’t officially missed my period then, but I thought, ah why not.

And the thought of praying that I would conceive as a sign that Jon would be completely healed had crossed my mind, but I had been too afraid to pray the actual thought out, because what if I didn’t conceive? Would that then mean that God didn't want Jon to be healed?  

It was about 2am on Saturday morning, 18 January 2014, when THE LINE faintly appeared. Of course I dismissed it as dye leakage and went to bed, although I was a little excited. And I remembered that it had been absolutely impossible to wake up in the morning for a run the week before, and that on one of my runs I had felt like throwing up after ending in a sprint. Which has never happened. 

Being kiasu, and of course totally unable to believe what was happening, I did two more pregnancy tests, which were both positive. The ClearBlue test even tells you how many weeks pregnant you are (and it was pretty accurate).

I won’t say this story has a happy ending per se – cancer never does end, does it, although we are hopeful that Jon is healed completely. As JKY puts it, got mens rea can already lor. And TSI mentioned this verse “Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us…” Ephesians 3:20. I remember just knowing, as we waited for the doctors to call after the surgery, that Jon’s lymph nodes would be clear and the lymph node basin wouldn’t have to be removed. Though chunks of his flesh, which were all negative for cancer and would have made pretty awesome slabs of steak if they’d come from a cow, were.

There are check-ups for the next ten years or so, we still have a few more weeks to decide if Jon should go for radiation therapy (the NCC doctors are not too keen, as his margins and lymph nodes are clear and he is still “young”), and there are my worries about being widowed at a young age (greatly exacerbated by the pregnancy hormones) to deal with. But God holds the future, and He holds our hands. How can I keep from singing Your praise? How can I ever say enough, how majestic is Your love.

By sharing this with everyone, I know that I will have to bear whatever unhappiness may come in the future publicly too. For instance, if Jon has a relapse, or God forbid I miscarry. But that will be a story for another time. Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble. Matthew 6:33-34.

Do remember us in your prayers, whenever. I'd be happy to remember you in mine if you let me know about your life. 

***

Friends have said this story is a great testimony. Perhaps it is. But honestly, in the midst of all that was going on, I would have given anything for it to all go away. Still, I remember one day just before Christmas when I was too exhausted from crying to go to the gym, and I thought to myself, what would I be doing if I wasn’t going home to crash on the sofa and worry some more? I realised that I would have just gone to the gym, Jon would probably work late, we would meet for a late dinner, and the cycle would repeat itself. We would be happy, contented, but I figured that that wasn’t how life could have gone on either, if we were serious about becoming more serious in our faith and raising a God-centred family.

Jon thinks the tumour resulted because of the immense pressure he was under at the Angmoh Firm. We’ll never know while we’re on Earth I guess, but I think there’s a pretty good chance he’s right. And whatever it is, it was definitely God’s wake up call to us; baby was His way of assuring us that He is real and with us, and that the grace and mercy He has shown us is but a mere glimmer of His love for us, the depths of which are far greater than anything we can ever imagine.

***

Okay, now that I have told you our story, I must move on to something which has been troubling me since I found out I was expecting but was unable to share on Facebook because, you know, first trimester pantang and everything. You can stop reading now, but if you are thinking of having a kid do consider reading on, if this post hasn’t already bored you to tears. Sorry, one of the cons of my job is a resultant inability to write floweri-ly (see, I even have to make up words to express what I’m thinking).

I’m troubled that there seems to be a sort of understanding amongst Singaporeans that exercise is bad for pregnant women. What I understand however is that unless you are having pregnancy complications, exercise is good and should be done. Even the book released by the Health Promotion Board ("HPB") (very progressive, the HPB, applause in this regard) says so, and so does my gynae. Further if you have a fitness routine and were in good shape before pregnancy, it’s okay to keep up with said fitness routine, within certain limits of course.

At the risk of attracting negative comments, I will come out and say that I have been doing RPM twice weekly (full choreography) and swimming at least once or twice a week since I found out I was pregnant. Baby is perfectly healthy and has a good strong heartbeat. I drink plenty of water during RPM, wear a heart rate monitor, and sit in front of the fan (which I never used to). I am intending to start Body Balance and a bit of yoga (not pre-natal, it is BORING) with the necessary modifications again soon. I have had to give up running though, and boy do I miss it. 

I will end this post with the answers to some FAQs and a request. If you read this, please do not ask me the same questions in real life. But I will still answer you if you do, because these are happy times. 

Q. Do you have any cravings?

A. No, not really, but I am very into beehoon because it has been the sole food I have been able to eat without throwing up/ feeling like throwing up throughout my first trimester. Either fried beehoon (no processed anything, maybe a hard-boiled egg if they have it), or beehoon with yong tau foo, dry with some chilli.

I have sadly developed an ice cream intolerance, and have also stopped cooking because it makes me nauseous. So if you hear any throwing up in the office female toilets, it’s me, and no I have not developed bulimia.

Q. When will you have your next child?

A. I intend to run at least two half-marathons before trying again, one local and one overseas. Jon will hopefully be pushing baby in one of those jogging strollers at the latter. And we will achieve a sub-2 timing. I wish. 

Q. Is it a boy or girl?

A. It was unobliging at today's scan, so we don't know yet. 

Q. Do you want a boy or girl?

A. Either is okay, although I have a slight preference for my first child to be a boy. But I'd be happy in any event. This baby is a miracle, God's little gift to us. 

Q. Do you have a name in mind?

A. Yes. But why would I tell you now?

Finally, and this is incredibly vain of me, but if you notice that I am now a bit plumper around the middle, please do not assume that I have stopped going to the gym or that I have let myself go. I am merely having a baby.