Lost voice

I lost my voice over the weekend. What started as a searing pain on Monday while swallowing turned into a tickly throat, a dry cough, and a voice that faded away by Friday night. Miming was difficult, particularly words about time (today, tomorrow, later, just now, before...) and certain people (how do you mime mother? What is the essence of mother? I was reading the superb poem The Lanyard by Billy Collins which reminded me how insufficient all we do for our mothers are, and the immensity of their love).

In time I found myself feeling isolated, with so many thoughts that usually tumble out in what my mother calls a 'burble', with what I sometimes cannot believe Jacob listens to while smiling at me affectionately, with all the words that I've collected over a little lifespan of reading and which I love. There wasn't enough time in a conversation to write out a full thought, and miming broke momentum. My words, written on paper, were functional with a little bit of wit at best. 

On Sunday we hosted friends for an advent poetry evening, reading out and reflecting on poems that brought us closer to the waiting and longing that advent stands for. There were beautiful poems, plenty of them, and Jacob read out the two I'd chosen, and the reflections I scribbled about them. And yet I felt separate from the group because I couldn't speak. 

It made me wonder about Dad, still sometimes struggling to find the words he wants, often shaking his head and saying in his muffled voice "I don't know." Does he feel left out of the conversation when it speeds by? Does he feel frustrated when he has something to say but the words don't come or we don't perceive what he's trying to say? On Sunday we remembered the first year anniversary of his stroke, and each shared something we are thankful for this year. On Dad's turn, he said "Mother law change." and no amount of questioning got any closer to the kernel of his meaning.

Absence makes the heart grow

 

I went scuba diving over the weekend (a story for another time), and it was the longest time away from Jacob since that one week we'd lived apart after our time in the UK this summer. Then, he'd filled his week with family; picking strawberries with his mother, playing a tiny organ in a little church,  going to thrift stores with Izzy and eating the best strawberry sorbet in his life with his father. I had my week full too, although with no strawberries. I'd had grand plans to make that week my week of living liberated, seeing friends and having all the  solo dance parties. Instead, I contended with the layer of dust that had built up in our house, threw out a couple of dead plants, wiped away as much lizard poo as I could reach, and started work again, all while missing Jacob.

The day he came back I felt a bubble rising in my body, from my belly to my throat. I tore an old bed sheet and painted big red hearts on it and a wobbly 'Welcome Home Jacob!', and wrapped it, paint still slightly damp, in plastic before driving to the airport in an anxious sweat (it was my first long drive!). Seeing him come out of the arrival hall in his green jumper and slightly rumpled hair made my heart swell. It was so good to be together again and the world felt a little more in place. I'd made japchae to say "I love you! I missed you!" since food is a language we both understand. 

---

Before I left for Tioman I had an anxious feeling, like the first day of going to school. I was going with some friends who I've known for a long time and yet don't know very well, to a place I'd never been, to do something I'd never done. To quell my fears I bought travel insurance and read Olive, Again. It turned out to be a fantastic trip. I had the independence of decision that you willingly lose when you get married. If I wanted to do something (read a book, go on a walk, etc.) there was no thought of how my action might impact Jacob, I could just do it. I spent the second evening reading and sitting and looking out to sea, watching the sky turn from blue to purple to dark. 

By the time we were on the bus back, and I'd finished Olive, Again, I was very much looking forward to giving up my newfound freedom and returning to the freedom of being around someone who knows and loves you even when you abandon him for a scuba diving trip. The trip bag was arduous-ish, with long queues at the checkpoint. Since vegan food at Tioman is not yet a thing, I was very hungry. When  we got back, finally, to the Kallang pick up point, Jacob was there. He gave me a big hug and a tupperware of still warm black bean soup to say "I love you! I miss you! You need to eat more!" 

Two funny bits for a grey day

1. Sometimes Jacob does very sweet things that make me fall in love with him more, and sometimes that happens utterly unintentionally. One night last week we were in bed, and Jacob had prepared lunch boxes for us both tomorrow. "What are we having?" I asked, and he said it was very simple fare, just black bean stew and..."Buckwheat!!?!?!?!?!??" It was like a magic word, I got so excited. Jacob laughed and laughed and said, "I should cook buckwheat more often!"

2. After his stroke, Dad has struggled to communicate because part of his brain (the language part) was damaged during the bleed. This is called aphasia, a  "communication disorder that makes it hard to use words. It can affect your speech, writing, and ability to understand language [...] it doesn’t impair intelligence. People who have aphasia may have a hard time speaking and finding the "right" words to complete their thoughts. They may also have problems understanding conversation, reading and comprehending written words, writing words, and using numbers. People with aphasia may also repeat words or phrases." (source) 

This can be hard, for him and for us; he gets frustrated with the inability to convey what he wants to while we long for unimpeded communication with him. But it has also led to some funny moments. Yesterday we went over for dinner and I asked Dad where Mum was. He gestured to their bedroom and said "Mother is doing...her steroids." (She was in fact working on the family finances.)

Pre-dinner prayer is also a choice moment for aphasia bloopers. For instance, Dad has prayed:

"Lord. It's only vegetables. That is all. Amen."

and

"Lord. We promise. Headlights. We promise headlights. Amen." 

Sometimes though, his words work just like they used to. Yesterday he said "What time is it?" and glanced at the clock, "10 o'clock already! I am surprised!" Since words sometimes mean what they don't mean directly, we understood that it was time to go.

One line only

 

In April I thought I was pregnant.

I expected my period on the 8th of April, the day before Jacob's sister arrived. Initially when it was late I didn't notice but after a week I began to feel afraid. I googled "pregnancy symptoms" and "basal body temperature high pregnant" and "how do you know if you are pregnant" and "week five pregnancy baby". Apparently it is the size of an orange seed. I cried easily, afraid of yet another change to this life that I love and grieving the life I imagined for us, which didn't include a baby for a while. 

I kept the secret inside me until I couldn't bear it and told Jacob on Easter Sunday. Just a few weeks before that he'd told me he was dreaming of being a father and listening to music with our child. But that night when I told him we both felt afraid: so young, so beginning, and overwhelmingly unprepared for parenthood. He stroked my stomach and I wondered if it felt different, and felt strange that I couldn't judge that.

And yet while I felt horror I also felt an amazement and awe that within my body something could grow - an orange seed! You can see that. It has form and body. Another website talked about 'bud limbs' and in my mind's eye I saw a human tadpole, with little toes protruding out from its soft, tadpole body. I wondered what it would feel like to hold the baby. What would it smell like? What colour would its hair be - dark like mine or blonde like Jacob? Oh, it would be so beautiful and I felt heartbroken because I wanted it so much and didn't want it so much.

Before this in my mind there had been two kinds of pregnancies - wanted, and unwanted. I imagined the wanted pregnancies in homes where a woman was married and stable and in love, and the unwanted ones in women that were unmarried or unhappy or unloved. That binary broke in April. Was I selfish, I wondered, for not wanting a child when I could provide a good home for it? Was it a sign our love isn't strong enough, or doesn't have room for another? The answers to those questions were 'no', and yet. I couldn't fathom it. 

On Tuesday a packet of pregnancy tests arrived in the post and Jacob and I had a last supper and pretended they weren't there. The next morning I woke up and shakily took the test and waited. When it was negative I didn't believe it and took another - negative too. Oh, I was so relieved. The days after felt so normal. I smiled at everyone because I was not pregnant and also because I knew, inexplicably, that next time if I was it would be alright. It was as if I had to grope through the terror and know that feeling afraid was alright; that fear always cling to love but love outshines it and casts it away. 

oh mercy

 

But what could you do? Only keep going. People kept going; they had been doing it for thousands of years. You took the kindness offered, letting it seep as far in as it could go, and the dark remaining crevices you carried around with you, knowing that over time they might change into something almost bearable.

A strange week.

On Sunday Jacob and I marked our first year of being married. I woke disoriented from a terrible dream in which I comforted Saoirse Ronan whose husband and two lovely babies had disappeared off the ship we were all on. Jacob kissed my shoulder and pulled me in, and could tell from my heartbeat that I'd had a nightmare. That's one thing about marriage: your nightmares are never yours alone to bare. 

I'd written him a letter which I took out from under my pillow and gave it to him to read while I lay there, looking at him reading what I'd written the day before. Sunday mornings are so sweet - we wake up with nothing to do, but go on a walk if we want to and eat breakfast if we'd like to. Always the choice is ours. We always choose a walk and breakfast, even if it pours with rain. 

We spent the day playing boardgames and drinking tea and eating ice cream in the sun. It had been a hard week before with Jacob's reports due, and it was a hard week coming up with his end of term marking and final preparations for flying to England, and this day felt like an island of joy in between. Our Sabbath.

-

On Monday I went on a short morning run, which felt like freedom after period pains wracked my body in the last run I'd done on Friday. I felt strong, although I didn't push it, and I enjoyed my breakfast, graded lots of artefacts, and worked from my family's place in the afternoon next to a very sleepy Dad.

- 

On Tuesday I went for a haircut in the evening. I felt so happy and free on the way there, cycling in the business district past people in suits and heels while I was on my bicycle in shorts and the exercise top that Jacob bought me. In the hairdressers the stylist looked at my hair and sniffed. "You've never done anything to your hair?" he asked and I said no, I hadn't yet. "It's very plain," he said. "So boring," he later said. I sat there while he cut my hair and dried it, and curled up inside. While I cycled home I cried - plain and boring - and then cried again with frustration at how much I let myself be affected by the words of a nasty stranger. 

-

On Wednesday Dad prayed before dinner, unexpectedly honest and lucid: "Father, we are grateful....for this life...that is...confused." He paused, then laughed, "I don't know what to say!" We all laughed then, and I started, "For health, and strength," "and daily bread. We thank you Lord. Amen." he finished.

- 

This morning I got to work early and finished off Elizabeth Strout's Amy and Isabelle. I hugged the book when I finished it, and then got up to get more water. A goodreads review of the book said " I find it somewhat obscene that this was a debut." and I wholeheartedly agree.

"I should go to Mass," Dottie was saying, directing the statement to Amy, who had no idea what to saw and so only smiled back at the woman, shyly, from the other end of the couch.

"I s'pect God would rather see you eat a pancake," called out Fat Bev from the kitchen, and Isabelle had a sudden, intense desire to be Catholic.

If she were Catholic, she could kneel, kneel and bow her head inside a church with brilliant stained-glass windows and streaks of golden light falling over her. Yes, oh yes, she would kneel and stretch out her arms, holding to her Amy and Dottie and Bev. "Please, God," she would pray. (What would she pray?) She would pray, "Oh please, God. Help us to be merciful to ourselves."

I finished the book and then I read about the Texas school shooting and cried as I imagined the children and their parents trying to identify them from a line of little dead.  

What the actual fuck a million times over, and which way is up and which way is down, and where are those 19 children and two teachers now, and are they at peace?

[...]

My younger son is in elementary school, like the kids in Uvalde. He’s the kind of third grader (like every third grader?) who is always wiggly. He either runs or dances down the street. He sleeps sideways in bed, head firmly off pillow. He likes jumping over the back of the sofa; he drums his fingers on the dinner table; he asks us to watch how fast he can run. I think of the Uvalde children: were they wiggling in their chairs five minutes before the shooter walked in? Were their feet kicking along to a song they were softly humming? Were they thinking about lunch? Were they writing with No. 2 pencils? Were they stacking blocks? Were they laughing? They were breathing, I know that. They were breathing and almost definitely wiggling.

After dropping my dancey little boy off at school this morning, fear in my throat, I came back and looked around the house and thought of the parents returning home alone last night. They would fumble with their keys and open the door. They would step over small sneakers, sneakers that probably had Velcro because tying shoes was still hard. They would see crayon drawings taped on the wall. Honey yogurts in the fridge. A wobbly stack of board games. A colorful toothbrush still damp from the morning. The little bed with tousled sheets and the half-full water glass on the bedside table and the fifth book the child had asked to read but it was clearly too late and they were being silly and sneaky and they needed to get sleep for the school day so they could learn and grow and laugh and play.

The gunman in Uvalde had a handgun, an AR-15 assault weapon and high capacity magazines, reports CBS News. After the rampage, among the carnage, parents had to line up to identify their dead, disfigured children. The child might be unrecognizable to everyone else — a bullet from an AR-15 creates a hole the size of an orange — but a parent would know. By their body, their hands, their look, their energy, their slouch, the way a parent knows. Maybe a scar, a birthmark. They could always look at their feet. I would know my child’s foot among a million others. I know the way his toes slant. I’ve clipped my eight-year-old’s nails every few weeks since the summer morning I pushed him out of my body and fed him from my breasts. More than 200 times, I’ve hunched over those little feet and cleaned and cut those little nails. Sometimes he would fuss, sometimes we would chat, sometimes he would watch TV and absentmindedly pat my back.

I would know. Those parents knew. (From cupofjo)

Oh please, God. Help us to be merciful to ourselves.

Our wedding - seeing God's goodness in unexpected circumstances

 

Plans gone awry 

Our wedding was meant to be on the 5th of June, 2021, in Oxford. Planning a wedding abroad, during a a pandemic when most borders were closed, meant countless anxious prayer and voice messages, emails apologising for another change of plans or asking for patience as we waited for more news. About a month before the wedding, we heard with joy that Singapore would allow long term pass holders like Jacob to return from abroad, removing our last obstacle to flying to England. 

A miracle, we thought, all our prayers were answered. 

Just a few days later on the 8th of May days we found out that there had been another development that meant that if we flew to England, Jacob would not be able to fly back. Initial disbelief gave way to frantic resistance: calls with border control, so much time spent looking on long regulation websites, but all to no avail. We'd have to marry in Singapore, and that meant getting married just over ten days later on the 22nd of May when we'd initially planned to register our marriage in a small, family-only, administrative service. 

 

How does one plan a wedding in ten days? 

  

I told our Pastor, who made it possible to have the wedding service in our church sanctuary, and then said that his wife wanted to make salsa pots for all our guests which made me cry. I asked a friend if I could wear her wedding dress and she said yes - and her mother-in-law altered it to fit me in two hours. One week before the wedding Jacob and I went kayaking and on the way there I texted someone I'd worked with in the museum, asking if they might be our photographer. They said yes. We went kayaking, and Jacob got the worst sunburn of his life. I asked friends here if they might be bridesmaids, and they said yes. We asked fifty people we loved if they might come to a wedding in a week's time, and all of them but two said yes. 

The day before the wedding, the bridesmaids came over while I phoned our pastor to hear what exactly would happen the next day. We practiced 'walking down the aisle' by walking down the corridor leading from my bedroom to the living room, we ate dinner and then I tried to sleep. 

The morning of the wedding

I woke up, my usual time, and pulled on an old t shirt and shorts and walked to the living room. Dad woke up soon after me, and seeing me getting ready to go out he asked: "Going for a run?" "Just a walk today," I said. "Then exercise, after?" he asked (I'd often do some strength exercises after a walk in the morning) and then he teared up and pulled me in for a hug. I met Jacob on the Green Corridor for a walk, and to pass him some shoe polish. We talked about Philippians 4, the bible passage we'd read that morning, which speaks of joy, peace and contentment:

“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice... 

...The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus...

...I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content."

Despite all the changes to our plan, I felt so content that morning walking with Jacob, my hand in his. It was a little moment of quiet and contentment before we headed back to our separate homes and begun to get ready.

Back at home, I took on the roles of quiz-creator, baker, hairdresser, photographer, and bride all at once. Emily arrived and did make up for Hannah, herself and me, and I ate some peanut butter on Mum's bread machine bread, and some of Hannah's salad, and then hopped into my dress, braided my hair into a bun, and stuck some flowers into it. I think I really felt like a woman on her wedding day when I picked up the bouquet Mum had (with much stress and loving kindness) arranged with our florist. It had beautiful Juliet roses, peonies,       

Uncle Marcus was driving Dad and me to the church, and after we set off I realised I'd forgotten my tracetogether token (this was definitely a pandemic wedding) and we had to go home to get it. 

The wedding service

Weixin and Emily were there at the door when I arrived, and they pulled me in for a hug. Dad and I walked into the ante-room behind the sanctuary and I felt slightly overwhelmed by the knowledge that I was about to leave my family and join Jacob as his wife. "Dad," I said, "Can we pray?" I don't remember what he said, but I do remember he sat with me and prayed for me, and that I knew he loved me very much.

The Arrival of the Birds started playing, and Weixin, then Emily, then Hannah walked into the sanctuary and finally, Dad and I did too. Our guests were sitting in pairs (to fulfil government guidelines) and there were beautiful flowers up and down the aisle, but in that moment I only had eyes for Jacob. 

 

The service passed in a blur. Listening to Pastor Rodney's challenge (words that have echoed through our first eight months of marriage) with Jacob's arm around me, making our vows and feeling so deeply the power of those time-tested words, seeing faces from England read scripture and pray over us, nervously trying to say thank you to everyone when words couldn't quite do gratitude justice, throwing my bouquet in the air with the bridesmaids in joy, and standing with Jacob as Leonard and Jonathan prayed a blessing for marriage over us. 

 

After

After the service, Uncle Marcus drove us in the golden sun to Ama's house, where we served tea to Ama, Uncle Tom, Auntie Alice and Bee in a tea set Uncle Tom had bought that morning, after Dad said, "Oh, don't you think it could be a good idea to..." Ama was in her usual soft button-down shirt, but she's combed her hair very neatly and she smiled and smiled when she saw us.  

Back at home, Tim had ordered Indian takeaway, which we ate with Prosecco. I wore a batik apron over the white dress to avoid curry stains. We called Catherine and played a quiz between our families of obscure (and not so obscure) facts about our relationship. I'd set the quiz so I didn't play, and Catherine won, beating even the groom (although to be fair, Jacob gallantly abstained from some questions that he knew to give others a fair chance). Then we had tea and the wedding cake Hannah and I baked in the morning: a chocolate hazelnut cake that had been on the cards for one of the tiers in our UK wedding cake. 

Still dressed in our wedding dress and suit, Jacob and I said goodbye to my family and walked back to Jalan Hang Jebat along the green corridor. Cyclists on night cycles went past us (one of them saying "Wah! You scared me!" - possibly interpreting the white dress as something more paranormal) their lights zipping through the darkness. As we walked, we noticed little flickers in the distance, not quite bike lights. When we got closer we saw they were candles in peanut butter jars, lighting our way to our new home. 

  

Nothing happened as we planned, but God provided in miracles great and small. In the eight months we have been married we have faced trials we never saw coming. The words we said on our wedding day - that we would hold each other in sickness and in health, for better and for worse, and that we would love and cherish each other - have become realities. Perhaps the greatest miracle is this simple one I've known for a long time. Jacob loves me with the deep abiding love that comes from God, and that is enough. 

 

Admin is not my strong suit

 

I've been covering another colleague as the secretary for our senior management meetings, and over the course of the last two weeks I've noticed that admin is really not my strong suit.

In emails I've numbered things "1,2,3,4,5,7", or "1,2,3,5,4". I don't even know how that happens. I use two different font sizes in an email (I also don't know how that happens) which I don't notice - but other people do. 

Today I sent out an email to everyone in the museum, saying (in response to an admin email):

"Dear ______,

Please may I request one glue stick!

Thank you,
Miriam"

One glue stick?! What a stupid thing to say!

West Side Story and climbing fences.

credit

On Wednesday, Jacob brought me out to dinner after both our first days back in our respective workplaces. After over a month of being together almost 24 hours a day, seeing him after being apart for a day felt like a first date. We ate Vietnamese food, talked about tackling discrimination, and took a bus to the cinema to watch the new West Side Story film. On the way home, we realised that our usual path was blocked by a steel fence for  a new construction site and so instead of walking to the detour path, we decided to climb over it. There was a rickety ladder which we propped up against the fence, Jacob used his gym clothes to cushion the sharp top edge and did a pull up to see if it would take his weight, and then climbed over. I passed out bags to him and climbed over too, landing giggly and shaky because it felt like such a naughty thing to have done, and so exhilarating.

When we got home it was late, almost midnight, and so naturally because of our exertions we decided to have a midnight snack, eating milky cereal out of a tea cup in the kitchen. 

I loved the night so much - it was so free, and fun, and adventurous. It made me feel like a child again, when the last month has felt like I've had to grow up differently.

After Dad had a stroke

 

"Grief is existential testimony to the worth of the one loved. That worth abides. So I own my grief. I do not try to put it behind me, to get over it, to forget it… Every lament is a love-song." - Lament for a Son, Nicholas Wolterstorff

On December 17th, midway through dinner with Jacob’s family and two friends in Oxford, I received a phone call. It was my Mum, and she told me to prepare myself, which meant she was about to tell me something you can never prepare yourself for. She told me that Dad had had a stroke in the early hours of the morning, that he had fallen, that my brother had found him and that he was in hospital now and was about to go into surgery. “So please pray,” she said, her voice breaking, “because Dad is in the valley of the shadow right now and there’s a chance he might not get through.”

So I prayed. I knelt on the carpet floor of the staircase landing and asked God to save my Dad. I cried and prayed, and cried, and recited Psalm 23 with Mum. 

Dad had what is known as a hemorrhagic stroke caused by an aneurysm, which means that a blood vessel burst and blood flooded the surrounding areas of the brain. The blood in the brain causes brain cells to die. There can be warning signs of an approaching stroke - including a headache, problems with vision, problems with balance and coordination, and slurred speech. Before Dad went into hospital Mum noticed that someone had been taking painkillers, but assumed it was Hannah or Tim since Dad never takes pills if he can help it. Neither Hannah nor Tim had taken any. 

When I put down the phone, I stayed on the landing for a while in shock. In some part of my mind I saw myself on the landing and below me the family, Jacob’s friends, unaware. A decision lay before me - do I go downstairs with my grief, or do I go upstairs to our bedroom and hide? I drank some water from a glass that I don’t think was mine (grief is thirsty business) and went downstairs, told them what happened and asked if we could all pray together.

Over the next few days I went through various iterations of grief. First, there was the anticipatory grief of possibly losing Dad. Then, there was the grief over everything changing, and grieving who he was and how that might no longer be the case. There was also denial, where for moments of the day I wouldn’t believe that Dad had the stroke. Not him, so active, a non-smoker, a vehement denier of canned food and “processed junk” and daily walker. And then (and this one made me feel ashamed of myself) irrational anger. Why did Dad have to have a stroke? Now life would be different, and we’d have to make a decision about flying back early, and we wouldn’t be able to spend Christmas in England. 

Three beloved friends came to stay that weekend, all of whom had lost someone (for one of them it was a cat, which is arguably a something but was a someone to her) that year. We talked about our grief openly, and I was grateful that they didn’t shy away from asking me about Dad. They were generous with the wisdom they’d gained from their experiences with grief and healing. I witnessed the grief of Jacob’s family as well as they faced saying goodbye to Jacob earlier than anticipated. I saw Jacob’s grief at things changing so suddenly and as he confronted losing Dad as well and wrestled with the decision of staying with his family or flying back with me.

I also saw love as if someone had magnified it a hundred fold in those fragile days. My loving friends prayed with me, let me sleep on the comfy bed in the attic while they were on the airbed, and stayed up late for dinner and games. On a walk to see the local church carol service, which Jacob and his Mum were both in, Jacob’s Dad turned to me and said “I’ve been thinking about it. Jacob should go with you.” This man gave Jacob a bear hug every night before bed; I could see the sacrifice in him telling me that. Jacob’s sister brought me a cup of tea and a Moomin book with the inscription on Jacob’s ring on a post-it note one morning when I was finding it hard to get up. Jacob’s Mum made the entire Christmas day happen early on the 22nd so we could celebrate together before we had to go. Jacob held me every night. Jacob lovingly told me when my grief was pulling me away and made it safe for me to return to him. And Jacob chose to fly back with me.

 

Now we are back. How do you return to a world where everything has changed? Something we say to Dad over video calls, as he drifts in and out of consciousness, is "慢慢来", or take it slow. It is a mantra for us as well. So we go slowly, holding space for generous lament and generous love.