Cynthia – a digital story

My little and only sister passed away on 31 December 2008 after a 20-year-long battle with Lupus. Here’s the video tribute I had been meaning to make for the longest time. Her story was published in TODAY newspaper and Chicken Soup for the Singapore Soul.

Chicken soup for the Singapore Soul

Oh wow! My article about Cynthia got published in the “Chicken Soup for the Singapore Soul” which was launched on 1 May 2007!

I checked out Amazon.com – it says, “by Jack Canfield; Mark Victor Hansen; Leong Chin; Nanz Chong-Komo; Sim Wong Hoo; Arthur Lim; Prof. Tommy Koh; Mardan Mamat; Warren Fernandez; Olivia Lum; and many more.”

I’m one of the “many more!”

In The Face of Death, I Learned To Live Life

“Angel, come see this,” my sister quietly called to me. I remember that day like it was only yesterday. There she sat in front of the mirror. She ran her fingers gently through her soft, black hair and bunches of it began to come off effortlessly. She had already a pile of it on the dresser. Like a wig she slowly took it off bunch by bunch. I stood there stunned, unable to utter a word.

In The Face of Death, I Learned To Live Life
By Angeline Koh

The doctors had warned Cynthia that the day would come when she would lose her hair. The nerves in her fingers were dying. “Without the therapy, in the worse scenario, they could just drop off,” the doctor said. “Better to lose my hair than to lose my fingers!” She was able to laugh it off some time later, but that day, Cynthia sat in front of the mirror, looked at me and said, “I’ll be alright. Just leave me for a while.” She sat there and cried. I turned around, walked out of the room. I couldn’t stop the tears.

My little and only sister went home to be with Jesus on 31 December 2002. She was 37. For 20 long years she battled with Lupus, a blood disorder. She lived with constant uncertainty as the world passed her by: a friend’s call to talk about her boyfriend or job promotion, a wedding invitation from a classmate, an invitation to attend a friend’s child’s first birthday. She had more near brushes with death than I care to remember. Lung infection, kidney infection, stroke, the list goes on.

Once she returned to the hospital the day after she was discharged for a follow-up check-up. After her visit to the doctor, she went back to her ward to cheer a new friend that she had made only to find that her Lupus friend had died the night before. The doctors said that Cynthia lived beyond the life expectancy of a Lupus patient, seven to be precise.

Cynthia had three sets of clothes: small, medium and large. She put them on depending on the medication she was on. Some medications made her lose her appetite so that she happily fitted into her “S” clothes. On those days, she walked around with a lilt, quite proud of her figure. On other occasions, her friends could not even recognise her because she was so bloated up. She was a walking pillbox. Each pill that was supposed to bring healing was also accompanied with some side effect. The doctors had to keep fine-tuning the dosage.

I saw my sister go through seasons of deep depression, promises of healing from a new treatment or a healing service, moments of hope that quickly vaporised at another reality attack. She eventually came to terms with her condition not with resignation and hopelessness but with courage and determination.

Four year ago, we found out that part of her heart had already failed. She had to drop everything immediately to rest whenever she felt breathless or risk having a heart attack. I suppose we were not surprised about the news, yet, that did not make it any easier on us. I spent that night alone with her after the doctor broke the news to us. We cried together until there were no more tears to cry. That night, many things didn’t seem urgent or important any more. All at once, making good the time with her became all that was important.

We began to bare our hearts to one another. We began to talk about the real hope that we had in this life and the life after. And we clung on dearly to each day grateful for every day and every beat that her heart pumped. “Remember the time when we did…” one of us would suddenly break the silence. On many occasions she did things that we only later realised were a danger to her life – even a simple thing like walking when she felt tired.

Unlike certain illnesses, the doctors were not able to tell how long she would live: one day, one month, one year? That night, Cynthia prepared for her funeral – her favourite songs she wanted sung, the text she wanted read. “Please for goodness sake, don’t sing THAT hymn,” she pointed at one as we flipped through the hymnal, “that sounds SO sad – like a funeral!” I still wonder at her sense of humour!

According to the doctor, her pulmonary hypertension measured 110 at the time she passed away. (20 for a normal person). I found out only after her death that that was the rate her heart had been pumping during the last five years of her life! Psalm 73:25-26 had special meaning for her,

Whom have I in heaven but you?
And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

God gave us time to say our sorry’s, thank-you’s and see you’s during the short but painful 11 days that she was hospitalised. I had the privilege of ushering her right up to the gates of heaven as I saw her heart beat on the monitor drop from 120 to a complete halt.

In my grief, I often have to turn my thoughts from my temporal loss to her unspeakable gain. My sister and best friend taught me by her simple faith never to take life or health or my loved ones for granted. I learned to major on the “majors” and minor on the “minors”. I learned that there are many things in life that are beyond my control. I learned that I have to choose to make the best of whatever life brings to me. I learned to accept both the good and the hard things with gratitude. I learned that happiness is something I can choose regardless of the circumstances. I learned to tell my loved ones “I love you” or to say, “I’m sorry,” and not wait because tomorrow may never come.

In the face of death, I learned to live life.

How good it is to feel so loved

I found a piece of scrap paper with my sister’s neatly scribbled handwriting of my exam schedule while clearing up her things the other day. She must have noted it down when I had asked her to pray for me. That little scrap of paper triggered off many memories of her.

I remember how I would be invited to speak at a meeting or a camp, and there she would be, quietly seated at the back of the room soaking in everything I had to say. I was always the one rushing here and there. She always had time for me. She was always waiting for me. I remember how she would invite her friends to come for those meetings because “my sister is speaking.” She was my number one (and perhaps only?) fan. She always had something good to say about whatever I did (no matter how I felt I had bungled).

Then I found a brand new 2003 diary that she had bought. It was still wrapped in the bookstore’s plastic bag, complete with the receipt for it. Cynthia was expecting to live another year, but Jesus chose to take her home on 31 December 2002.

How I miss seeing her at the back of the rooms now whenever I am called to teach or speak. How good it is to feel so loved. Someone once said, “Sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems de-populated.” How true it is for me.