Close Encounters in Melbourne

Had a great catch up with a friend tonight who was here from NSW for a conference. Unfortunately, he had a busy schedule and we could only catch up around midnight, so I brought him to Oldtown Kopitiam in QV.

I had not heard from him for about eight years now, so it was good to see where life had taken us and how we had both grown up in ourselves and our relationships as well.

At around 1 am we decided to go for a spontaneous tour of the city of Melbourne. It was wonderful walking in the city in Saturday twilight, and I had forgotten how magical the city could be at night.

We gazed up at the imposing fluorescent-lit cathedrals, dodged the drunken late night revellers and walked past the post-party queues at KFC. There was a busking band playing Latin music on Swanston Street and a group of people had started spontaneously dancing along.

I showed him Fed Square and Flinders St station, and we saw the upside down neon ice-cream cone that was the National Arts Centre in the distance.

I walked him back to the hotel, and then we said our goodbyes, promising to catch up again soon(er than the eight years it had taken us to catch up this time).

As I turned the corner away from the hotel, I lifted up the hood of my jacket over my head. I exhaled - hands in both pockets - and then steeled myself to take on the treacherous road home through Melbourne's CBD.

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You must be thinking, what on earth are you talking about, Heng Khuen? Melbourne's a safe city!

So I thought until I heard this story a couple of weeks ago where a travelling friend-of-a-friend's was mugged by two guys in front of the State Library while he had gone to get some kebabs from Stalactites.

All he wanted was some supper, and he ended up $500 poorer (he had only brought cash for his short trip) and a Welcome-to-Melbourne, Please-Come-Again bruise to his left eye while trying to fight off his assailants.

And so it was with this story fresh in my mind that I quickly paced through the streets of Melbourne by night. I kept to the brightly lit areas, tried to stay where there were crowds, and sussed out whoever was walking my way. I followed my gut instinct - couples are usually safe, groups of friends with at least one girl in it are safe and girls are safe. Beware the lone male or a group of two.

I had made it past Russell Street, walked down Bourke, and made my way past the Latin buskers on the opposite side of Swanston Street. It was a wonderfully festive atmosphere - the music was infectious and the dancing group had now increased three-fold.

I afforded myself a little smile at how people were having a great time enjoying Melbourne on this beautiful Saturday night. The air was carefree and footloose.

It was at this exact moment when I approached the Swanston St Church of Christ on a quiet corner of Little Lonsdale Street.

I caught the eye of this big Caucasian guy loitering there with who I assumed was his girlfriend. It took me all of two seconds to realize that his 'girlfriend' was actually a skinny male with a hood over his head. My guard, which had been let down just a second ago, leapt up immediately.

My Spidey senses screamed out as the fat guy made a nod in my direction, and the both of them suddenly sprung from their relaxed positions and walked purposefully towards me. I picked up my pace, leapt onto the kerb and walked as fast as I could towards the nearest people about twenty metres in front of me.

I was about an arm's length away from them, and heard the skinny one say 'Damn, a jumper,' whatever that meant, but I sure as hell didn't hang around to ask.

I waited nervously on the corner of La Trobe St, my heart racing, looking out of the corner of my eyes to see if they had followed me. Luckily for me, their pursuit had ended as quickly as it had begun.

It wasn't until I got home when I could finally breathe a sigh of relief again; hearing the door lock behind me, keeping the city at bay for one more night.

Whether true or perceived, I must say this encounter has shaken me. I'd like to believe that it was not mere coincidence but Providence that I had heard the story the other day, and had been more vigilant tonight.

A split second too late, and this story may have very well ended differently.

Kung Fu Panda 2: A Movie of Awesomeness!

Went with Karen to watch my second favoritest movie of the year after X-Men: First Class - the irrepressible Jack Black reprising his role in Kung Fu Panda 2. This was a fun-filled movie for the whole family, with laugh out loud comedy and also touching scenes that brought you to the brink of tears.

(Okay, so I cried. Uncontrollably.)

(Like a real man.)

It was one of the better 3D experiences I've had this year as well - breathtaking scenery, in-your-face action and a clever use of artistry to display flashback scenes.

I have never heard Karen belly-laugh so frequently at a movie, which is a good indication of how good it was!

Go watch it in the cinema!

Random Memories: Fourteen Years Old - Not The Karate Kid (aka Wax On, Face Off)

It was a very exciting Saturday in my school. It was the inter-school Interact Club meeting, and we know that all boys join the Interact Club for only one reason - a chance to meet girls!

Being an all-boys school meant that girls were a rare treat (okay, so we had the sixth form girls, but they were four years ahead of me at that time, and I didn't have the necessary cougar-taming skills required back then).

We were all dressed in our whitest shoes, our olive-greenest trousers and carried our winningest smiles that day.

It was an amazing day - we were split up into groups for discussions, and I was finally in a classroom with - gasp - girls! I was so excited I almost forgot to breathe.

The day was going well, with me talking to my friends trying to look important while peering out of the corner of my eye to see if a girl was checking out my extra olive green pants today.

I was walking up the stairs with a friend out of the canteen during a break, when I noticed two sky blue-pinafore uniformed girls approaching. This was my chance to impress! I talked a little louder and gesticulated a little more with my hands, not noticing the step as I tripped over it and landed right on. my. ass.

My friend stood over me, just as surprised as I was. The girls had stopped to look. It took me all of two seconds to recover from my stunned surprise/embarrassment and so I decided to do the most cool thing I knew then - do a judo leap from my supine position up to a standing position, and then walk away as the girls stared in awe and clapped in wonder.

Clap, I tell you!

So with all my years of judo training, I...oh wait a minute. I have never had any judo training. In fact, I've never had any kind of training. Not even brain training.

Which would explain why my attempts to get up looked something like a miserable tortoise trying to get back on all fours again after falling onto its shell.

My friend stood over me as my legs were flailing in the air trying to make some contact with the ground. His concerned look was somewhere between "What the hell are you trying to do, Heng Khuen?" and "Oh my gosh! He's having a seizure! Someone grab a spoon to ram into his mouth before he bites his tongue!"

It was only by the fourth spoon did I finally decide that my kung-fu leap back to coolness was a stupid idea, and I finally stopped kicking around like I was possessed. I calmly stood up, dusted my self off, gave the step my best disapproving "You've won the battle, but I will win the war!" look, and then walked off past the two giggling girls, my head held high, my friend laughing as he caught up with me.

I certainly taught that step a lesson, and I am sure it will think twice before tripping the next fat fourteen-year-old boy that crossed its path.

Ah, my mortal enemy. We meet again.

Voices In Harmony

What is it about singing that moves us? What is it about putting words together with music that resonates deeply within our soul? We sing when we are happy, we sing to mourn, we sing in our showers, we sing through our tears after a break-up.

My brother and I have (unwisely) been taking singing lessons for the past week. It has been really interesting standing before our singing teacher, who could pick up immediately what was wrong with our singing.

The main problem, she says, is the fact that we were singing. Our singing should be outlawed, she said. We should be arrested by the Singing Police and locked up in a soundproof prison. She then ran away screaming with her hands over her ears, never turning to look back at our dejected faces.

Hahaha!

I remember one of the things I was doing while pretending to be oozing mystery as a teenager on my school bus was that I would be softly singing to myself at the back of the bus.

"Oi, Heng Khuen!" came the jeering voice of the St John's boy behind me. "Trying to sing ah? Afterwards the snow come then you know!"

Often in Malaysia, when we are trying to insult someone's singing, we say that their singing, like the frogs', would bring the rain. This insult brought it to a whole new level. Bastard!

Back to the singing lessons. She taught us how to warm up our voices by running through the scales while blubbering our lips. We sounded like singing motorboats....

*leaves his blog writing to write his To-Do List: Make A Children's Programme About Singing Motorboats. ABC Kids will love it!*

.... and then we went through other vocal exercises. What was interesting was seeing how our voices started out thin and strained, and by the end of one lesson, she made it a lot more rich and resonant, surprisingly. Can't wait to see what the other lessons will bring!

Random Memories: Fourteen Years Old

One of the things of having a brother two years older than you going to the same school with you are the inevitable comparisons.

My brother was often labelled a little eccentric while I was the sensible younger one. Don't get me wrong, I love my brother as he is and I wouldn't want him any other way. When you are an awkward teenager growing up, however, the temptation was always to distance yourself from your brother at school.

This distance carried on at home as well, and it was often difficult being two different individuals under the same roof, which often led to arguments and fights.

One night, however, I was standing at the study room door, while he was sitting down on the swivel chair. He started singing a church song, and I added in the harmony. Our fraternal voices blended together in golden accord, and I must say, there was a little bromance right there.

We tried a few more songs in simple harmony, and there was something inexlicably bonding about singing with your brother. As we grew older though, I find our voices became a little more discordant.

Hopefully these singing lessons will help us rediscover a little lost love.


I'm the thin one. of the group, of course.  With the feminine shirt.



In Justice

I walk into the room and she is on the phone with her partner. She just wanted to hear his voice, to know that he was okay, and the kids were okay. Because right now, she wasn't okay.

I catch traces of her voice '...turn off ventilator...' '... out in the sun...' '...it was expected, but still...'

I take my seat next to her and try to be unobtrusive.

'Everything okay?' I finally ask when she puts down the phone.

'No, everything's not okay,' she says. 'My friend's sister died today.'

I offer my surprised condolences. How old was she?

'39. She had porphyria, but like a really severe attack, you know? They did everything they could at the A for her - they kept her in ICU, she had continuous immunoglobulin infusions, they even rang experts in Europe for advise but no one could offer any answers.'

'They turned off her ventilator today at 1 pm. I knew it was coming, but still...'

Her voice drifts off.

'My friend asked me if I could be somewhere nice at 1 pm, just for her sake. So at 1 pm, I just walked out of here for awhile, you know? And just as I stepped out, the sun came out.'

Did she have any children?

'She had two kids, 4 and 6.'

The mention of kids unlocked the floodgates.

She pulls off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose and allows herself a small cry.

'It's just not fair, y'know? She was a doctor, she was such a bright, lively character... Some dickheads live to be a fucking hundred, and...' she breaks down. 'It just isn't fair,' she protests.

I put my hand on her, and learning from an auntie who did the same for me during my father's death, said absolutely nothing.

She sniffs her tears dry and years of Emergency Medicine training takes over as she suddenly snaps out of it. 'You know, I'll be alright. That's just life, isn't it?'

She straightens out the pile of paperwork before her and forces her pen to start writing the patient's notes again. There was very little room for proper grieving at work in an Emergency Department.

******************************************

There is great injustice in this world, naturally. All of us intuitively react against it - as kids we will go 'That's not fair!' or 'That's cheating!' without ever needing to be taught.

I think about this fallen world, filled with injustice, and about how if there wasn't the promise of a new heaven and a new earth, all this would be meaningless.

And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death' or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” Revelation 21:3-4

Get A Haircut

BSS | Straight Razor from Bruton Stroube Studios on Vimeo.

Karen showed me this video from the same guys that brought you Breakfast Interrupted.

It also got me thinking about that wonderful scene from Gran Torino.

Indeed, it is a shame that we are losing our old ways. There are some shops in Malaysia where you get a number by vending machine, and then a silent hairdresser efficiently snips away your hair in under ten minutes. No idle chatter, no friendship. Just business.

Whenever I am home in Malaysia, I will always visit good ol' Johnny for my haircut. It may be cheap and tellingly so, but at least the trip is interesting.

Random Memories: Haircut through the Years Part 2

I remember when Dad lost his ability to walk, the church were swift and eager to help us through our first few difficult years. A member who owned a music store donated a box full of music cassettes to us, while the church donated a RM400 exercise bicycle to my father for his initial physiotherapy needs.

One of the many helpful aunties in the church decided that she would ease our financial burdens by giving the family a haircut. Her intentions were noble, God bless her soul, but the outcomes were often... interesting.

She would bring her hairdressing gear to our house - a pair of sharp stainless-steel scissors and a somewhat interesting manual razor. This razor was made out of plastic and shaped like a clam. You could separate the two halves of the clam and then insert a razor at either end, depending on whether you wanted a rougher shave or a finer shave.

Instead of a cloth thrown around our necks to keep away stray hairs from our collar, we improvised instead by cutting a hole in the middle of a newspaper foldout, and fitting it around our heads.

Inevitably all our haircuts would end up looking like this:

 

Minus the funky earrings, of course

One more reason why I have no illusions of having expensive haircuts.

****************************

There were always murmurs among married women that you should never let women hairdressers touch your husband's head. Too many stories about how Mrs X's husband ran away with the hairdresser after she 'put a spell' over his head. I suspect that the head was not all they were touching, to be honest.

Fuelled by both raging adolescent hormones and curiosity, I made my way up the stairs to one of the dodgy looking hairdressers in my Taman (suburb) one day, my heart pounding with each step that I took up the stairs.

I got an enticing lady, all right. All fifty-five years of her. Curly grey haired and gruff, her sleeveless underarm dingle-dangles (that's a term I learnt from Karen) wobbling as she snipped away at my hair.

It was an ultimately anti-climatic moment in my teenage life, but hey, it wasn't a half bad haircut.

*******************************

I think most of my later years before I ended up with Johnny were spent mostly at Indian barbers.

If you wanted old school, this was old school, man. Swivelling barber chairs, chequered floors, candy stripe out the front. The works.

The Indian barbers themselves were pretty adept with the electric razor and scissors. Most of the time, however, everyone who walked in for a haircut (inevitably men) would always walk out with the same hairstyle - a buzz cut to the sides and back, and short at the top.

Haircuts at the Indian barber would set you back by RM10. Added to that value for your money was the wonderful 'head cracking' service at the end of it. The barber suddenly turns amateur chiropractor - steadying your head at the top and at your chin with both his hands, he twists it one way and then the other to give a satisying 'crack' as if you were cracking your knuckles.

Except that, you know, it was the spine of your neck.

That's us Malaysians, living on the edge of danger - walk in for a haircut, and a 5% chance of paraplegia.

Edward Barberhands

"Please," she says. "Try it! You won't know unless you try it!"

"Heh," I smile a Maybe but my heart actually says Nah.

My fiancee is trying to convince me to get my hair cut at a proper hairdressers.

There is a ten dollar barber shop near the city which I have always frequented since I was a student. Which I still visit, much to Karen's dismay. Prices have crept up as high as $13.95 at one stage, but fierce competition has kept the haircuts at a very reasonable ten dollars for the past two years.

Walking in to the barber shop is always a roulette. In my case, I may either walk out looking like a frumpy twelve year old schoolboy about to be beaten up, or some semblance of a dashing thirty one year old adult. Usually it's the former.


There is no luxury of choosing your favourite barber in a ten dollar shop.

It is a roll of the dice - do I get the Cypriate barber today who knows only one hairstyle for all his male clients (who also somehow eerily has the same hairstyle - which makes you wonder, who the heck cut his hair?) or do I get that Vietnamese lady who somehow understands my oddly-shaped head? Maybe it will be the Iranian woman who oozes of teenage angst, chewing her gum apathetically while chopping away with disinterest at my hair?

I remember my final year of medical school, and how I needed to look decent for two reasons - I was hosting a wedding for a couple who were good friends of mine and I had my final graduation. Important times. The girl who the shop deemed equal to this monumental task looked like she was sixteen; the way she used her scissors had undercurrents of criminal intent.

Needless to say, her untrained fingers took too much off one side, which she then had to correct on the other side and by the end of it, I looked like I was signing up to join the army. "Well," she says, rubbing as much gel as she humanly could to disguise her error, "at least you look interesting," she said, her face betraying the slightest of cringes.

It was only after two blocks and a whole lot of curious stares when I noticed the clump of hair she had neglected to brush off my left cheek, making me look like I was growing something cancerous (or groovy).

Today's result? Somewhere in the middle.

Maybe I should take Karen's advice and go to a proper hairdressers to get myself a 35 dollar Korean-teenage-heartthrob-look-alike haircut.

Nah.

Random Memories: Haircuts Through The Years Part 1

"This Heng Khuen ah, hairstyle everyday different one," my friend once commented.

My earliest recollection of a barber is at the age of five, when my brother and I would be brought to the same father-and-son Chinese barbershop near where we lived. This place was old school, man, complete with the fluorescent lit candy-stripe sign outside the shop.

While awaiting my turn, I would always watch in awe at the uncles before me, who willingly surrendered their lathered necks to the reusable razorblades of the barber (sharpened on a leather strap hanging by the mirrors); or how they grimaced in pain as their stray nostril hairs were ripped out at the roots with gleaming tweezers.

Almost a true depiction of barbers

I would always pray that I would not get the father - a bald (never trust a bald barber?), toothless man with his mischievous slitty eyes hidden behind thick black frames. I hated him because his haircuts always came with the unwelcome added service of a tweak of your nose before and after your haircut.

I swear, if I had mastered the Jason Bourne-ian art of killing someone with whatever was ready at hand, this man would have been bleeding from a thousand razorblade cuts before his wandering hand even reached my nose.

Instead, my five year old self sat there helplessly, having my nose tweaked purple.

Today, I Want To Be A Baker

He knew he should have stayed in bed that morning.

He gets up and he stumbles into the shower and then dresses up for work. An orange vitamin pill is all his breakfast, and he drives to work, still half dazed. It is a Saturday morning on a long Easter weekend and the roads are clear. As he approaches the hospital, he notices that his tank is almost empty and he pulls into the nearby Shell station.

He pays for his petrol with his credit card but in his half awake state he pulls out the card too quickly. TRANSACTION CANCELLED. He tries the card again. CARD DECLINED. He smiles apologetically to the counter girl and pays by eftpos. 'Looks like you could do with more sleep,' she laughs.

And So It Begins

No sooner had he hit the department, waiting for handover when an overhead announcement is made. 'Level 2 trauma, Resus 2, Emergency Department.' He pokes his nose into the cubicle and sees that his boss is already there with another morning registrar and some lingering night staff.

The patient is a young gentleman who had been T-boned by a car on the highway when he was pulling out. He was in a neck collar and the consultant was moving an ultrasound over his tummy to see if there was any internal bleeding.

The boss quickly confirms no bleeding, and tells the doctor to take over from there while he runs handover. The doctor quickly checks the patient over, and confirms that he is stable before getting bloods from him. The nurse hands him a syringeful of blood which he proceeds to fill the tubes with. He is still waking up, and pulls the plunger a little too eagerly, which disconnects from the syringe. The blood goes everywhere onto the trolley.

He lets out a curse and somehow manages to salvage some enough for all the tubes. The nurse with him is a friend, and kindly cleans up the mess without telling him off. The blood is all over the trolley, and had made its way into the trolley, staining the packages holding the cannulas with blood. She disposes of the contaminated packages and cleans up the trolley.

After The Blood Bath

The ambulance warning system beeps through. A young guy was coming in, who was found by bystanders to be running down the streets half naked, screaming his head off before collapsing into a heap. The department prepares itself for the arrival of the patient, and he is soon wheeled through. He is in a drug daze, and barely rousable. His pinpoint pupils suggest that opioids may have been involved.

They give him some reversal for the opioids but he does not wake. His level of respiratory depression means that they need to put a tube down his throat to protect his airway while waiting for whatever drugs he had taken to naturally work its way out of his body.

You comfortable to do the tube? his boss asks.

His mind says no.

Yup, he says.

They get everything ready for the intubation. The patient was going to be a difficult one. Short neck, retracted jawline, overriding teeth. The patient is put into an induced coma. The intensive care team arrives, and there is suddenly an audience of about ten people.

Have a look now, his boss says.

The doctor brings the laryngoscope into the mouth of the patient. He attempts to find the patient's vocal cords, but is having a little trouble finding it. Pull back, says the intensive care consultant. Take your time, says his boss. 

He sees the tip of the vocal cords but couldn't get it to lift. Nope, not seeing it, he says, his hands shaking with the weight of the laryngoscope blade.

The boss steps in and takes over. A few experienced maneuvers with the laryngoscope and suddenly the tube is down the throat, and the chest rises and falls as he bags the patient.

You just needed your blade to be more secure, the boss tells him gently in front of his audience. The doctor knows he is still learning and will keep getting better at this, but couldn't help feeling deflated for not getting this tube.

******************************************

The day passes on with a few more dramas, a sixty year old man who had collapsed out the front triage after having a huge vomit of blood and a few more overdoses and road accidents customary to the long weekend. Among them all were the minor irritations of the arguments with the radiology registrar about getting scans, trying to convince sick patients wanting to self-discharge that they needed to stay, and trying to juggle all the patients under his care and remember what he needed to do for who next.

He is due to leave at six that evening. A new patient was coming in after an overdose. He was drowsy and combative, and he was huge.

Two policemen and  another two ambulance crew were in attendance, as the patient was struggling in his half drugged state, potentially a threat to his own safety and that of others.  He had written a clear suicide note that evening and had taken eighty of his antipsychotic medications wanting to end his life.

They put him into a resuscitation cubicle and strap his arms and feet down so that he doesn't hurt himself. His evening boss walks in and decides, We need to tube him.

The doctor tries to find a vein to put a cannula into but has little luck. Everything he touched that day was turning to whatever the opposite of gold was.

His colleague finds a vein on the other arm, and they place the patient into an induced coma. Another colleague, a registrar slightly junior to him manages to intubate the patient successfully, and the doctor watches with a mixed sense of pride and a tinge of envy.

The Opposite Of Gold

The patient is prepared for intensive care. A catheter is put in to measure his urine output and his evening boss puts him in charge of putting in the nasogastric tube - a tube that goes into the patient's stomach in order to drain out any secretions and prevent it from going into his lungs.

The doctor struggles with the nasogastric tube. It goes down a distance but not as smoothly as he would like. You sure you in the stomach? his evening consultant says with a querying smile.

Well, it's gone in a distance... the doctor says, but he knew that the resistance he had felt with the nasogastric tube going down was not a reassuring sign.

They try and check if they are in the stomach. They take a huge syringe and try to aspirate out some stomach content. Nothing. They try and blow in some air while a nurse listened for sounds in the stomach. Nothing.

Well, an experienced nurse offered, we can check if it's bubbling. It was old school but it sounded like a plan. They brought a kidney dish of water and place the other end of the nasogastric tube into it to see if it would bubble, suggesting that it is in the lung.

It does not bubble.

Still not convinced, the evening consultant calls for an X-ray which would show them for sure the position of the nasogastric tube.

The X-ray returns. The nasogastric tube... is sitting in the right lung. Somehow it had made its way past the ventilation tube straight into the right lung. See? said the consultant, smiling. Told you it wasn't in the stomach!

They pull out the misplaced nasogastric tube and the consultant has a go at putting it in. He struggles as well, and gives up after a few attempts.

Let's get an art line in, he says. They try to get a needle into the patient's radial arteries to see what his blood pressure is doing. The doctor can feel a good pulse on the left wrist and has a go at it, but misses despite several attempts.

His consultant tries on the other wrist and misses as well. All this time the emergency department is still running and getting busier behind the curtains.

This is not a good day for lines, his consultant says, looking a little deflated himself. I'm going to have to come back and try a little later. I've got a department to manage. 

He walks away and leaves the doctor to himself, whose bleary eyes looked up at the fuzzy numbers reading 7:45 pm, one hour and forty five minutes after he was supposed to have finished, and sighs while he stubbornly tried to find an artery on the patient's right wrist to put a needle into.

Another senior registrar walks in after he has had a few more attempts. H has told me to come in here and see if I can help you with this art line, she says. She puts on a pair of sterile gloves, feels for a pulse, inserts the needle and suddenly there is a satisfying gush of blood into the needle. She effortlessly threads the needle, secures the line and attaches the monitoring.

Guess he likes girls more, she smiles.

The doctor stands there and smiles in return, shaking his head a little. He cannot believe how easy she made that look, but was more relieved that the line was finally in.

She waltzes out of the room and leaves the doctor and the two nurses who are bustling around the resuscitation cubicle getting all paperwork sorted out, preparing the equipment to move the patient into intensive care.

The Road Not Taken

The doctor leans against the table in the cubicle, and stares blankly into space for awhile. His stomach rumbles as he finally remembers he hadn't eaten all day.

He smiles to himself and to a day that has defeated him, and he says aloud, to no one in particular, Today, I want to be a baker.

The nurses, who have worked with him so long that they were more like friends, let out a laugh in agreement as they knew exactly how he felt about the day he was having.

He leaves the department with a sigh. He will take the long drive home and he will tell his loving partner about the unbelievably long and crap day he's had, and then he will sleep, because tomorrow he must return.

*******************************************

He thinks about his previous Emergency Department director, who was like a mother to him in his workplace, and who was  instrumental in him choosing Emergency Medicine as a specialty.

He remembers her hand on his shoulder after another particularly difficult day like today, and her voice still rings clearly in his ears - Just remember, you're gonna good days and bad days, young Dr. Heng, so don't take it too personally, all right? Press on, because you are a good doctor and don't let it get to you. 

Tomorrow he will be better.

 

I've Got A Proposal To Make.

I have had the ring for eight months now.

She organised my surprise 30th birthday party and I was kicking myself that I didn't have the ring to counter-surprise her. It was there where I asked a friend if she would accompany me to buy the ring.

I have had the ring for eight months now.

I was thinking about how to propose to her. I toyed with the idea of skywriting, but luckily a friend talked me out of it. What about putting it up on a billboard just like the Malaysian guy did? But I felt that was just a little toopublic.

On and on the thoughts streamed about how I was going to ask Karen to marry me, and finally the words 'Say Yes' popped into my head.

How about a video proposal, and getting our friends and family on board? My heart raced with the thought of the one idea that could finally work, and so the wheels started churning.

This is the beginning of what I call the 'scheming for good.' This was the two months spent in secret e-mails to family and friends asking them if they would take part in this project. Two months of private browsing in the Firefox windows, pretending to be hard at work with Karen sitting unwittingly opposite me, suppressing the smiles inside with every new picture that came along.

And then the last few days of telling untruths about being at study groups with friends or with my brother when I was actually shooting my photos for the video, and going over to a friend's house to put the video together, which she kindly and patiently did.

This is what two and a half months of planning culminated in:

That's all it is. Me making a stupid face!


Thank you to all who have helped out in this video with your photos, encouragement and love. The road ahead is exciting and scary all at once, and we need your continued love and prayers as we walk down the aisle towards the rest of our lives together.

P.S. She posted a response as well! She never ceases to amaze me, this woman!




Random Memories: Thirteen Years Old

It was a huge centerpage in our local newspaper, The Star. It was the story of this loving couple who were in the dance ministry at their church and talked about how he proposed to her in a really special manner.

They were walking in the KLCC park one evening, when he led her to a bridge. Six friends, all dressed as mimes were standing along the bridge, and soft music started playing in the background. All of them were holding plates, with napkins sitting over them.

A card read on the first plate reads 'I love you because...' she uncovers the napkin '... of your smile that could light a small city.' The mime starts to smile widely and invisible light bulbs were going off everywhere.

She turns to her boyfriend and smiles, his plan becoming apparent.

'I love you because...' the second plate read as she pulled away the napkin. '... you laugh at my jokes even when they are not funny.' The mime doubles over in silent laughter at a bad joke that you couldn't hear.

'...your fried rice makes the hawkers jealous.'
'... you love my family, and my dog.'
'... of your beauty and grace when you dance.'

The mimes cooked, petted invisible dogs and twirled continuously as she came to the final dish.

This napkin was covering an object.

The last card read - 'But most of all, I love you because...'

The mime is motionless. She pulls away at the napkin and gasps.

It is a mirror.

'...of who you are.' She is surprised by her tears as she feels him tap her on the shoulder. She turns around to find him on bended knee with the open box containing the ring that would join her to him for the rest of their lives.

Through her tears, she says yes.

Something in my thirteen year old heart wanted so badly to one day have a special wedding proposal of my own.