Value Of Life

How much is "life" worth? I'm not referring to the popular magazine sold around the world.

About 15 years ago, I was a fan of a show called Northern Exposure and in an episode titled "Ill Wind", Maurice (a self-centered retired astronaut) was angry that Chris (the town's radio deejay) saved him from falling off a building. Maurice's anger stemed from the fact that he felt he was now unduly indebted to Chris. He asked Joel, the town's only doctor, "What is the price of a human body?". Joel tells him that his University professor did a similar study and came up with US$29. "I knew life was cheap!", came Maurice's flippant response.

I've been thinking a lot about life these days and this has put me in a solemn mood. Perhaps it is because I am turning 37 tomorrow. Perhaps it is because this will be the first birthday in 37 years I won't have my father with me - nor will he be for the rest of my birthdays. Or perhaps it is because of how people close to me talk about dying as if it was as simple as flicking a switch.

My wife and I spent a good six months of 2005 in hospitals - visiting, that is. A total of three of my family members, including my father, were in hospital. My father spent the longest time there starting in May till he passed on in January this year. One of the two relatives was in as a result of an infected toe because of diabetes - infected to the point that doctors recommended amputation. "If they amputate my toe, I'll kill myself", he said back then. He didn't go through with the surgery and by God's grace, his toe has healed somewhat. Last week, we chatted again as usual. Over the last few months, his eyesight was failing as a result of diabetes again. "If I go blind, I'll definitely kill myself" came his finite reply.

While I do feel sad for him, a single man over 50 and living alone, I can't help feel angry at his constant proclamation about ending his life, even though he has the support, albeit minimal, of the family. Why am I angry? Read on.

My father walked in and was admitted to hospital on 12th May 2005. He was scheduled to stay only for a few days for observation. This escalated into a major spinal issue and everything went downhill from there - putting him into a wheelchair and unable to walk or stand on his own. Doctors talked about surgery but were too afraid to operate initially because of the delicate nature of the surgery and my father's age. They said there was a possibility that he would not make it through the surgery. I tried hard to catch my breath when I heard those words. I talked to my father about the only high-risk option available to him. After listening to me, he said "Let's do it. I'll be ok". When I asked him if he was sure, he said "Definitely!". I made the arrangements with the doctors despite fearing the worst and true to my father's words, he made it through. Even his doctors were amazed at his will-power. "He a real fighter", the surgeon told us. "That's my Dad.", I replied.

He was in severe pain from the surgery with tubes coming in and out of him at the ICU. But through his groaning, he would enquire if I had eaten or if his office was being taken care of. And a few days after his surgery, he told me "I am looking forward to going back to my office". I smiled because I knew he would fight hard to get well. It was a load off my shoulders. At a point close to his full recovery where he was able to walk with help and support, he suffered a stroke which affected his left hand, left leg and his speech was impaired. I stood by his bedside and cried thinking how life could be so unfair to him especially when he was so close to his recovery. My father, on seeing the tears in my eyes, mumbled something which I could not understand at first. It was after a few attempts that I heard the words "I'll be alright very soon."

He left the hospital three months later still in a wheelchair after doctors said there wasn't much more they could do to help him. He celebrated his birthday two days later. After the small celebration was over that evening, he called me to his room to say that he wanted to go overseas to try other alternative treatments. "When do you want to go?", I asked. "As soon as possible", came his response. My wife and I made the arrangements and the three of us were on a plane two days later. While in flight, he said "I will not be bringing the wheelchair when I return."

My father made good progress while seeking treatment overseas. He even sent us photos of himself taken by family friends there showing him "walking" to his physiotherapy sessions and even raising his left hand to wave. I was very proud of him. He fought hard and almost won - until a massive stroke took his life.

Despite the fact that my father was an old man and at that point faced with the prospect of being wheelchair bound for the rest of his life, he worked hard to be free from his four-wheeled prison. Even when he was overseas, we talked over the phone and in-between conversations, he'd always say "I'm getting better. I'll be back soon." And in spite of the ordeal of the surgery, strokes and other complications along the way, I never once heard him say "I'd rather die". He did anything and everything he could to get well. God, I believe, had bigger plans for him.

Its no competition but my relative's suffering, in my opinion, pales in comparison to my father's. Still, he wants so much to end his life but my father's was taken even though he fought to go on. This, to me, is the greatest tragedy / injustice of all.

During my low days, I sometimes feel that life is too long a haul. But when I think of my father and how much he wanted to live, I feel shame to even entertain these thoughts. What I've gone through in life is nothing compared to what my father had to endure. And now that I have a son, I hope to bring him as much joy as my father brought to me - and for as long as I can. I believe my father persevered for the very same reason.

In the end, I guess its how much you value your life - not your existence.

With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility

Last Friday, 12 May 2006, was an "anniversary". Anniversary is in quotation marks because it is not a day for celebration. It marked one year since my father was admitted into hospital for what appeared to be a pain in his chest but eventually led to his death about 7 months later.

As I was preparing to go to work that fateful day a year ago, my wife came to tell me that my father was experiencing a chest pains. Although the symptoms did not seem like it was a heart-attack (my mother had two heart-attacks before she passed on so I am quite 'knowledgeable'), we did not want to take any chances. We called the cardiologist that treated my mother some 15 years ago and managed to schedule an appointment that same morning. Basic checks revealed nothing out of the ordinary. So, my father was ordered to be admitted. "A day or two... Just to be sure". Alright, I thought. I could help look after my father's business for a few days despite my busy schedule at my job.

After three days, no apparent reason for the chest pains could be found. Then, a full body MRI was ordered. This revealed that a mass of bacteria (streptococcus) had attached itself onto a disc on his spine and was feeding its way into it, resulting in the nerve endings at his chest to hurt severely. "Antibiotics should work", said a very young orthopedic doctor brought in by the cardiologist. Ok, these guys should know what they're talking about, especially since this was a highly reputable hospital. We went for it. After two days, my father said he was fine and the pain was gone! He even proved that he was fine by getting out of bed and walking around the ward without wincing in pain. I was elated. I was expecting to take him home in a day or two. But anything planned seldom works out the way you expect it to. The next day, I found my dad lying in the hospital bed in pain again. He told me that when a nurse tried to help him on to the bed, she did it in a very rough manner and hurt him. Being unable to walk again, he had to stay on.

"He'll have to undergo a procedure where a needle is stuck into his spine with a computer guiding it and the bacteria will be sucked out through it", said the orthopedic doctor a day later. "Any danger to my father?", I asked immediately. "Yes", came the answer I was dreading to hear. He may suffer from permanent paralysis. "And what if he does not have the surgery?", I probed further. "If the bacteria eats into the spine, he will also suffer permanent paralysis." You're damned if you do and damned if you don't, I thought. This was not an outcome I wanted for my father. After pondering for a few hours outside the hospital, I made a major decision to discharge him from this hospital, against the doctor's advice, and move him to another where I knew the doctors a little better.

On arrival, I was happy to learn that one of Singapore's best spine surgeon was affiliated to that hospital. He was brought in for a consult immediately. Although he suggested a very drastic method of surgery to remove the bacteria, he was confident that it would not lead to any form of paralysis. The only concern was my father's age and if he could withstand such a gruelling procedure. I agreed for him to go ahead and the surgery was scheduled the next day.

I paced outside the operating theatre for over 4 hours before the doors swung open and a team of doctors and nurses rushed out pushing my dad straight into the Intensive Care Unit. The doctor told me that my dad was tough and pulled through the major surgery without incident. I was pleased! My dad was, no doubt, in severe pain but he bore it bravely. In the middle of moans, he would ask if I had eaten, what time it was and if I was working the next day. From this, I knew he would make it. Two weeks later, he was moved to the general ward. His spirits were high and became the nurses favourite patient. His surgery healed very well and after a week, he was sitting up in a chair reading the papers. The nurses loved him. He memorised everyone's name and joked with all. "Your father is a real joker!", they'd tell me when I walked into the ward. All this pointed towards his full recovery. But this was not to be.

A week after, my father was having some difficulty with his bladder. An unknown doctor was called in to see him and without my permission, took him into surgery for what was supposed to be "a simple 10 minute procedure". After the 10 minutes passed, he was immediately rushed back into the Intensive Care Unit again. Apparently, he had suffered a stroke. The doctor in question put it down to my father's age and the fact that he was weak. Why did he do the procedure then? I was furious. My father was not the same after. After returning to the general ward, he was lifeless, quiet, lost strength in his left hand and leg and had to be fed through a tube. My father was very unhappy with the situation he was in and asked to be discharged. Two weeks later, he was discharged and I brought him home in a wheel-chair just in time for his birthday in August.

A small birthday celebration was put together in his honour and that night before my father turned in, he called me to say that he wanted to go to India to complete his treatment as soon as possible. And within two days, we were on a plane bound for Kerala, my father's hometown. Doctors there were very optimistic about his recovery. I was hopeful too.

And after settling him at a good hospital there, I left my father in the hands of relatives to come back to Singapore because of my responsibilities here. I kept in constant touch via phone and found that he was progressing well. After some months, he was moved to a well-known Ayurvedic hospital to help him regain the use of his limbs. Here is where he made the most progress. After a month there, he was able to walk, albeit slowly. I was overjoyed. However, this joy was short-lived again.

My father developed gastric problems while there and he was admitted to a regular hospital for treatment. An inexperienced doctor stopped all his medication, including Cardiprin, a medication used to thin blood for stroke prevention. Three days later, my father suffered a very major stroke. I spoke to the doctor who took my father off these medications via telephone the next day. All I got from him was "I don't know what medication he was taking so I stopped them all". The mixed feeling of helplessness and anger was too much to take. My father died three weeks later.

I thought of these events last week thinking just a year ago, he was alive and well. I also realised the amount of power a doctor has. When we are ill, we turn to them and trust them readily without any doubt. However, one small mistake on their part and a life can be lost. While there are many talented doctors and surgeons out there, only a handful realise the power they command and tread carefully. You read about doctor negligence all the time. You read about families that sue doctors for malpractice. But no amount of money in the entire world can repair the damage done, the anguish caused or resurrect a life lost. For doctors who slip-up, life goes on as usual. For the rest of us who suffer the pain of losing a loved one due to negligence of a doctor, it is a lifelong struggle to find normalcy and peace.

I struggle on....