The alarm clock’s shrill insistence cut through the last echo of the woman’s voice. The hall dissolved, the parcel vanished, and she was back in my room. 7:00 p.m. NUH sat high on the hill like it owned the night, all glass and concrete angles catching the streetlights.
Even from the bus stop, you could see the lit windows stacked in rows, each one holding a slice of someone’s story. She’d walked through those doors enough times to know its moods the midday rush, the evening lull, and the deep-night silence that could feel like peace or like waiting.
By the time she stepped off, the dream had been pushed into some quiet corner of her mind.Uniform on, hair pulled back, bag over my shoulder. The ride to NUH took about forty-five minutes one bus all the way, no changes, a small mercy for a night nurse.
She knew NUH well. She once worn its badge proudly, working in the Orthopaedic unit, joined straight out of nursing school in 1988. The hospital was still new then officially opened in ’85 and had the bright, polished confidence of a fresh build. Most of the staff had been seconded from other hospitals, but early in ’88, NUH started hiring its own nurses. Her batch of final-year student nurses was invited to an open house.
The Hospital CEO himself welcomed the nurses in the auditorium, all smiles and promises. He spoke of modern facilities, training opportunities, and most importantly salaries. “We will be the first hospital in Singapore to offer a four-figure starting salary to newly registered nurses,” he declared. Murmurs rippled through the group.
She raised her hand. “All this you’re telling us… has it been approved by the board of directors?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
She pressed on. “And if we sign now, what’s to stop you from turning around later and saying, ‘Sorry, the board didn’t approve’?”
There was a pause then his eyes lit up, like someone who’d just been thrown a gauntlet.
“My young lady, if you sign with us today, I promise you will get the four-figure salary as agreed.”
So she did. That was how she found herself at NUH, but it lasted five years, long enough to see its routines settle and its sheen fade into everyday work. Then she resigned to help her brother with the publishing house business, a move that would change more than she could see at the time.
Now, years later, she was back. Not as NUH staff, but as a private nurse. The corridors were the same, but she walked them differently. The medical ward was still in its evening rhythm — lights softened, voices low. The air held the faint sting of antiseptic mixed with the dull smell of boiled cabbage from the dinner trays.
Nurses in light-blue uniforms moved between rooms, checking drips, speaking in brief murmurs. The night staff wouldn’t come in until nine, so there was no rush in the air yet, just the slow winding-down of the day.
The first thing she did was ask for the patient’s folder. She took it to an empty desk by the side window, away from the main counter. The file was thick, corners worn. She flipped through the admission notes, past pages of lab results and doctors’ scribbles in hurried ink. Diagnosis confirmed: nasopharyngeal carcinoma, lymphatic spread, pleural involvement. Five days into admission.
She read the treatment orders twice : IV fluids, potassium chloride, antibiotics, morphine infusion, oxygen therapy letting the details settle in my mind. She checked the MAR (Medication Administration Record), noting her last doses, any side effects charted. No missed meds so far. When she reached the end of the notes, the Registered Nurse in charge called her over.
She was in her forties, brisk but not unfriendly, the sort who’d seen every kind of case come through this ward.“Okay, what we have here,” she began, holding the medication card and let her into the Nursing staff office where they could speak without interruption.
“Female, thirty-five years old. Diagnosed NPC with lymphatic spread and pleural involvement. On intravenous normal saline 1000 with potassium chloride, continuous over twenty-four hours. IV antibiotics Fortum, one gram eight-hourly, and CP, two megs six-hourly. Intranasal oxygen at three litres per minute.
Porta-a-Catheter in situ with morphine infusion, four milligrams per hour. Trigger dose allowed, but no less than one-hour interval. Admitted five days ago.”
She glanced up. “You’re the fifth nurse.” She raised an eyebrow.
“Fifth?” Her mouth curled into a small, knowing smile.
“Good luck.” She gestured toward a trolley stacked with folders. “Old case notes, X-rays, medical reports — all in there.”
“No problem,” she said, tucking the chart under my arm. “I have the whole night to go through it.” She collected her jacket, water bottle, and bag, then started down the corridor toward her room. The ward was quieter now the evening team had retreated to the station, finishing up their reports. She passed doors half-open, patients reading or dozing, the low hum of oxygen flow from the wall outlets.
Outside her door, she paused, feeling that familiar heaviness that comes before meeting a new private patient. The file in her hand felt heavier than paper.
“Okay, mate,” she murmured. “Here we go again.”
Her room was the last cubicle down the corridor a four-bedder. The door was ajar, a strip of light spilling into the hall.She stepped inside. The air was warm, faintly metallic from the oxygen line. Her bed was by the window, close to the balcony where the curtains hung half-drawn.
Evening light still lingered outside, a wash of gold turning the balcony railing into a silhouette.She was lying on her side, propped slightly against the pillows, eyes on the TV fixed high on the wall. The volume was low, just a soft murmur in the background. Her hair was cropped close, her face pale but alert.
A man sat in the chair beside her, leaning forward with his hands clasped, stood immediately when he saw her walking in, the movement was quick but controlled.“I’m her brother,” he said, his voice even but guarded. He glanced toward her, then back at her, as if measuring how much to say. She nodded, introducing myself, letting my tone stay steady, unhurried.
There were only three patients in the room. The bed nearest the door was empty the other two were occupied by elderly women, one dozing, one watching us from behind her reading glasses.She set my bag down on the bedside table and glanced at the chart again, though I already knew what it said. Then she turned her attention fully to her.
Six days later…She was sitting in the armchair, nasal oxygen in place, the line running to the wall outlet at 2.5 litres per minute. Her breakfast tray hadn’t arrived yet, but the chemo infusion was still in progress — a slow 25 mls an hour through the thermo pump.She was at her locker, tidying the things she liked to keep within reach after just finishing her morning sponge.
Her report was already written, ready to hand over at the nurses’ station. During the day, she wouldn’t have a private nurse the ward staff would take over her care until she returned in the evening.
“You still going to take the four days off?” Merlene asked suddenly, watching her.
“Yes, I am,” she said.Her eyes narrowed. “Are you abandoning me too?” She froze, the word abandoning hanging heavy between us. “That sounds harsh. I definitely not abandoning you,” she said, turning to face her.
“I just need four days off to go somewhere. I’ve already made arrangements with the agency — they’ll send a relief nurse to cover me for the next four days.”
“Where are you going, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Well… every year, at the end of August, I make my way to Johor.”
“What’s in Johor?”
“It’s a temple festival in an oil palm estate. What do I do there? Mostly help out — I’m the chief cook.” A small smile tugged at her mouth, but it faded quickly.
“Okay… but will the nurse covering you be experienced enough? Does she know how to handle me?”
“They’re all registered nurses, And I’ve written down everything they need to know, plus my daily notes are in your file. I’m sure they’ll manage just fine. Just…” she paused, softening my tone, “…be nice to them. That’s all I’m asking.”
“I’m not nice to you?” she asked, half-smiling but with an edge.
“Well… you’ve scolded me several times. Your words can be hurtful, to a certain extent. You’ve called me slow and stupid. I don’t think you have much faith in me, or that you believe I’m capable enough. But it’s okay I know you’re angry, and you need an outlet for it. Hey, look, I’m still here. Six days. Am I right? Has any other nurse stayed with you that long? I just feel we could do more together, you and I. We need to work on this relationship. This constant irritation between us… it’s not healthy. I don’t feel good about it.”
She studied me for a moment. “Do you know about me?”
“Well, medically, I do. I know how this all started. I’ve read every scan report — X-rays, ultrasounds, MRIs, bone scans — and all your blood work. I know how many rounds of chemo you’ve had, and how often your porta-cath has blocked. In that sense, yes, I know you. I also know you’re hardworking and focused. You know what you want, and you’ve worked hard to get it in the banking world. But I don’t know what’s in your mind. I wish I did — only then could I really reach you. I’m your nurse, Merlene. I’m here to help.”
“I work very fast,” she said. “We can’t afford to go slow in banking. That’s why I push for everything to be fast. It’s hard for me to slow down — but I’m learning.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
She pulled the chair closer. She was opening up, a little at a time. The ward assistant arrived with her breakfast, placing the tray on the table beside her armchair. She helped her butter the bread.
“Don’t you have to go home? It’s past eight,” she reminded me.
“No problem. Time’s not an issue. I’m heading to Johor right after this. Want me to stay a while?” She nodded.
“You see, Merlene, I’ve worked in a busy ward before — Emergency. Everything there moves at high speed. If I tried to work that way with you now, it would make you even more breathless. So I’m moving at your pace. You need to understand that.” she paused, then added, “And if the relief nurse is better for you, and she’s willing to stay on, please don’t feel guilty. It’s okay with me if she takes over permanently.”
Her eyes widened. “Please don’t say that. I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“Before I took over your case, I worked another — ten nights straight without a night off. I need a break, or I’ll get cranky.”
“I know I can be cranky too,” she said, her mouth softening. “Well, one of us has to stay cheerful. Okay, take your time off. See you in four days. Can I request one thing from you?”“Of course.”
“Think of me while you’re away.”
“Sure,” I said. She hesitated, looking down, then up again. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes.
“Can I share something else with you?”She sat beside her and held both her hands.
“Talk to me, Merlene.”
“I’m afraid… I know I’m going to die. Everyone keeps giving me hope — even the doctors. But I know I’ll die soon. And I’m afraid.” She held her hands tighter, then leaned in and embraced her gently. She began to cry. Her tears made her chest tighten. For a moment, she thought about cancelling her break altogether. But she knew better — if she didn’t take those four days to recharge, she will be no good to her or anyone else.
She squeezed her hands. “Once I’m back from leave, we’ll talk, okay? In the meantime, hang on. Be strong. I know you’re a strong girl.” She gave a small smile through her tears, the corners of her mouth trembling, and nodded. She stood, tucking her blanket in at the sides, making sure her breakfast was within reach.
As she walked toward the door, Merlene lifted her hand and waved. She waved back before stepping into the corridor, the image of her sitting in that armchair lingering with her long after I’d left the ward.
