It had been thirteen days since Merlene left the hospital. She was now staying at her younger brother’s house a two-storey terrace home tucked in a quiet street. I arrived just before 8 p.m., my usual start time.
The night air was heavy but cooler than the day, carrying the faint smell of fried shallots from a neighbour’s kitchen. Most of the homes on the street were already lit from inside, curtains drawn, the hum of television drifting out in low bursts.
Sister Angelina was standing at the door when I came up the front steps. She was from the Franciscan Missionaries of the Divine Motherhood the FMDM Sisters her pale grey habit neat, her manner as calm as ever. We exchanged greetings, and she gave me a quick update before she left for the evening.Merlene’s family had requested her discharge.
The decision hadn’t been easy, but the oncologist had been honest: “No matter how much chemotherapy we give, it will not make any difference.” The treatment was taking more from her than it was giving back. Stopping was, in truth, an act of mercy.
When Merlene was discharged, the family asked if I would continue nursing her at home. I agreed without hesitation. After weeks together at NUH, I knew her habits, her moods, and the small preferences that made her more comfortable. The hospital bed had been set up in her bedroom, close to the window, with the oxygen concentrator tucked neatly in the corner.
As I stepped inside, the hum of the machine was the first thing I heard, steady and constant. This wasn’t the ward anymore. There was no nurses’ station to fall back on, no quick consult with colleagues. Here, through the night, she was mine to care for.
I’d known Sister Angelina for years, long before she wore the grey habit of the Franciscan Missionaries of the Divine Motherhood. Back then, she was simply Angelina a fellow State Registered Nurse. We trained in the same batch as pupil assistant nurses, and worked together only once, in the chronic medical ward at Alexandra Hospital.
You could tell instantly she was a devoted Christian, the small Bible always tucked in her pocket, her manner gentle and helpful. My only complaint? She had a way of bringing Jesus into the most unexpected moments.
Once, while we were cleaning a patient who had soiled herself, the air thick with the smell of faeces, she asked, “Have you heard of Lord Jesus?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of Jesus Christ,” I said, concentrating on removing the patient’s sarong.
“Would you accept Jesus Christ?” she pressed.
“ooooooo! I’ve already accepted Jesus Christ in my life but only as a prophet, or more like a great teacher. That’s all,” I tried to explain.
“Lord Jesus is more than just a prophet and great teacher, he is the Son of God”
I cut in gently. “My dear Angelina, I appreciate this, but we’re in the middle of cleaning our patient. Shouldn’t we be paying attention to her instead of discussing theology? If you want to talk about Christianity, there’s a time and place. I don’t mind meeting you later to chat about it. So — shall we proceed?”
That was the end of it. She never raised the subject again, nor did she arrange a follow-up talk. Ironically, our paths crossed again years later at the Palliative Nursing Conference in Singapore.
She was now with Assisi Hospice, part of Mount Alvernia Hospital’s outreach service run by the FMDM Sisters and a Nun now. I was there as a volunteer with the Singapore Cancer Society’s Hospice Care Group.
We caught up like old colleagues, swapping notes about our work.When Merlene’s situation changed, she was the first person I thought of. Being Catholic, I felt perhaps Merlene might want more than medical support, and Sister Angelina seemed the right person to offer it.
She had now visited Merlene five times.“How’s it been, Sister?” I asked her that evening at the door.
“Father Matthew came earlier to hear her confession. She’s at peace now. Thank you for referring her to me.”
“I’m happy for her and grateful to you. I’m sure the family appreciates it too.”
Andrew, Merlene’s younger brother, called me into the kitchen as I was on my way to her room. He was leaning against the counter, shoulders slumped, a dish towel still in his hands. His eyes were red-rimmed, and for a moment he looked as if he might cry.
“I’m not sure how much longer I can take this,” he said quietly, his voice tight.He took a breath, as if deciding whether to tell me, then went on. “Today she said she wanted bird’s nest soup. I went all the way to Chinatown to get it. You know how tedious it is the soaking, the cleaning, the slow cooking. Hours, just for one bowl.” His mouth twisted.
“And then she takes one small teaspoon… and says she doesn’t want any more.”I could hear the weariness behind the words not anger, not really, but the helpless frustration that comes when you’re trying to give comfort and nothing seems to land.“
I know, Andrew,” I said gently. “This is hard on you. But I’m sure she didn’t mean it to hurt you. Put the soup in the fridge she might want it later.” Merlene was lying on the bed, her head turned toward the doorway. She smiled when she saw me come in, and began talking almost immediately telling me about her day, the visitors she’d had, and Sister Angelina’s stop by.
Our evenings together had settled into a rhythm. We talked a lot she about her work in banking, the projects she’d handled, the choices that brought her into the industry. There was a light in her eyes when she spoke about it, a mix of pride and nostalgia. Then, sometimes, the light would dim.
“Why me?” she asked once, her voice almost casual, as if testing the weight of the words. “I had it all… a career I loved, people I trusted, a wonderful brother. And then cancer comes along and takes it all away.”
I searched for something to say, but the truth was, I had no answer that would make sense to her — or to me. I could talk about fate, randomness, the biology of it all, but none of it would touch the ache in her voice. So instead, I held her gaze for a moment, then said softly, “I don’t know, Merl. But I’m here.”
She nodded, and after a while, she began talking about work again the safe territory we both needed.
I shared stories from my nursing days, the ward dramas, the near-disasters that later became the funniest memories. We laughed at the silly things we’d done in our youth, those impulsive decisions that seemed so right at the time.
Over the past few days, I’d noticed only one friend visiting her regularly. She never mentioned others, and I didn’t press. Some silences don’t need to be filled you just keep the company you can.
Beside her bed, the PCA unit : Patient Controlled Analgesia , clicked softly, delivering morphine through the IV in her arm when she pressed the small handheld button. Her oxygen line, a thin intranasal catheter, rested gently against her cheeks. She looked comfortable enough in that moment, talking between breaths, her hand brushing the button now and then, as if reassured just by its presence.
One evening she asked, “Remember that song I told you about the other day? Did you get the lyrics?”
“Of course. Want to sing?” I grinned.
A few days earlier, we’d stumbled our way through My Way by Frank Sinatra, humming when the verses escaped us, laughing at our own forgetfulness. Her eyes had lit up that night and I remembered how Andrew and Theresa had walked in, shaking their heads and laughing at the sight of us.
“Can I make a request?” she asked now.
“State your request.”
“Sing it for me. The whole thing. You have the lyrics, right?”
I nodded, pulling out the sheet of paper I’d written on earlier. Sitting beside her, I began softly: And now, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain…She joined me for the chorus, her voice faint but determined: I did it my way.
We went on like that, me carrying the verses, her coming in strong at the refrains. Sometimes she closed her eyes, and I could see the words on her lips even when no sound came.
When we reached the last lines, she was almost whispering, but the resolve in her tone didn’t waver: …and did it my way.
There was a quiet moment before she spoke again. “What do you think I’ll be doing up there? Sister Angelina says the Lord has something special for me to do.”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly, “but I agree with her. Otherwise, why would the Lord choose you and not me — or someone else?”
She went still, thinking. Then: “Why don’t you come with me?”
“Merlene… given the chance, I’d love to. But my time isn’t yet. I’ll stay here until I'm summon. Just one small request, though when you’re up there, cast a compassionate glance down at this poor soul once in a while. It’s nice to know I’d have friends watching out for me.”
“I promise,” she said.
I touched her arm. “Now, sleep. It’s been a long day… ”She smiled, closed her eyes, and let the silence settle.
Around 3:00 a.m., I heard the sudden rustle of sheets and looked up to see her pushing off her nasal prongs, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her movements were jerky, unsteady.
“Merl—no!” I was already on my feet, crossing the room. She reached for the PAC line, fingers fumbling at the dressing. I caught her wrist just in time. Her eyes were wide, unfocused.
“I’m cold… I can’t breathe… the oxygen’s not working… the pain… the pain… please, help me!”
I guided her back onto the bed, one arm supporting her shoulders, the other keeping her from pulling at the IV.
“I’m here,” I told her, keeping my voice steady. “We’ll get you warm. We’ll get you breathing. Stay with me, Merl.”
Her breathing was fast and shallow, panic tightening her chest. I adjusted the oxygen flow, checked the tubing, tucked a blanket around her. One hand stayed on hers, grounding her, until the trembling began to ease.
0800 hrs: She was back in bed, propped up on several pillows. Not asleep her eyes were closed, but I could tell by the tension in her face she was still awake.
“Tired,” she said when I checked on her, “and still… breathless.” Her pulse was feeble, her skin pale, her hands cool and damp.
Mark, a pastor from a nearby church and a close family friend, arrived with two others. They had been coming every morning since Merlene returned home, singing hymns at her bedside.
Today was no different gentle voices filling the room, the soft strum of a guitar.When the last note faded, Mark stayed by her side, holding her hand.
“I’m still afraid, Mark,” she confessed. He looked at her for a long moment. “Don’t be afraid, Merlene. The Lord will be with you. You’ve been chosen a special duty already assigned to you up there. How fortunate you are to meet the Lord at such a young age…”
For someone of faith, those words would be a blanket against the cold. To Mark, they were truth to Merlene, perhaps they were a rope to hold on to.
I listened quietly, wondering what I would want to hear if it were me lying there. Not promises about a place I don’t believe in, nor duties assigned by a god I don’t answer to. I’d want someone to tell me that my life had mattered, that I had left good ripples behind me, that I was loved in this final moment simply for being me. Comfort not from heaven, but from the hands and hearts still here.
Her voice trembled. “But… but I’m still afraid, Mark.”
His brows drew together. He hesitated, as if the script had slipped. Then he leaned forward slightly.
“Merlene… have you ever forsaken the Lord?” For a moment, I thought how odd it was to ask that of someone who was dying. What comfort could possibly come from combing through a lifetime for sins at this moment?
“No.”
“Then close your eyes,” he said gently. “Close them, and together we’ll look for the light. The Lord is the light — you will see Him.”
She obeyed, eyelids fluttering shut. A silence settled over the room, broken only by the faint hum of the oxygen concentrator. After a moment, he asked softly, “Can you see the light, Merlene?”
Her head moved faintly against the pillow. “No… I see only darkness.”
“Merl, you should see the light. Our Lord is the light.”
“But… I see only darkness. I see no light.”
Mark’s expression faltered. He looked puzzled, as though the answer didn’t fit. She began to hum, almost under her breath, the tune of her favourite song. Then she mumbled something I couldn’t catch. Mark stood, shook his head slightly, and walked away without a word.
I moved to her side, took her hand in mine. She opened her eyes briefly, meeting my gaze for a moment, then closed them again. The room was quiet but for the faint hum of the oxygen machine.
“Why can’t I see the light?” she asked softly, then began humming again. I joined in, letting the sound fill the small space between us. She gave me a gentle smile.“ Remember the first time we met? We were like the clash of the Titans.”
We both laughed.
“Why can’t I see the light?” she asked again, this time holding my hand more firmly.
“Merl, you’ve been to church, right?” She nodded. “Do you remember holding a candle during any church occasion?” Another nod.
“Picture that candle now. Can you see yourself holding it?”
“Yes,” she whispered.“Now look at the flame on the candle. Can you see it?”
This time she smiled. “Yes… I see the light on the candle.”
“Good. Just focus everything you have on that light and nothing else.”
I gave her hand a squeeze.
“Merl,” I whispered, “I’ve got to go home for a while, get a few things done, and catch up on some sleep. I’ll be back tonight.”
She opened her eyes. They looked tired, but steady. “Will you come back?”
“Of course I will.”
“I will wait for you.”
Before leaving, I leaned closer. “Where are you now, Merl?”
Her voice was soft, almost dreamlike. “I’m in a church… holding a candle.”
“Good. Hold on to that candle and never let go. Is the light still there?” She smiled faintly.
“Remember — focus everything you have on the light, and nothing else.”
Out in the corridor, I met Andrew. He looked worn, his hair rumpled, eyes shadowed. He stopped me.
“I heard commotion last night… and her scream. I wanted to get up and help, but…”
He hesitated. “Our family doctor gave me Valium. Said I needed to rest.”
“It’s okay. You needed the rest,” I told him.
He nodded, though his shoulders stayed tense. I gave him a small smile and continued down the hall, the hum of the oxygen machine fading behind me as I stepped out into the night air.
I came back at 1945 hrs. Her nephew met me at the gate, tears streaming down his face. Inside, the house was hushed except for the low murmur of voices. Several family members were gathered, along with a few relatives I hadn’t met before.
In her room, they stood in a loose circle around her bed, singing hymns. Merlene was still breathing, but each breath came shallow and laboured. Andrew leaned toward me. “She hasn’t opened her eyes since you left. The breathing… it’s been like this since the afternoon.”
I checked quickly pulse feeble, blood pressure not recordable, hands and feet cold to the touch. She didn’t respond when I applied light pressure to her nail beds. The PAC pump was still running, a quiet hum beside the bed.
I bent close to her left ear. “Merl… I’m back. You can let go now, Merl… let go.”
A few minutes later, her breathing stopped. I called the hospice doctor, then began the last offices. I removed the PAC line, the nasal prongs from her oxygen. She had wet herself earlier, so I cleaned her gently, speaking to her as I worked.
“No more pain now, Merl… no more pain,” I whispered. “I’m happy for you. Go in peace”
Her face looked calm, the tension gone. I smoothed the blanket over her, rested my hand on hers for a moment longer, then stepped back and the family came in to take over with the Hospice doctor. I reported to the doctor the event that happen and the time she stop breathing.
I stopped at Bedok Central Post Office to check my mailbox. I knew there would be nothing inside, but I needed somewhere to go anywhere but home. It was almost 2300 hrs.
The stadium was closed. I walked slowly back, not realising until I tasted salt on my lips that I’d been crying. I felt hollow, as if some part of me had been taken away not pain exactly, but a deep, dull numbness.
All I wanted was to lie down and sleep. And then, the dream again. Run. Run. I’m on a long, deserted road. The air is thin.
The familiar voice cuts through the dark: I’m cold… I’m breathless… the oxygen’s not working… the pain… the pain… please help me!
She is beside me now, eyes fixed on mine. You know the code… you can change it… do it for me… let me sleep. I don’t want to wake up anymore.
My hand twitches. I feel the weight of the button, the memory of the pump’s hum. No! I tell her or maybe myself.
