This Friday, I am pulled back by memories—overwhelming memories of the day that changed everything for me.
December 8, 2025: the day I was handed my final diagnosis and a roadmap with no end on the horizon. My rheumatologist was explicit, so was my neurologist .
Ro-52 related neuropathy, he told me, is aggressive and unpredictable. He said to me, in as many words, to take a sabbatical and reset my life.
Outside that OPD room, my daughter was waiting, immersed in a book. She was looking forward to what we had planned for after the consult: going to ION Orchard to play “The Floor Is Lava.”
I walked out of the consultation chamber, took her hand, and we left. When we arrived at our destination, I sent her inside with her father to play the game.
Then, I dialed a number. I called my boss, who is also my teacher and my mentor. I wasn’t able to speak much—I could articulate only a few words.
“Sir, it’s not looking great. I’ll need a sabbatical,” I said, unable to complete my sentence.
“Whatever it takes to get you better,” he answered.
“Thank you,” I said, and disconnected.
He didn’t ask for details. Perhaps he understood I was in no state to explain, or perhaps he simply knew that if I was calling it a day, dusk had truly arrived.
I’ve never written much about my mentor. He is a man framed by an aura of glamour, yet having known him for so many years, I know the truth underneath the surface: he is deeply humble, remarkably hardworking, and boundlessly grounded. Throughout this journey, he has been nothing short of a pillar.
I finished the conversation quickly and sat there, waiting for my family . Soon, my husband called to say they were outside “CHAGEE,” a tea shop just a few meters from where I was sitting. I started walking toward them.
From a distance, I could see the two of them running and playing together. They caught sight of me and waved, and in that fleeting instant, the floodgates opened—I could no longer hold back my tears. Reacting on instinct, I turned on my heel, pretending my phone was ringing. I took a few steps back into the shadows, wiped my eyes, caught my breath, and walked back toward them.
I still carry the vivid image of Singapore bathed in the warm glow of Christmas lights and holiday splendor. We found a spot to sit along Orchard Road, letting the festivities unfold around us. Nearby, a street musician strummed his guitar, wrapped in a circle of captivated onlookers. Yet amidst all the light, music, and celebration, I felt completely, hollow and blank.
Then, out of nowhere, my eyes fell upon an elderly woman in an electric wheelchair, an oxygen cylinder strapped to the back, entirely lost in the joy of the music. After a few precious moments, she drifted gently back into the crowd and vanished. But being the hopeful soul that I am, I knew in my heart that she was no coincidence—she had been placed right there, in front of me, by God.
She was a sign of hope—a quiet, powerful reminder that no matter what unravels around us, ceasing to truly live is never an option. In that moment, I knew I wanted to grow old with that exact grace, that unyielding gratitude. Just like that, the quiet descended, and I had my answers.
In the span of just a few hours, my world had gone topsy-turvy—but it had also taught me how to balance everything on a thin rope.
I slowed down. With the steadfast support of my team, I lightened my workload, but I haven’t had to take that sabbatical—not yet.
My work is what keeps me afloat. It is so much more than just a part of my life; I often feel that if you were to strip it away, there would be nothing left of me.
So, every Friday, I run my outpatient clinics before my infusion, and sometimes, I even make my rounds afterward. I have fought to turn Fridays into a routine—a deliberate choice to anchor my identity, rather than resigning the day to being “defunct.”
In all honesty, I don’t know if my way of navigating this is right. All I know is that it is the best way I know how to survive it. And I will admit: sometimes, when I see people crying over the spilled milk of daily life, a quiet anger flares inside me.
It isn’t cruelty; it is the quiet fury of someone who has stared down the dark alleys , and ends up watching a crowd that takes their light for granted.
But perhaps that, too, is part of staying alive—learning to hold both the fragile grace of that woman in the wheelchair and the fierce, protective flame of my own indignation.
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