A Mother's Devotion

In hospital, with my cleft palate and cleft lip, I was unable to suckle at my mother's breast. Mum had to give me formula milk. Even then, I was unable to suck the rubber teat of the milk bottle.

Undeterred, Mum started to feed me formula milk...spoonful by spoonful. It took her hours to feed me and by the time I finished one bottle, it was almost time for the next feed!

I had to stay at the hospital for a long time. Mum couldn't bear to leave me behind when it was time for her to be discharged from hospital. She begged the doctors to let her take me home with her. It was out of the question! I was too frail, too small, and too weak to survive outside the incubator. It was too risky to take me out and home.

Mum insisted. Doctors resisted. Mum finally said, "Look, Doctor, take a good look at all your nurses in this ward. Which one of these would be able to love and care for this child as wholeheartedly as I would? Who, among them, would be half as watchful and attentive to this child's needs as I would be? If you could gurantee that they would and could love, care for and attend to my child's needs with the same level of love and care that a mother could lavish on her own flesh and blood, then I'll leave this child in their care. If not, I'M TAKING THIS CHILD HOME WITH ME, TODAY!"

The doctors made her sign to indemnify them from all responsibility should I die as a result of leaving the incubator and the hospital. Mum promised she would take me back to the hospital on the first sign that I was having any problem...yes, she would take me back as soon as I even give a little sneeze, she promised. On that note, she (and I) was let off.

Home! At last.

With 4 active boys running and jumping around, Mum had to watch over me with eagle's eyes.

No! Don't touch her scalp...it's only a thin membrane...it'll take time to become harder and stronger. Don't touch her head until it's harder and stronger!

No! Don't jump on the bed. You might accidentally fall on her and crush her! Get off the bed at once!

I'm sorry, your arms are not strong enough to hold her yet. She cannot afford to suffer any fall. She's too frail, you see.

Yes, she's human. Why is she all wrinkled up and red? Why is her arm so thin and her fingers so tiny? No, she's not a doll. She's your sister. Yes, she'll grow up to be just like you. Yes, she'll walk and talk, just like you.

Mum had a lot of explaining to do to all my siblings.

Day after day, Mum attended to my needs with wholehearted devotion. She fed me breastmilk she had extracted, spoonful by spoonful. Night after night, she stayed up to check on me, to make sure I was still breathing and alive.

Soon I was bigger, fatter, stronger and livelier. Still, she would never allow anyone to take a photograph of me. She was not going to take any chances. The old ladies had warned her, "Don't allow anyone to take a picture of her! The camera might "absorb" her qi and take the life out of her!"

At first Dad tried to talk her out of believing such myths! "Come on! You're an educated woman. How could you buy that! How could a camera suck up her qi or steal her spirit? Surely you don't buy that!" Soon, Dad gave up reasoning with her to quit believing in such superstitious old wives' myths!

I never had any photographs of myself taken as an infant. The earliest photographic documentation of my life depicts me as a 4-year-old girl. It was that photograph of me taken with my family on Penang Hill. Then there were those taken at the Botanic Gardens. I'll never know what I looked like as a baby save that I was tiny, thin and frail....it seems the circumference of my arm was merely like that of a fifty cent coin, and the most accurate gauge I could have about my size was to judge by the size of my clothes (which my mum kept). Mum said that to sew clothes for me, all the cloth she needed was to cut the trouser legs of her Samfoo (a traditional day-to-day attire which women used to wear at home and on the streets). Being poor and unable to buy costly textile for sewing, she would cut up her old long pants and salvage pieces of cloth to sew clothes for me. She could not buy me ready-made clothes from the shops...even the smallest size available in the shops would be too large and ill-fitting for me.

When I made it past my first birthday and was still alive and kicking, my mum heaved a sigh of relief. However, she soon found herself having to battle another problem...I was regularly getting into bouts of fits. The doctors told her it was not something they had not expected. Each time my little body went into spasms, my mum fought to keep me safe and as comfortable as she possibly could. Over time, she learned what to do and how to handle me whenever I lapsed into one of my bouts of fits. She accepted that life with me would include dealing with fits.

Never once did Mum complain that I was such a bothersome child. Never once did she utter any regrets for having me! The only regrets she has, she now says, is that she could not do anything more to build up my strength and ensure that I had better health. Till today, whenever I fall ill, she would blame herself for not having been able to build up my strength and immunity level...she still wonders what else she could have done, or what she had overlooked doing for me when I was young.

Mum, you've done so much for me! You gave me life. You gave me a sense of self. You nurtured me with tender loving care, at the cost of your own health. You accepted and loved me unconditionally. You accepted all the inconvenience and hardships of bringing up a sickly child. You patiently accepted all those long sleepless nights of anxiety when I fell ill and had fits. You bravely ignored all the other mothers' hurtful remarks about how well their children were doing in school while yours was not doing half as well. You refused to compare me with how well my siblings were doing in school. You never compared my grades and achievements (or rather, my lack of achievement) with those of other children's. You quietly accepted all those remarks which my teachers wrote in my exercise books and report cards : An untidy girl! She must learn to write neatly and not scribble so much! Inattentive in class. Tends to be dreamy. Can't seems to focus well during lessons. Too active, cannot sit still. Needs to work harder at Math.


In those days, schools did not pay so much attention to a child's development. There were no educational psychologists attached to schools to sieve out children with special needs and help those with learning difficulties. Probably, my teachers did not even know about ADD or ADHD. Perhaps, it never occured to them that it was not so much my being lazy and unwilling to write properly that caused me to write untidily, but it was more so a fact that I had poor muscle control and lacked fine-motor skill.

Till today, I still have difficulty remembering numbers. Occasionally, I would still find it hardto recall my own phone number and the unit number of my apartment or my postal zipcode. I still find it hard to do Math. But most people would not believe me. While I was in school, my Math teachers would not believe me. At work now, my colleagues would not believe me. At home, my family members insist I am too indulgent and am giving myself too many excuses! Sigh...

Well, like the Thais say, "Mai Pen Rai" ...Never mind...as long as I know I'm not faking it. It doesn't matter even if others do not believe me. It's enough to know that I'm always true to myself...doing my best in everything, even in coping with Math and numbers.

Life is one long learning journey. But hey! I'm not complaining. I'm thankful to be alive. I enjoy learning. I believe in lifelong learning.