IN THE TIME WE HAVE LEFT
PART 2
The late Rev Loh Soon Choy’s family was asked to write about him to commemorate the first anniversary of his death. Each of them writes from their own point of view. Lydia, Rev Loh’s wife, remembers the everlasting arms that supported her through the difficult years of caring for her husband and the past year of grief in the first article. The second article, written by Debbie the eldest daughter, looks at accepting the illness and what made her father so brave in the face of death. The third article, written by Rev Loh’s youngest child Miriam, looks to the future and how Rev Loh will be remembered.
By Debbie Loh
ABOUT a year after my father was diagnosed with Stage 4 metastatic prostate cancer, I began praying that he would die painlessly and peacefully when the time came.
Why didn’t I pray for his recovery? Papa had been on oral cancer medication for less than a year and had undergone radiotherapy. For a time, the treatment was effective in preventing the cancer from spreading, allowing him to attend meetings of the various boards of para-church organisations of which he was a member or advisor. We took him on short road trips to Ipoh and Muar so he could eat his favourite foods and see places he hadn’t seen in a long time.
The drug’s effect began to fade by the second year. Scan results revealed that the cancer had spread. The pain returned, and it became so excruciating that Mummy brought him to the hospital’s emergency room. He began taking a more potent medication. His oncologist was straightforward in his explanation of the situation. And I realised: this is how it will be when we reach Stage 4: First, this drug, and then another when it loses its efficacy. And the next one, and the next one, as the previous one loses its efficacy. And so on, for as many drugs as are available, for as much money as can be spent on treatment, or until the patient decides he’s had enough.
I only told my husband and a few close friends about my new prayer. It’s not something you say out loud in Christian circles. You might be chastised for not having enough faith. But, as I looked at Papa and his quiet struggle with pain, I saw that it took faith every day just to live and for Mummy to care for him. He was 80 years old at the time, had lived a full life, had fulfilled his calling as a pastor and seminary student, and was glad to be meeting his Maker. He’d said it many times before.
I began to pay attention to how he prayed. He continued to pray for everything under the sun, including the Covid-19 pandemic, the government, the economy, and the church. When he prayed for himself, he was careful to mention healing along with “if it’s your will, God”. He talked less about “getting well” and more about making memories and doing things as a family. He continued to attend his board meetings. After he got home, he was exhausted, but when Mum or I suggested he skip a few, he retorted, “I’m not dead yet!”
Papa’s final years were about deciding what he should do with his remaining time. He showed me that in some cases, healing – which we instinctively ask God for when we are sick – may not even be the right thing to pray for. It does not indicate how much or how little faith we have. Rather, how we live in the midst of adversity demonstrates the strength of our faith.
As I kept a diary of his final days, I reflected on this. I saw the diary as a way to round out my understanding of my father. In his book “Grandfather Stories,” he had already written about the highlights of his life. I imagined my diary as the final chapter in his life.
His condition rapidly deteriorated shortly after his 82nd birthday on September 28, 2020. I returned to live with my parents. He had nearly four years of good health following his Stage 4 diagnosis. He became more confined to his bed, and Mum and I had to figure out how to help him with basic tasks that we had taken for granted for so long, as even the smallest movements became painful for him. Preventing bed sores by lifting, standing, lying down, and turning. Then there was diapering, sponge bathing, and feeding. Being alive at that point meant being in the most basic form of existence.
Papa, who was normally chatty, became quieter and more withdrawn. “I am so much trouble,” he mumbled one afternoon in mid-October.
“No, you are not,” I stated emphatically. “I’m glad to be here.”
We were sitting on the living room couch while he drank his daily afternoon health supplement. He didn’t like the taste of the thick, green sludge, and it took him a long time to finish it, so long that he fell asleep halfway through. I sat with him to ensure he drank every last drop. Those were the moments when we had brief but priceless conversations.
“No, you are not a burden,” I assured him.
He returned the weak smile. “I’m so tired. “God knows my tiredness.”
I asked him if he wanted to watch TV on another afternoon while he was nursing his drink. He usually spent his time on YouTube watching food and travel videos.
“No, thank you.” “I want to live according to my last days,” he said.
“What exactly do you mean?” I inquired.
“There’s nothing else I can learn from watching television.” I’d like to be quiet. There are many lessons to be learned in life, but there are none for me to learn because I’m going to die soon.”
Another afternoon, I asked him if he wanted to listen to some music. He used to enjoy listening to Luciano Pavarotti and Andrea Boccelli perform.
“There’s no need. When I’m in heaven, I’m sure I’ll hear a lot of music.”
Nothing seemed to cheer him up. But one night, I realised. Mummy and I were cleaning him as he lay in bed. He’d gotten so thin that he looked like a baby. As we tucked him in and said our goodnight prayers, he opened his eyes, smiled, and sweetly said, “Thank you for everything.”
When he rejected the things I thought would cheer him up, it wasn’t grumpiness. Instead, I saw a calm acceptance and a silent resolve to face the inevitable. He was concentrating all of his thoughts, all of his being, on meeting death. Despite the fact that he was the patient, I imagined him running a race. Though being bedridden, he was running a marathon in which death was the finish line before a bright, painless eternity. We were nothing more than water stations and a cheering crowd.
He mentioned euthanasia one afternoon. He has previously stated his opposition to legalising assisted suicide in this magazine (April-June 2018 Vol.50 #2 issue), but this afternoon he stated:
“I wish they would legalise euthanasia here.” I wish you and Mummy could assist me in dying.”
“It’s against the law. Mum and I are going to get in a lot of trouble!” I stated.
“Hahaha, I’ll leave you and mummy to deal with the consequences!” He actually laughed.
The days passed with him spending 99 percent of his time in bed. He was now taking morphine twice daily at regular intervals for pain relief, and we would give him a little more in between if the first dose’s effect wore off.
When he was awake, the morphine made him delirious, and when he slept, it gave him vivid dreams. Some mornings, he’d wake up chatty, eager to tell Mummy about his dreams. He was most clear at this point. His bouts of delirium caused him to fidget, roll side to side in bed, and call out incoherently for the rest of the day. He’d call my name, and I’d go to him, but he’d be unable to tell me what he wanted. He was simply moaning in pain, I realised.
“Please tell Uncle Albert that I’m preparing myself to go to heaven, and I’m very happy about it,” he said two days before November 11. (Albert Teh, a close family friend, had just texted him.)
My husband paid me a visit that night, and we had family prayers. Papa prayed as follows:
“Thank you, Lord, for all the joy and peace we have because we are already yours.” We’re not going to be, but we’re already yours.”
He stressed the word “already.” His voice was soft but distinct.
This was exactly what I had been looking for. The final chapter. The final piece of information needed to figure out who he was. Despite all of the accolades and recognition he received throughout his life for his work and ministry, all he was concerned with in the end was the fact that he belonged to God. That was how he saw himself, and it was the only way he could face death with calm acceptance. He belonged only to God.
The next two nights were spent awake. He kept moaning in pain, and more morphine doses didn’t help.
On Wednesday, November 11, he was in bed, fidgeting once more and refusing the porridge that had been prepared for his lunch. Mum stood to his left, and I stood to his right.
“I want euthanasia,” he said as he turned to face me.
“Tell God how you feel,” I advised.
“Why is it so difficult to die?” He shifted his gaze to the other side to look at Mummy.
“When the time comes,” she said, “God will take you.” She sang to him while holding his hand.
“I want to see Jesus,” he said, turning to face the ceiling.
The secret prayer I had been praying for the last three years was answered a minute or so later, during which he raised his hands and gasped one last breath. It wasn’t completely painless, but it was definitely peaceful. Finally, he was healed.
This is a 3 part sharing to commemorate the first anniversary of the late Rev Loh by his wife and daughters.
Part 1 – Held by Everlasting Arms ( Lydia Kristanto) published on 10th Nov 2021.
Part 2 – In The Time We Have Left (Debbie Loh) published on 11th Nov 2021.
Part 3 – 10 Things to Do to Remember You (Miriam Loh DeShield) published on 12th Nov 2021.
