The end of one year and the beginning of the next always put me in a morose mood. Two weeks ago, around December 31st and January 1st, while the rest of the world was busy partying and counting down, I could not stop ruminating on the same topics over and over again – my thoughts were mainly of people who have left (they died or went off my radar and faded from my life) and I couldn’t stop myself from thinking, with a sense of dread, of how to pull through the next 300-plus days that form 2025.
A torrent of questions deluged and overwhelmed my mind:
Has each passing year truly brought me closer to joy and inner peace?
Am I any better off, or just further adrift?
Have my finances grown, or do they still disappoint me?
Will I ever be able to buy a Singapore Airlines Suites Class ticket without batting an eyelid?
Is my new hip functioning at 100%?
Is my back pain/sciatica ever going to disappear?
Have I grown wiser, or merely more disillusioned?
Do anger and bitterness still cling to me, refusing to let go?
The weight of disappointment still lingers, a constant reminder of the world’s excesses.
I fear I still harbor judgment toward those who recklessly indulge in life’s luxuries – the A5 wagyu, the Beluga caviar, the snow crabs and the uni – slowly surrendering to a life of self-destruction, one opulent bite at a time. I am not envious but I feel I was being too critical and judgmental. Or is it due to the fact that my appetite is almost non existent these days? Despite that, my waistline – which is my wife’s favorite conversational topic – continues to be a disgrace. The scale doesn’t lie – as good a truism as “the house always wins.” Frustrating indeed.
Talking about frustration, my physical limitations are additional testament to my unrelenting vexation. My hip is brand new – having undergone a successful total (left) hip replacement surgery last March, but my gait is far from perfect as my balance still falls short. My back continues to hurt excruciatingly and the muscles in my body still tense with anxiety each time I’m a passenger trapped in a car driven by some kith and kin kind enough to offer me rides but to me, they happen to be among some of Singapore’s most dangerous drivers – they either drive too slow or way faster than those F1 speed demons, incessantly honking and flashing the headlights at other motorists, generally being a big bully and hooligan on the road – their incompetence – and total disregard for my anxiety and safety – a stark reminder of the world’s imperfections.
There’s more! As a qualified dementia counselor, I was told that every one second, three persons are diagnosed with dementia.
Will I be a victim myself one day?
Is my creeping forgetfulness a sign of cognitive decline, does it foreshadow a future shrouded in the chilling grip of debilitating dementia? Will my mind, once a vibrant tapestry of memories, unravel into a terrifying rage, confining me to the stark reality of a bed, a prisoner within my own fading consciousness?
Statistics show that older adults with dementia are at higher risk than other patients for being placed in restraints, despite numerous negative physical and psychological outcomes associated with their use.
Will I spend my last days ranting and raging away while tied to my bed? Being a bad-tempered person, that is my real fear. Unable to be understood, incoherent in my speech, will I be a raging, violent monster?
Will I – like a friend’s father – forget to swallow and have to be tube-fed?
Will I defecate and urinate in diapers? How will those unlucky enough to have to change them mock my shriveled penis?
And what of my beloved children and my precious grandchildren? How will they bear witness to my slow, agonizing decline, as the years stretch on, each one a cruel reminder of the vibrant life that once was? I don’t want to be remembered as a shrunken, smelly old man, a poor shadow of the big, strappy fella I used to be. Or will cancer suddenly strike, handing me a quick death sentence? (That might be better than a long, prolonged, agonizingly painful goodbye.)
I am usually more organized than the Brits were in preventing Singapore from being swarmed by the Japanese during the second world war but nowadays malaise has set in. I have little motivation to do anything and my energy level is low, yet every night I struggle to fall asleep. Every trip I reluctantly took felt unbearably long – the food tasteless, the people predictable, the conversations dull – except when I was with my soulmate, Ian. With him, I’ve always shared a profound meeting of minds. But Ian is in Australia, far from being just a taxi ride away.
Do I have a choice other than to tighten my seat belt, grit my teeth, bite my tongue and roll with life’s punches as I turn 68 next month, knowing that in two years, I will be 70.