Sister Boey’s gone home
She helped me through the darkest days of my life.
Why didn’t I make more time for her? By SOO CHAN HUA
A
S I PEERED THROUGH the open doors of
Ward 41, a voice from behind me asked,
“Are you looking for Sister Boey again?
She’s gone home already.
I couldn’t hide my disappointment. “Is
there a chance I might be able to catch her here
sometime next week?” I asked the nurse.
“Why not call before you come? Sister
Boey’s working part-time now, and her hours are
not as regular as they used to be.”
I left feeling empty and irrationally lonely.
It’s no surprise that my feelings for this
place were so strong. Tan Tock Seng Hospital in
Singapore was where I had endured the agonies of
cancer.
In 1988, just before I turned 12, I was
diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s disease. I underwent
surgery to remove a huge tumour on my spine, and
then started a long series of painful treatments: a
year of radiotherapy followed by two years of
chemotherapy. I was perpetually nauseous, and my
hair fell out. Then there were the painful needles to
administer drugs and extract spinal fluid and bone
marrow. It was like something out of a horror film.
There were times when I felt that I wouldn’t
make it, when things were so bleak that all I could
do was shut my eyes and wrap my hands around
my legs as I curled up in my hospital bed.
Sister Boey was a nurse on my ward, and
when I was at my worst, she would stroke my arm
and say soft words of comfort. With patience and
love worthy of a saint, she helped me through my
ordeal.
Eventually the cancer subsided, the
treatments stopped and I returned to school.
Although life appeared to be normal again, I carried
the emotional scars created by that terrible time.
One wet December day, about three years
after I had gone into remission, I met up with Sister
Boey at the Novena train station. Outlined against
the vast buildings, she seemed so tiny for someone
who inspired and warmed up entire hospital wards.
She smiled and handed me an ang pow, a
red packet meant for money. “A little something for
Christmas. I wanted to give this to you before the
season passed by. But, aiyah, we can never find
time to meet.”
She knew that I was living with my
younger brother in a rented apartment while I
attended Catholic Junior College. She also knew
how short of money I was. I hated taking handouts
but I loved Sister Boey like a mother and couldn’t
refuse her.
“You know that you can come to me for
help anytime. I have enough to spare,” she
whispered before we parted.
Over the years she kept finding excuses to
give me money – every festive season, every
birthday, every whatever. I felt guilty that I couldn’t
do a thing for her in return.
 Sister Boey retired not long after my last
unsuccessful visit to her ward. I phoned her now
and then, and she would cheer me up if things were
going bad.
I never heard a word of complaint from her
– no outpouring of worries, no grumbles about
bosses or neighbours, no bellyaching about getting
old. She always seemed happy with her life.
So I was shocked when I learned that
Sister Boey had breast cancer. I also stayed in
touch with Dr June Lou, the paediatrician who had
treated me during my battle with cancer, and one
day she told me about Sister Boey’s condition.
I called her that night. “Aiyah, nothing
much lah. I’m getting better,” she declared. “You
don’t have to come and visit me. OK?”
Of course I went to visit her at her small
flat.
The chemotherapy had taken its toil. She
looked frail and worn, and she had lost her hair.
She mentioned how she spent her time looking
after her young nephews. Even in her condition,
she was doing what she did best – nursing.
Her voice was cheerful, and her eyes were
still filled with her joy for life. She gave no hint of
pain. But I knew the pain was definitely there. I had
been down that road.
As I was leaving, I felt the urge to hug her
and say, “Thank you for everything you’ve done for
me. I love you.” But I was a coward. I feared it
would be too embarrassing for both of us, so I said
nothing.
Being busy, I didn’t see her for several
months, and then one night I received a phone call.
Sister Boey’s cancer had spread.
When I returned to her apartment, she
looked indefinitely worse. The only thing holding her
together was the skin around her bones.
Her appearance took me back to my
mother’s final days, before cancer took her too. I
came home from school each day to find a little
more of her gone for good. Seeing dear Sister
Boey now, I struggled to hold back my tears.
It wasn’t long before I was reunited with Dr
Lou and other friends, this time for Sister Boey’s
funeral. The chapel was packed with people. I
recognised doctors and nurses from the hospital,
and there were a lot of unfamiliar faces – no doubt
former patients like me.
I stood before the casket for a long time,
looking at Sister Boey’s ashen face – a picture of
peace.
There was a portrait of her before the
casket. “That’s a nice photo of her.” I heard Dr Lou
said to Sister Boey’s niece.
“Yes, it’s her favourite, taken during her
nursing school days. A lot of guys were interested
in her, you know? But she was always too busy for
boyfriends, too busy looking after others.”
Albert Einstein once said, “Only a life lived
for others is a life worthwhile.” That aptly described
Sister Boey. And in living for others, she had lived
for herself in the best way possible. As I looked
upon her face the last time, in my heart I said the
words I should have spoken when she could still
hear me: “Thank you for everything you have done
for me. I love you.”
I said goodbye to Sister Boey, and left a bit
of myself with her.