22 Movie Trailers To Drag You Back Into The Cinema, Maybe

I heard a dance record titled "We've lost dancing" a while ago and that triggered a slew of thoughts on what else we've lost as a social society that enjoys a good time out. And of course part of that exclusion has been not being able to watch a movie on the big screen. I can't remember when I was last in a cinema. Probably most of us have seen many over a streaming service over the past year or so, but something's quite different about seeing the same action on a giant canvas with mega sound from all around. Perhaps it reminds me the joy of going to movies as a kid. It was always a big deal because we weren't well off and my dad was busy all the time. From picking the seats to finding the way through the dark looking for them, trying not to spill any kacang puteh along the way, trying not to trip over other people's feet, hoping the seats were not in a sorry state of torn leather and escaping sponge stuffing, it was all a wonderful adventure.

I am one of those moviegoers who enjoys previews. I like being teased about what's coming. When the lights go down, the ads go away, the trailers run and I'm all abuzz about what's coming in the next few months. The anticipation borne out of a minute-long preview can be enough to send film fans into spasms of expectation frenzy for months. Remember when the Matrix 2 and 3 trailers came out? Even Avengers Endgame. Good lord, the internal mayhem that ensued and external banter on soclal media. Hence the link below. 

A guide to the weirdest and most exciting summer movie season of our lives

22 short insights into what you might see on a screen, big or small, this year. For me, this was a brilliant 45 minutes of entertainment. Lunch for your brain sorted. 

Cut Cancer Risk By Soaking Your Spuds

It started as a question about an impending housewarming present. I replied with a link to an airfryer on sale on Lazada. This led on a comment about cancer risk from  fried foods plus an image about how brown potato chips or fries get in relation to how much acrylamide has built up on them. Acrylamide is a carcinogen or a cancer-causing substance created when starchy foods are cooked on high heat. Quite simply, the browner the fry, the higher the acrylamide count. 

I did a quick Google search for "frying potatoes acrylamide" and found this article - Strategies to Reduce the Formation of Acrylamide in Potato Chips. A Market and Consumer’s Prospective. Holy hit the right spot batman! 

So the LTDR summary is

1. Acrylamide forms because of the sugar and an amino acid called asparagine found in potatoes. So it's not anything you could prevent, except by not eating potatoes.

2. Scientists have done a whole of experimental cooking, 

3. Their results 

- Adding the herb rosemary to the olive oil used for frying reduces acrylamide production by 25%. 

- Soaking potatoes in water for 15mins reduces acrylamide production by 65%!

- Soaking potatoes in acidified water by adding vinegar or a citric acid (lime, orange etc) reduces acrylamide production by up to 75%! 

So there you have it - reduce your risk of cancer by merely soaking your cut spuds in water. 

Yakult Prevents Alzheimer's Disease, Maybe

Doctors had diagnosed my mum with liver cirrhosis. This hardening of the liver plus other complications eventually took her life recently. Before she passed, the doctors had explained to me that her mind would get fuzzy from the toxins in her blood that her liver could no longer clear adequately. The main culprit toxin was ammonia.

It turns out everything we do produces ammonia because it’s a product of metabolism. Even when no food is eaten, and the body burns it’s own carbs and fat for energy, ammonia is produced. So having a healthy liver is essential for cleaning out the NH3 and living well.

I went on to the good old internet to find out more. Too much ammonia messes with the neuron activity in the brain, causing connections to slow and eventually fail. A conclusion many medical studies made was that excess ammonia leads to a quicker onset and progression of dementia and Alzheimer’s disease (1).

After learning this, I went ahead to Google “foods that reduce ammonia in the body”. Guess what delicious, gooey goodness showed up - yoghurt. (2) While some deficiencies in the study were pointed out, there was some insight into how probiotics can support the liver in reducing the quantity of ammonia in the body.

More digging required. I found this study (3) that specifically looked into how the Mediterranean diet could reduce the onset of Alzheimer’s disease from probiotic aspect. I picked out these thought provoking nuggets from section 4 and 5 in the report -

"Study shows that oral and rectal administration of Lactobacillus plantarum decreased both blood and fecal ammonia levels in rodent models of hyperammonemia."

"Some clinical studies performed in patients with liver diseases suggest that Lactobacillus strains were able to decrease blood ammonia level and improve neuropsychological symptoms."

"In addition, existing evidence suggests that administration of Lactobacilli, contained in yogurt, helps in reducing elevated blood ammonia levels. Lactobacilli reduce the blood ammonia level by stabilizing physiological luminal permeability. On the other hand, Lactobacilli also promote the growth of non-urease producing microflora bacteria followed by depressing ammonia production and release into the portal system. Therefore, higher adherence to the MeDi (Mediterranean diet) may be able to remove neurotoxin effects of ammonia in the brain by lowering the blood ammonia levels and this could, at least partially, explain the lowered incidence rate of AD (Alzheimer’s disease) in Mediterranean."

There are many types of gut germs and two of the Lactobacilli varieties mentioned in these studies were Lactobacillus acidophilus and Lactobacillus casei. Do these names sound familiar? They’re the good bacteria in Vitagen and Yakult!

More Googling ensued. An abstract of one study (4) gave an indication of ammonia reduction from exercise-initiated metabolism by consumption of Lactobacillus casei Shirota - that’s the patented stuff that’s in Yakult!

Of interest to those of you watching your weight by eating mostly carnivorous, you’re likely producing more ammonia that folks eating carbs. Carbs FTW!

There are lots of reports available out there but it was logical for me to conclude something simple. Yoghurt, probiotics and milk-based drinks like Vitagen and Yakult help put in useful Lactobacilli into the body that helps to reduce ammonia, which in turn helps the brain and body work better. This consequence goes beyond the traditional marketing for these products that focuses mostly on digestive health. But then again you already know you are what you eat.

So do yourself a favour - start eating some yoghurt regularly. Especially if you enjoy that beer or two, or seven. Eighty year-old you will thank you for it later.

Sources
1. Ammonia as a Potential Neurotoxic Factor in Alzheimer's Disease
- https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4976099/

2. What Improves Minimal Hepatic Encephalopathy: Probiotic Yogurt, Protein Restriction or Nonabsorbable Disaccharides?
- https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3371416/

3. Blood Ammonia as a Possible Etiological Agent for Alzheimer’s Disease
- https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5986444/

4. Lactobacillus casei Shirota modulation of ammonia metabolism in physical exercise - https://www.researchgate.net/publication/287309677_Lactobacillus_casei_Shirota_modulation_of_ammonia_metabolism_in_physical_exercise

Obituary - Jerkinder Kaur 1951 - 2021

My mother has passed away. She had been sick for a while and she breathed her last on Wednesday, 26 May 2021, on Vesak Day morning. 

My mum was born in Ipoh, Malaysia, to a large family. She had, at one time, 5 sisters and a brother. She was the eldest of the lot. Back then, this meant she had to bear the burden of taking care of everyone, whether she wanted to or not. 

My mum never went to secondary school. She regaled every now and then about how fun it was in primary school, a Punjabi school, where she said she enjoyed studying. She told us stories of play, folly, getting in trouble and learning things the hard way. When it was time for her to carry on to higher learning, her parents put a stop to her progress. She had to stay home and help take care of things - cooking, cleaning, washing - all the things any child hated doing. She would need to stay home while her siblings got to live out their ambitions. 

She begrudged her parents for that. Being thrust into responsibility at such a young age made her hard, toughened emotionally but at the same time, fragile. She perhaps also bore some animosity towards some of the siblings who did well in school, and had something to be proud of. I think no one really told my mother that she did a good job being a second mom to everyone else, looking after house and home. 

In her time at home, she learned to cook at the stiff hands and tough lectures of my grandmother, a lady I never met. She told us, more than once, she got hit on the head with a rolling pin when the chapatis she made were not round. So my sister and I were regularly threatened by our mother in the same way growing up. 

She became thorough, precise and fastidious in the kitchen. She learned how to cook by feeling and taste versus measurement and order. Her skills were a talent I didn’t appreciate till I was older, perhaps in my late teens. The way she would work the knife when peeling onions and potatoes, her use of spices and masala powder, and her ability to sometimes experiment after watching a cooking show on TV - all these things were borne from her difficult experiences in the kitchen in a rustic, zinc-roofed kitchen village home in Ipoh. 

Almost everything she cooked was brilliant. I loved her dahls and curries, Malay-style mee goreng, sambal prawns, sayur lemak, cakes and muffins. She enjoyed spiced then fried ikan kuning, rasam (a South Indian sour spicy soup) with plain white rice. 

I would respond to her queries on what to make for dinner this way “Mummy, whatever you cook, I will eat.” I grew to enjoy her simpler creations - just chappatis, a simple yellow dahl, and long beans fried with onions, chilli and chives (koo chye) formed a meal I relished. 

My mum also frequently made a dried prawn sambal akin to sambal belado, in sizeable batches to keep for a month or two in the fridge. Red chillies, onion, garlic, ginger, tomatoes, and tiny dried prawns would go into a blender with water to be poured out into hot oil for frying before some salt was added. She would slightly obsess over the quality of the dried prawns, often complaining to sundry shopkeepers about their poor stock. The whole house would smell of sambal each time he made up a pot, the wonderful scent wafting out along the common HDB corridor to the unsuspecting nostrils of my deprived neighbours. She would use the condiment for anything that needed a spicy umami kick. I would use the sambal liberally in my Maggi noodles, plop a dollop on top of a fried egg, bring it to barbecues as a dip for all kinds of grilled meats, and to make sambal cheese sandwiches. (Yes, the latter works big time. A friend in secondary school,Terence Chen, brought some to school for a class party, the sandwiches neatly stacked in the Gardenia bread wrapper the bread came in. One bite, and I never looked back. I think he had some Peranakan blood in his family and hence the excellent taste.)

Cleanliness became her obsession too. My sis and I were subject to my mum’s maddening tirades on how messy we were as teenagers. We of course had to help clean too, and in that way we learned as she did. One funny outcome of this was her liberal purchase of kitchen towels, and also the need to cover things up - to protect them against dust. Even now, there are at least 20 kitchen towels - the “good” and “expensive” 3M ones in green, blue and purple -  in a drawer in my kitchen today. Her standards were high and everyone else’s rooms, homes, kitchens, clothes, faces, children etc. were subject to those criteria. 

The other reason why my mum was mad about and with dust, was because she was asthmatic. She contracted the problem when we was a teenager, an outcome of “drinking cold drinks” apparently. She could not break out of the cycle of breathlessness and she bore this chronic illness till her passing. It was also one of my earliest memories of her, being sick, struggling to breathe properly. She would tell us she used to able to run fast as a child, even winning at school meets. I think her confinement to home duties as a teenager robbed her of her physicality and also her health. 

I surmise that her asthma was the start of her deteriorating health. She didn’t want to exercise because exercise would make her breathless. Without exercise, my mum put on weight. More weight meant other medical troubles, which came to the fore later. A vicious cycle she couldn’t break. 

She met my dad in 1970 I think, through mutual couple friends in Singapore. They married here in 1971. I suspect the reason why my mum married by old man dad and ‘ran way’ 500 kilometres south was because she was tired of her hard life at home. As the eldest, was routinely in trouble for the misdeeds of her siblings. She was also inherently jealous of their more carefree, educated existences. There were perhaps other issues at home which she never really got to talking about. She wanted an escape and that was my father’s hand in marriage. She was willing to uproot her life, not speaking a word of English, to come live in a room in the second storey of a shophouse along Upper Bukit Timah Road, to start again. 

Times were tough when we were growing up. As kids however, we never knew it. We were poor but unaware what it meant to have means. A toy was an item of fortune my sister and I shared for months. If it broke, we’d be upset and not ask for anything new because we knew our parents couldn’t afford it. My mum, who never took a paid job before, had to become a factory worker when I was a toddler. My father once told me he never wanted my mother to work outside because he was part of the old school - men worked, women stayed home and looked after the kids. But he got badly sick too while we were kids and my mum had to step up. 

When she went to do her afternoon shift work, taking a bus from across the road, my sister and I were left to our own devices. We were told to stay in our room but we never really did. We sneaked down the stairs to play with the neighbours’ children and to hang out at the shops below. I don’t remember much but this memory sticks out - while my sister and I  were gallivanting along the shophouse corridor one afternoon, my mum whom we thought had been safely whisked away on a SBS bus to Jurong for work the next several hours, appeared in front of us. We froze, stunned into submission by this now angry giant of a mother. We were publicly scolded and given several lashing of the trusty tool of paediatric punishment, the rotan. It was tough love, the kind my mother was used to getting, and was then meeting out. 

A trait my mum had was being good at art. I discovered this in primary school when she would help with my art homework. She liked colours, painting and crafting. I remember she made masks for me to submit as my own creations in Primary 2 or 3. She took pride in ensuring the lines were neat, colours were kept in the right bounds, paper was cut accurately, and kept the pencils, crayons and poster colours neatly back after in the right place. There was trouble later when this lesson in tidying up was not repeated by her children. 

My mum could also sew. We had a foot-pedal-powered Singer machine that stuck with us for about another 20 years. My sister and I used it as toy, using our hands and feet to create motion and energy, that ignited our imaginations. Pedal oscillating, wheels moving, threads spinning. This was no sewing machine, this was a train that took us on a journey across the room, across bedlam, the clouds and the sea. We were chugging along in an adventure as the sewing machine creaked in tandem. Of course my mum knew we were using it as a toy and she would scold us for attempting to spoil her toy. Later, we got her an electric machine to do up cushion covers and make little repairs to her punjabi suits. When I was in Spain for a holiday, I was a small replica of that old sewing machine in a curio shop, and bought it as a present for my mum. I think she liked it. It’s still on my display shelf. 

My mum got her Singapore PR, and later her citizenship in the 90s. It was bit of struggle, meeting our Yishun MP several times before getting the final ok. She was worried mostly about paying off the HDB flat were living in then, less about losing her identity to a country she didn’t enjoy being part of. In fact, she muttered something to the effect of ‘good riddance’ when I accompanied my mum out of the Malaysian High Commission at Jervois Road after she renounced her citizenship to our neighbour to the north. Summarily, the Malaysian civil service wasn’t known for its efficiency (perhaps things have changed now) and we had waited a good four hours, a whole afternoon, before we could submit our documents for processing and approval. I recall one woman was working that day while two of her male colleagues chatted and joked in full view of all other persons waiting to dump their Malaysian identities, in a small room on one side of the main building. My mum hated waiting, and being treated like a second-class citizen by the people running (and ruining) her country of birth. 

She looked after my dad in his later years. He was practically bedridden and required almost constant care. She would feed, wash and entertain him. She took him out on the wheelchair on walks around the neighbourhood. It was a tough job, one I didn’t understand or appreciate till recently. Who knew what caregiver stress was back then. After he passed in early 2008, I could sense her loss intermingled with a sense of relief. 

Later that same year, my nephew was born. I think my mum was the happiest looking after this little bundle of laughter, poop and joy. She liked babies and this one took her time, effort and consideration completely. I could never really take a photo of my mum smiling until this little attention grabber made her glow. She spent a lot of time with him, till he was in primary 5 or 6 when he had to spend more time in school in preparation for the big exam. I could feel she became a tad lost then, lonely. 

I wasn’t a great son then. We got into arguments about simple things, her over-cooking and over-cleaning mostly. She was bored. She would move the furniture every other month. I had asked her several times to volunteer her time but she refused, not willing to try new things. Getting her to travel was like pulling teeth. Her sense of adventure had waned into routine and quiet submission. 

One thing at my mum suffered from as a result of her leaving school so early was her inability to make and sustain friendships. She met people but didn’t feel inclined to maintain contact with them. There was a Chinese lady my mum often talked about during and after her factory operator days, someone I thought she considered a friend. My mum apparently met her again much later, and when she told me about the encounter, I asked if she got her phone number. My mum replied “What for?”. Her independence, translated into loneliness, was killing her. 

She also didn’t want a helper at home. She frequently insisted she could cook and clean as well as any other homemaker. She would drag her Fairprice trolley to the market on her own, wandering through the neighbourhood and spending time at the market, having some sneaky breakfast. She’d also tend to her plants, all potted or hung along the HDB corridor. She was fiercely trying to be herself, and holding on to her pride as she got older. 

Thinking back, I regret the cold shoulder periods we went through after our fights. I was being inconsiderate, always sure I was right when I couldn’t go beyond my logical brain to understand what she was going through. 

Her independent behaviour also translated into stubbornness and mistrust sometimes. Her health suffered because of it. She would go to her regular polyclinic appointments but didn’t want anyone to come along. She kept her illnesses to herself. The big change came when she had to face diabetes. She could hide her pills but not the insulin vials in the fridge. Even then she would not allow us to take care of her meds and injections. 

There were appointments with specialists she would intentionally miss, citing that the hospital was too far, or the costs were too high. These excuses perhaps led her to become increasingly sicker later. One a few occasions I would come home and she’d lament how she had a fall while cleaning the ceiling fan or changing the curtains. I would be slightly stunned but she would assure me she was fine, that saw a Chinese doctor or applied some medicinal patch to ease her pains. She would not want additional treatment at my suggestion and concern. One time, when I did bring her to the A&E for pain, the doc asked if she had fallen and broke her foot in the past year. He saw an abnormality in her bone formation from an x-ray. No fall to my recollection but apparently my mum kept this quiet and the bones set themselves on their own, awkwardly. Stubborn mummy kept mum. 

This past year though had been especially tough on her. She missed a step and fell when coming home from the market. She broke her right knee. This was in May 2020 during the height of our Covid lockdown. She had an operation for it and spent the next 3 months in a community hospital recuperating, leaning to walk again. I recall she missed the general election. 

Her need for independence perhaps drove her to overcome the pain to get back to “normal”. In that time, however, the doctors came to my sister and I to talk about her mental health. They suspected the onset of dementia. Her bones were healing but her mind was going. When I brought her home in August, it was tough time for her getting used to things. Her dementia made that worse. I had also figure out how to manage her meds, for her chronic conditions and her new difficulties. 

In September, my mum was back in hospital because she had a bleed in the head. Her blood thinning meds were working too well, causing the end of the capillaries in her head to leak. The accumulation of blood was causing her to lose cognitive function and motor skills. When I called for the ambulance, she had trouble getting up from the daybed. So she had to endure another operation to alleviate the swelling. 

When she got home after a few weeks in Sengkang Hospital, her dementia seemed worse. Daily, I had to be on guard for her tantrums. Some days, she was manageable, following along with my lead for eating, going out and doing things around the house. Other days, she’d not remember where the bathroom was, over-season the food or not know how to turn on the TV. Being logical with her didn’t work, especially when she felt slighted or upset. My rational side couldn’t entirely accept it and I lost my temper quite often. The stress got to me. 

I got a helper at the end of September, a not-so-simple matter this time of Covid-19 precautions across borders. My mum and the helper had a rollercoaster of a relationship. At times they got along, even laughing together as they watched a Hindi film on TV. Other times, my mum would be terribly nasty towards her, and the helper would end up in tears. This first helper is a 40+ year old Indonesian woman who was very compassionate and aware of what it took to manage a patient with dementia. When my mum and I would argue, the helper would ask me to calm down because being loud and angry didn’t help ease my mum’s concerns, no matter how ridiculous or off-tangent they were. 

After a couple of weeks, a routine sort of set in. I would administer my mum’s meds a few times a day while my helper would cook and clean. We would attempt leaving home for a walk or a trip somewhere on the MRT once a day. In the afternoons and evenings, my mum would nap, watch TV, and hit the bed by about 830pm. She wouldn’t sleep and needed to engage in banter with my helper who cleverly realised this quirk. With the helper around, I had some time for myself in the evenings which I occupied with exercise or meeting friends. The situation seemed workable. 

Every other day or so, I would try to engage her in some colouring. She enjoyed doing so, and it became a matter of pride for her. In fact, she became possessive of the activity. When I asked the helper to join her, she angrily scolded me, saying she could not “share this work”. I also brought her colouring pencils and outline templates to keep her active and not bothering the nurses when she was warded. 

At about the end of 2020, my mum started complaining of stomach pains which necessitated adjusting her diet with bland food, more milk and gastric meds. Since then, this pain plus other ailments required multiple visits to the hospital, often ending up in week-long stays. She even endured several nasal swabs across some stays due to simple symptoms of fever and cough. There were a couple of occasions when the A&E nurses simply swept her off to another part of the hospital premise because of these symptoms and told me to go home. I guess in the past year, my mother had been hospitalised a good 8-10 times. I also kept her family in Malaysia abreast of developments via Whatsapp. 

Most recently, my mum was diagnosed with liver cirrhosis, the hardening of a part of the organ. This was the source of her stomach pain. The mass also affected the bile duct and caused her spleen to swell up. This ate up her platelets, and their count declined to very low levels. This meant treatment was going to be complicated as any invasive procedure could result in uncontrollable bleeding. So the doctors tried to increase the platelet count with steroids but that didn’t seem to be working quickly enough. Some weeks ago, my mum became slow to respond and was sluggish in her behaviour. This was similar to when she had the head bleed in September. So I called 995 and they took her away. I didn’t get to see my mum for more than two weeks because I was in quarantine and so was she, due to an unexpected exposure to a Covid-19 patient at TTSH. 

When I saw my mum again, she was not quite as aware anymore. The doctors told me her liver condition was progressing more aggressively than expected. As a result, the toxins the liver would normally clean out were accumulating in her blood. This would cause her brain to slowly shut down. She would get more and more drowsy, before simply sleeping her way till her passing. This was hard to hear. Admittedly, I had somewhat expected her not to survive too long with her unremedied platelet count but this was coming too soon.

It became somewhat touch and go. When I saw my mum for the first time after quarantine, she was awake, able to talk and understand my words, and I could feed her. She told me her stomach hurt and I asked the nurse for painkillers. There was another intravenous site at my mum’s abdomen to take in liquid painkillers. The nurses mentioned morphine and fentanyl. 

Two Fridays ago, I fed her a dinner of mixed brown rice with fried gourds and tomato-ish chicken. I also gave her HL milk, her favourite, to drink plus a couple of tears of Polar sugar roll. It was her last meal. When I left her at about 8pm, she had fallen asleep. My sister visited after that and she said my mum was calling my name out loud. Later that evening, while I was almost asleep the hospital called. The lady doctor informed me that my mum’s blood pressure had become low and it was a risky situation. I called my sister and we both headed down to SGH. When I got to my mum’s bedside, she was hooked up to a sodium chloride drip and a machine that took her BP regularly. My mum looked the same as when I left her but a million things were running through my head. I held her hand, fearing the inevitable. Fortunately and unexpectedly, it was not her time yet. Her BP regained strength while her other vital signs remained acceptable. I left after 1am while my sister stayed over. 

The situation repeated itself over the next few days - a plummeting BP that recovered after a while. The entire time my mum didn’t wake up though. No food, only fluids fed intravenously. I spent most of the day with my mum over the next few days. I would comb her hair when I got there, sat down beside her, and held her hand as I talked to her a little. I played her Hindi love songs from the 80s while patting her arm or leg to the beats of percussion. She would move a little now and then, when I wiped her lips with moistened tissues or when I patted her feet. 

On Tuesday afternoon, a doctor came around to attend to a neighbouring patient. He saw me and came over. We had a bit of a chat about what my mum was going through. Dr Toh explained the rapid progression of her liver cirrhosis, her current fidgeting, how ammonia accumulating in the brain was causing her to be unresponsive, and how the heart was trying to keep the BP up but would eventually fail. He said it could be days or weeks, but death was likely anytime at this point. He was clear and sufficiently thorough. I appreciated that. No more guesswork. 

On the morning of the 26th, Dr Toh called me at about 830am. He said my mum’s BP had fallen again. My sister was already on her way down to the ward when I called her. We stood there besides my mum, distracted by the beeping machine and the numbers it displayed. My mum’s blood pressure was undetectable though her heart beat was hovering at about 50. Suddenly, I saw the pulse rate plummet - 53, 24, 12, 0, dash. It was 953am. It took about about 10 seconds for the numbers to dwindle, and simultaneously I could feel my heart throb faster and harder. I called the nurse over to check. She hit the print button and a long sheet of graph paper with a dark almost flat line slowly spit out. The nurse announced that there was still a heart beat. I strangely started to laugh. Now all the nurses had was a paper print out to inform them if my mum had passed. All other technology had failed. Whatever we saw on TV was no longer real. Faux flatlines. The nurse advised that a flatline for a full minute was required for medical reasons to declare a passing. But yeah, my mother was no longer with us. 

A doctor came over, made her inspection and declared time of death as 1006 am. 

The mood was sombre and yet we knew she was no longer in pain. That made us feel better a little. 

The next few days were interesting, probably an adjective you the reader didn’t think I’d use. Due to Covid-19 restrictions, funerals in Singapore now have limits. Only 8 persons allowed at the mortuary, and 20 allowed at the crematorium. My aunts and their families in Malaysia couldn’t attend. As a process, the certificate of death comes first. I was given a temporary COD to bring down to a police station to get the official piece of paper. My brother-in-law, his son and I walked down to the Bukit Merah East NPC at Cantonment Complex, adjacent to SGH, to get this sorted. It was done pretty quickly though it would have been nice if the young officers would have started the conversation with a condolence before moving on to formalities. 

The nurse at my mum’s ward has advised I needed to inform the mortuary managers when I would be collecting the deceased, since It wasn’t an immediate claim. So I had to get on to the NEA cremation booking website to figure out the dates and times available. Guess what? Lots of people were getting cremated and the earliest realistic date was 2 days later. I couldn’t confirm a slot through the NEA site though I made a ‘soft-booking’ over the phone. After meeting up with the Sikh Welfare Council folks the next morning on religious rites, my nephew and I went to Mandai to confirm the cremation appointment. $100 later (cash NOT accepted by the way), we were issued 20 entry coupons for guests. We then made our way to the SGH mortuary to inform the officer there of our intentions. He already knew my name because the SWC folks had made a pre-emptive call. The next afternoon, my mum’s body was cleansed and prepared. She was laid in her casket, and we made our journey to Mandai. There, everything took on a routine guided by the Sikh priest and the hearse driver. By evening time, we had final passage readings at the Central Sikh Temple. 

The next day, I made my way down to Mandai to queue to collect ashes. The priest had called me the night before to inform me of this first come first served process and he didn’t want any delays because he had an 11am activity to run. So I was there first, without any other souls in sight, though a monkey did show up to peruse a nearby dustbin. All said and done, by 9am we were on our way to Changi. There, further complication ensured - only 2 persons were allowed per boat. (Someone will be getting a slightly unpleasant email about this next week.) So the priest and I were on one vessel, my brother-in-law and his son took another. My sister waited on shore with my helper. The sky was dark and the seas were grey. Some rain pelted down to make things a tad slippery. Once the boats aligned and tethered, we waited for the bobbing to subside a little before proceeding with final prayers and scattering of ashes. Mummy joined my dad in the same waters. I bade her goodbye for the last time. 

Though resigned to the fact, I have a feeling the next few weeks will be a little tough when I clear and keep her things away. The simple things - her hairbands, the towel she kept with her, the medicated oil bottle, the toothpicks, her inhaler - will scream her presence the most. 

Her many meds, I don’t know what to do with them. 

https://obituaries.siwec.org/61-obituaries/303-jerkinder-kaur

Home Quarantine - Part 2

So the last I left off this long summary of events (Home Quarantine - Part 1), my ride to get swabbed was sorted. 

When my helper and I left the flat at about 120pm, there was a heavy drizzle going on. Also about that time, the kids from the school opposite were let loose for the day. Rain, kids, parents and maids picking up their uniformed angels - all these made for a messy situation.

The carpark was unexpectedly full of cars. There were people with umbrellas blocking all paths. The road leading into the block driveway was clogged up too. So I had trouble looking out for this taxi, which in my mind, looked like a regular Comfort blue or yellow cab. I had told the driver that if it rained to head to the sheltered drop off point, so that's where we waited. My phone rings and it's an automated call from Comfort informing me my taxi had arrived. Nope, I didn't see it. I walked out into the rain to check among the cars that were occupying the driveway - nope no blue or yellow cab. When I got back under the shelter, my phone rings again. It's a lady from Certis Cisco asking where I was. Just then, a large white minivan with the taxi licence plate I was provided pulled into the driveway. Suddenly, it was multitasking mayhem. I was on the phone talking to some stranger, signalling with other hand for the driver to stop, then waving to my helper to get on the minibus, while wet people were trying to make their way past us. I was wondering if some policeman was suddenly going to show up because we had left the house while on quarantine! Neurons were firing on full throttle.

The minibus was an oasis of calm. The Malay driver engulfed in full PPE greeted us as if we were business class tourists headed from Changi Airport to the Grand Hyatt. What a chap - friendly, not too outgoing, just the right amount of listening ear and responsive banter. Highlight of the quarantine so far. And we had even yet made it on to the expressway. 

My helper's mobile suddenly lets off a repetitive wail. She answers but can't quite understand what the person on the other end wants. "You speak to my boss", she says and hands me her weathered Samsung phone. Ah, Certis Cisco again. "Yes, she's with me and we're going to get our swab done." 

I wasn't quite sure what those calls were about. Were our phones' locations being monitored? Did some alarm go off somewhere? Did my neighbours rat on us? (I hadn't told them by the way. How could I since I couldn't leave my flat?)

I spent the ride to SATA in Chai Chee asking the driver what he had been up to and also complaining about my quarantine experience thus far. He mentioned something about getting lots of instructions from many people, and that sometimes miscommunication made his work complicated. Another glimpse into the mayhem behind the machine assembled to keep us virus-free. 

I also couldn't fathom why we had to travel all the way to Chai Chee for this swab from my home in the Little India area. That's a long way to go to get our nostrils poked and prodded. It was still nice to see the outside world beyond the views from my flat. 

An odd thought did creep in while on my round trip journey - what would the paramedics do if a vehicle ferrying potential Covid-19 carriers got into a nasty accident? I guess the risk assessment side of me was in the mood to ponder. 

"Ahhhh, help me!" 
"I can't, I'm not in PPE"
 Roll eyes, screaming, then death. 

It was practically deserted at SATA Chai Chee. There were 20-odd chairs laid out in front of two counters in a tented encampment around the back of the building. There were about 5 or 6 very young looking people running the show. We sorted out our identities and shuffled to the adjacent counter to get swabbed. It was an interesting sensation, but also exactly how you think it would feel if a q-tip went deep up your nose. They did both nostrils, twirling the cottony end as it plunged slightly farther than you think is comfortable. My eyes watered a little, as on cue to erode my brave face. My helper went "Oh my God", sniffling and sneezing. In less than a few minutes, we were done and back in the minivan headed home. Voila. 

Back home I relished the peace and quiet. It had been quite a first half of the day thus far. But alas, fate had laid me a test of patience which I would fail miserably. 

At about 4pm, I got a phone call. It was a nurse from my mum's ward asking me if it was ok to perform a certain procedure on my mother. 

"What? This is the first time in 3 days since my mum was admitted that you contact me to ask if you can do this to my mother?! Why hasn't anyone called to update me on her status after she left A&E?"

Yes, I was partly fuming, so the tirade continued.

"I have been calling and calling your ward for the past 3 days and no one has picked up the phone. What is the point of having a phone if no one is going to pick it up? Even the nurses at Tan Tock Seng picked up after a while."

The nurse at the other end, a man, wasn't quite expecting my reaction. I think I heard him gulp a little. Here's the best part. He asked "What is the number you dialled?" I told him the number I got for the ward from main SGH phone line. He replied that the number was wrong! Holy guacamole, Lady Gaga, and Sheena Easton! The TELEPHONE number was wrong!  (I have linked the respective music videos so you get the joke). 

I was incredulous. Within my quarantine nightmare, I was living another subset hell of misaligned expectations. Someone listed the wrong number for the ward with the main SGH phone line operator. I was half laughing and half angry at this poor man who on the receiving end of my frayed nerves now manifested as verbal displeasure from an imprisoned son asking about his seemingly kidnapped mother. 

I calmed down and explained to the nurse why the procedure he wanted to do wouldn't work on my mum. He also gave me the phone number for the room she was in - isolation cabins for suspected Covid-19 patients have their own communication line to the outside world plus a television to relieve boredom, all in what I suspect is a negative pressure environment to ensure nothing untoward escaped. A class for the price of C, sort of. 

The nurse apologised again and our call ended. Still incensed, I called the Feedback Unit number I called earlier that morning. I essentially repeated my rants, reiterating that my elderly mum had been alone in a strange place among people she didn't recognise for the past few days, that this wouldn't be good for her mental health.  I told her that the nurse didn't call me because she had done her job but because he wanted to seek my permission to do a procedure to make their lives simpler, and if that was their hospital's interpretation of patient care. That was harsh I realise in hindsight. She too apologised and promised to find out what went wrong. I too apologised for my tone but hope she comprehended by frustration. 

Patients in isolation usually may not do well because the psychological impact of being cordoned off can hinder recovery. This is especially real among the elderly. Loneliness kills. 

Later that evening, a nurse from the ward called to say sorry and she put me in touch with my mum. All good, SGH, all good. 

The next day - Day 4 - my helper informed me that no one was picking up the bags of rubbish we were leaving outside my HDB flat gate. I called the Town Council again. I recognised the same voice that attended to my predicament the previous time I called and she recognised me too. She said she'd follow up. Indeed she did, and the Bangladeshi man who does a great job taking care of this neighbourhood rings my doorbell half an hour later. He had his mobile up to his ear in one hand, and asks me why I was leaving the bags in the corner, pointing to the FairPrice plastic bag with the other hand. He looked a tad frightened. Ah, the Town Council hadn't quite helped connect the dots here. Masked up, I told the him we were on quarantine and couldn't leave the house to dump our disposables like regular civic-minded members of the community. He frowned and said "Ok". I thanked him and shut my door. 

Something new every day it seemed. 

Two days after the first Covid-19 swab, I received an SMS from MOH stating my test result. Alright one down, one more to go. 

On the plus side, though some will dispute this is indeed a positive, I discovered two shows on cable TV that I have to revel in - The Rookie on AXN, and Married At First Sight Season 6 Australia. I can sense abuse headed my way, especially because of the slightly trashy-esque reality show. Entertaining television numbs the senses and enraptures us in someone else's fantasy. That's what we need sometimes, to turn off. 

The next week or so fell into a general routine - breakfast, TV, laptop, lunch, laptop, TV, reading, dinner, TV, reading, sleep. I would call my mum daily, work out every other day, attempt at clearing stuff ala Marie Kondo. "Laptop" primarily means checking emails, looking for a job, reading newsletters I subscribe to, ripping CDs (part of Kondoism; I intend to sell away my sizeable CD collection; Stop laughing at me Spotify), writing on my blog, checking out the stock market, playing Skribbl. 

Yes, it was somewhat boring. I would find my helper staring out the window when she wasn't in the kitchen or on her phone. So much world out there. I would find myself checking my  phone for messages for signs of life for me to engage with. I was falling into the FOMO online validation trap and would consciously leave my phone aside and plunge into 

I had to order RedMart twice and both times I made the mistake of under-ordering the necessities. Ironic since I had to order non-essentials like disinfectant and beer (ok, maybe that's an essential) to make up the dollar value for free delivery. Onions, always order more onions. And atta. My helper makes fresh chappatis twice a day now. 

Three times a day, I would point my thermometer gun at my forehead and take my temperature. In a similar fashion, someone will call me on Whatsapp and ask me how hot I was. I never got warmer than 36.8 deg. There were a couple of days when no one called. They didn't miss calling my helper though. The calls became more pleasant. In fact I specifically recall a nice bubbly lady who definitely had a knack of communicating hope through her voice. She called me a few times and each time after I was thinking, that's a nice experience. I think she got that she was talking to de facto prisoners and her job was to lighten their load. 

Though one time, a temperature taker called me at 730am. In the haze of being woken up, I failed to express my shock and surprise at this early bird disturbing my dreaming. A few times towards the end of my quarantine, I was asked to turn on video so I could see said individual and he (same person twice) could see my living room. I hope he didn't notice the laundry. My unkept temperate table below:

As the days went by, it dawned on me that my final day of quarantine was a Sunday, May 16. Despite knowing that this whole anti-virus operation was a round-the-clock affair, I strangely felt that my final swab test would perilously be done too late to minimise my time indoors. Also May 13 was a public holiday. 

By Hari Raya, I had not yet received a notification from MOH about the second swab. I was worried, and I expressed my concerns to the chap who called me in the evening of the holiday to ask my weather report. He said he would look into it. I also called MOH on their IVR number 18003339999. Long and ominous, like this pandemic. The IVR had an option for "quarantine" so I hit that option and waited. And waited. The IVR prompted me to leave my number for a call back and so I did. I shall wait. 

The next day, Friday, two days before my tentative release, I called Certis Cisco to express my second swab concerns. They advised that the matter was up to MOH and not them. I use "they" because the lady I spoke to couldn't quite understand what I was asking and she got her supervisor to intervene. 

I call the MOH Covid hotline number once more. Again, everyone's busy and I'm on hold for about 5 minutes before I hear a ringing tone of hope. Someone seems to pick up but again I hear the IVR asking me to leave my number for a call back. I was in a state of WTF before calming down to appreciate my ability to foresee this calamity. One day at a time. 

A little while later, I get a phone call. It was someone from the Ministry telling me that a nurse would come to my flat in person to do a swab that day. I went wow, that's effective and impressive. He said he was calling me so that I wouldn't be surprised when someone in full PPE shows up at my door. Alrighty then, we wait. 

Late afternoon, the doorbell shocks us into action. A 30-something Chinese man in dark blue overalls was standing outside with a face shield on. Nope, no full PPE. Mask up, I let him in. He doesn't ask to wash his hands. He looked a little frazzled and a tad sweaty. He announced he was here to take our samples, started putting on his disposable purple gloves, and asked for our identification cards. 

"So how many of these do you do a day?"

"Many. Yesterday I finished at 4am." he replied, slightly out of breath. 

"4am?! You mean you go to people's house in the middle of the night to do this?"

"Yes. What to do, so many cases now."

"So after this, you're going somewhere else?" I asked, concerned that he may be worn out. 

"No, you're my last. Lucky."

Holy crap. I didn't realise how bad it must be for people like him till then. Working odd hours, going to places where they could contract the disease.  Yikes. 

He proceeded to poke our nostrils, starting with the right. He curiously said he would go deeper with the left nostril insertion. He did and it oddly set off a slight headache together with a repeat of the ever so slight tearing I had the last time my nose was accosted. 

"So you're a nurse?"

"No, I work for MOM." 

I thought I misheard and offered "MOH?"

"No, MOM. Manpower. I am not medically trained."

Another mask hidden jaw drop. Government officers were being recruited to take swabs from potential carriers. This made me wonder how ill-prepared we are for a large community outbreak, and to think we had about a year to get this right. 

Given that it was the early evening when the swab was taken, I had no expectation of let loose the next day. I told Mr MOM and he said the results usually came back in 24 hours, sometimes quicker. I sighed out loud, muffled somewhat by my cloth mask. Within 10 minutes, the giving exercise was over and I wished him well. Godspeed swabs, godspeed. 

So Saturday came and went with no news. And I woke to Sunday hopeful but also no good tidings came. Somewhat expected yet a tad disappointing. I think no one called to get our temperatures either. I started working on my first blog post, and it took hours. When I posted it and shared it on Facebook, it was after dinner. Still no SMS, and hours past the 12noon timeframe. A friend of mine called me at about 11pm, much to my surprise. She said she read the post on Facebook and called me to find out how I was doing. In that conversation, she told me to check my Covid-19 test results on Health Hub, the site or the app. Someone told her that the results were put up there first. I got online as we were talking, and lo and behold, there they were, negative. 2nd swab negative. Two minuses make a plus and I was free! 

Here's the more curious bit - the timestamp on the results posting was Saturday May 15 12:00am. That's Friday night into Saturday. I could've gone out on Sunday afternoon! And bought onions! A big failure one piece of technology talking to another. Couldn't a results posting on HealthHub trigger an SMS or at least an email? How could they withhold hope, dreams, freedom and retail therapy? Hey, someone give me that job - I would gladly be the bearer of happy news - you're free mate, quarantine's over, go mask up, live long and prosper. But yeah, technology should be connecting these dots. 

So that's more or less my tale of confinement. Perhaps these couple of posts have been an opportunity to complain about things. They expose some holes in the way the shimmering veneer that is Singapore's Covid-19 mitigation plan but I guess everyone's trying. I am hesitant to suggest that we're unprepared for a major community outbreak but at the same time, things could be better. I don't have all the information, just my experience to share. I have confidence in the powers that be know what to do. 

Perhaps an update - I got a reply from the current health minister about that email to TTSH. He said he'd follow up with the hospital. 

Home Quarantine - Part 1

Two Sundays ago, 2nd May, I went to Tan Tock Seng Hospital (TTSH) to bring my mum home. The hospital was already under a state of lockdown given the Covid-19 outbreak in a particular ward. Almost all patients and staff were tested in the days that followed, and thankfully my mum tested negative, twice. She was given the go-ahead to head home. 

That Sunday I stepped into an almost deserted hospital. While my mum was getting ready for discharge, I was asked to get her medicines from the pharmacy. Typically, a pharmacist would come up to the ward with the corresponding bag of meds and run through the list with the patient or caregiver. That day however was a weekend, so only the on-duty pharmacists were available to run the actual pharmacy. The nurse egged me to head down to the Emergency Department (ED) pharmacy, the only one open on the weekends at TTSH, to collect my mother's medicine. I was hesitant because she already had a tonne a meds at home from her recent visits to TTSH, but I figured I might as well stock up on certain meds for her stomach acid complaints. I headed to the pharmacy located right next to the ED at level B1 of the main block. There were about 8 people waiting there as well, all with queue slips with a number to look out for on the electronic display. The pharmacy itself is a room but we weren't allowed to sit inside because of social distancing rules. Instead, there are plastic seats right opposite the pharmacy's heavy glass doors. So those collecting medicines were sitting, standing or just milling about the small open space, hopefully entertained by the television screen with CNA showing on the left and queue numbers in a column to the right. We were semi-cordoned off the ED area by shoulder-height partitions. Behind them were lots of office chair piled up. Convenient area for storage perhaps.

I waited there for about 30 minutes, standing near the seats, practising slowing my breath down. In that time, I saw several people arrive at the ED, registering at the safe entry counter. One lady visitor stood out in my memory because she loudly said "No lah, I don't have Covid. Only you, the hospital, have Covid now!", likely in response to a typical question from the Safe Entry registration staff about contact with Covid-19 sufferers. She was laughing a little when she remarked those words but her voice quickly tapered off as she realised her faux pas of humiliating the facility she was about to enter. 

There's a set of lifts that open to that little space. Heaven knows where they lead to. The sliding doors to the lift lobby opened once or twice while I was waiting there, and a nurse would appear pushing a patient in bed, into the walkway connecting the ED area to the main block. These magic nurses had to announce the presence because some of us waiting were in their way. The layout of the area made it hard to turn the beds  into the walkway, and made more difficult with two vending machines taking up space just outside the lift lobby doors. Silly layout. I've added a simple sketch of this space that hopefully explains my mutterings. 

Soon the number on my ticket appeared on screen, and I collected the medicines. I went up to the ward, got my mum into a wheelchair and we left the hospital. It must have been about 1pm. 

At about 9pm the next night, Monday, I got a call from a number I was not familiar with. I was on my Mac at the dining table while my mum was on the daybed watching TV. My new helper was in the kitchen cleaning up post-dinner. The man on the phone introduced himself as John from the Ministry of Health (MOH). He went on to tell me they were alerted to my proximity to a positive Covid-19 patient via the Trace Together app. The Bluetooth waves from my phone got in touch with someone else's. He asked if I was the TTSH ED the afternoon before at about 12 noon, and replied affirmatively, explaining that I had waited in front the ED pharmacy to get medicines. He then said I would have to quarantine myself at a hotel for the next two weeks because someone who turned out to be Covid-positive showed up at the ED at about that period of time. 

It's an odd feeling when a stranger tells you that your life has to be uprooted and placed in the hands and watchful eye of other people. I think the last I felt this lack of personal control was when I went into Basic Military Training for National Service where life was lived by command and not personal will. 

Then it was my turn to drop a bombshell on unsuspecting John. 

"I can't quarantine in a hotel. I need to give my mum her meds, 4 times a day. " 

"Is there anyone else who can do that?"

"I have a helper but she's not been trained to do that, yet."

Then it was John's turn to return hellfire after my single salvo. "Then all of you have to quarantine at home."

Well played MOH man, well played. I then had to give John all our personal details and he described the requirements of our imprisonment for the next 14 days. He talked about not leaving the flat, that someone would come to come see us, and that we would need to do swabs for Covid-19 tests. I also confirmed with John that I should call 995 if my mum needed help. He also gave me a number for Certis Cisco - they would be following up with my existence in isolation for the next fortnight.

I took a deep breath and told my helper, and she replied "Oh my God." For someone who doesn't speak English too well, I was a little impressed for a moment but quickly realised that she has probably learned many cliched phrases from American television. I also called my sister to explain the confinement. She was wondering how I would feed myself and the rest of my fellow detainees. I replied "RedMart lah."

To give some context to my current life, I have been unemployed for a few months, and since the last lockdown I also spent an inordinate time not working after being laid off. In that time also, my mum also developed certain medical problems. So some of my available time has been spent looking after her, bringing her to appointments, dispensing her medicines and trying not to fall apart. It has been a tough admittedly. I have given this glimpse into my life because spending much time within my current confines would not be new to me, lockdown notwithstanding. 

But even during the circuit breaker, I got do my walks. And now, no prolonged cardio. I was going to get fat. Well, less thin. 

And I was worried for my mother because she needed to get out of the house for exercise, fresh air and acknowledging children at the playground. The next morning though, my mum wasn't quite responding the way she should. So I called 995. I told the paramedics about the quarantine order and they took her away to SGH without any company. 

I spent the rest of Day 2 thinking about how I got into this predicament. I imagined if I had not turned on Bluetooth on my phone, I wouldn't need to confined. Was I right? Would MOH have been able to figure out I was near the ED otherwise? Perhaps with some clever sleuthing and many questions, but it would need an army of detectives to go figure out everyone's movements in the hospital at that time. I wondered if the pharmacy and ED staff had to isolate themselves too. So many people affected by one person reporting to the ED. 

I also called Certis Cisco to let them know my mum was in hospital. The phone rang and cut off. I tried again and the same thing happened. Hmm, interesting I thought. The only number I have for people in charge of my life in limbo wasn't connecting. Later that day, a lady from Certis Cisco did call me back. The phone call sounded like she was in a call centre full of frantic people. She asked for my mum's, my helper's and my details again. I wondered why John couldn't pass them along but obliged in any case. She said someone from Certis Cisco would be coming to assess my home and us inmates (not in those words), and gives us electronic tags to wear. Hey, welcome to the thug life, I thought. 

I told the lady about my mum being wheeled away to hospital and she replied in an unexpected manner. "Why didn't you call us first?" Well, firstly, 995 is the national emergency number for medical help, and secondly your number didn't work, lady. I thought these things as I replied, trying to keep my slightly triggered self at bay. She acknowledged it had been very busy where she was with the uptake in the Covid-19 cases. "Sure, but this is the only number I have to contact you guys. Somehow Certis Cisco has got to make it work." My optimiser side was kicking in, wondering how everyone was coping and not coping in this potential shitstorm. 

I also had to update my Town Council on my situation because I was no longer able to dispose of garbage at the common lift-adjacent rubbish chute. A necessary daily activity that I could no longer fulfil on my own, a realisation that made me a little sad. 

By the end of Day 2, I was rather upset. My quarantine could have been prevented if someone in TTSH thought about how sick people reporting to the ED could possibly infect others waiting in the proximity of the Safe Entry and ED registration areas. I wrote an email to TTSH about my observations, CCing a number of important people. I have received an email a few days later acknowledging someone in TTSH had read my penned-down frustrations and suggestions for making things better, with a promise to investigate. 

The next day, the doorbell rang at about lunch time. A Chinese man in Certis Cisco uniform had appeared with a file folder and sealed, white plastic bags. He didn't really introduce himself and I strangely just let him in, like the completely nonchalant acceptance of an eventuality communicated to me over the phone. Like a RedMart delivery. 

He made some small talk and read out the our names. He sounded like a local Ah Beng in his 40s who had been put into a washer-dryer to make him socially acceptable. I get a little annoyed when Singaporeans can't make an effort to learn how to pronounce names of persons of other ethnicities, not even phonetically. He skulked around the apartment, asking who slept where. I was rolling my eyes inside.

From his folder, he pulled out two printed sheets of paper and two bags, each with a mask and digital thermometer. The sheets had a table which my helper and I had to individually fill in our body temperature 3 times a day. "Somebody will call to ask", Cisco man tried to say sternly. 

He then fished out a few boxes from one of the sealed bags. He introduced the devices inside - a wristband and an electrical adapter - as the proximity tags we would need to wear. They were serialised and linked to our respective IDs. They would alert MOH if any one of us stepped out of bounds. He passed me the adapter to plug into a socket. I turned on the power. 

"Any light?", the man in blue asked. 

"Nope", I replied. 

It was a dud. He ripped open the 2nd bag and took out the tracking set for my helper. We plugged that in and also a disappointing non-event. At this point, I was thinking two things:

• What is the degree of incompetence the powers that be must he facing in dealing with this pandemic.
• I wasn't told that my electricity bill would go up as a result of my incarceration. To whom would I charge this expense?

After that no show, Mr Cisco called home base with his mobile phone to report the matter. A lady picked up on the other side - He said her name but I forget what it was - and carried on in a slightly flirtatious tone, smiling as her chatted.  I was a tad entertained. Somewhere during this interaction, Mr Cisco had to copy some numeric detail from one document to another. He recited the numbers in Hokkien. Confirm chop stamp Ah Beng. 

He made us both sign an official document stating the terms of our quarantine. The gist was we couldn't leave home, had to be always contactable via our mobile phones, and any contravention meant we were liable for a $10,000 fine and some jail time. Here's the bit that stood out to me though - the quarantine would cease only on the last stipulated date at 12 noon OR when the result of second swab test was announced as negative, whichever was LATER. Yikes, given the mounting numbers and today's display of unimpressive rigour, I had a nagging feeling something would go wrong to delay our promise of freedom. 

That day, I also called SGH to get an update on my mum - no one was picking up the phone to her ward. More triggering. 

I woke on Day 4 with an SMS from MOH. It stated where and when I would get my first Covid-19 swab done. Yay, I relished the opportunity to leave my flat. First however I had to ascertain aspects of this enforced encounter, so I called the Certis Cisco lifeline. 40 minutes later someone picked up. My faith in good old Singaporean efficiency took a hit. 

I asked how the transportation to the swab site would work. The lady on the other end told me that each person had a vehicle assigned. I let out a little laugh at this point. I then advised that my mum was in hospital and that her vehicle would not be necessary. She said she'll make a note of it. I then proceeded to tell her I waited for 40 minutes on this "emergency" hotline for someone to pick up the phone. She apologised and said they were swamped. 

After I completed that call, I called the SGH ward number I was given for my mum. Again, no one picked up. I then called the SGH main line to tell them I could not get to my mother. The lady at the other dialled the number she had for the ward and guess what, no one picked up either. She told me there was no other way she could to through to the ward. I asked for a way to escalate the matter so she gave me the number for the Feedback Office. I called them and told another lady there about my problem. She promised to follow up. Great. 

"Hello I am calling from MOH. What is your temperature?" was the next blunt telecommunication I received. Phone in hand, I walked over to my temperature sheet and declared "36.6".

"Ok" and he unceremoniously hangs up.

I don't get why these guys can't be polite. They're calling up people who are essentially trapped, likely frustrated and possibly homicidal. A little courtesy would make that tad bit of difference to morale. Is there no prepared script? 

My phone rings again. It's the driver for my swab ride. He tells me he'll pick us all up in his taxi. I'm glad some common sense prevailed. I ask where I and my helper would meet him, or if he would come up to my flat - a question I forgot to ask Certis Cisco after my 40 minute wait. He replied that we should come down to the block's pick up point. Cool, my ride awaited my arrival at 130pm. 

--- To be continued --- 
Update - part 2 here