Unfortunately, I have had the opportunities to experience the service of both Mount Elizabeth Hospital and Raffles Hospital in the short span of three months.

Mount Elizabeth Hospital
I have only been to the private clinics within Mt Elizabeth, but I have used their facilities and each experience has been wonderful.

I first visited Mt Elizabeth to have my wisdom teeth surgery. I paid $3,000 for a top-notch surgeon. While the price is a little steep, my experience was sweet and that justified the money spent.

Recently, I visited Mt Elizabeth to see my neurosurgeon and get a brain MRI. They had no issues rescheduling my appointment and was prompt in processing my paperwork. While I had to wait a little for the previous patient to finish with the MRI, a radiologist came out as scheduled to apologise for the delay and explained everything to me. I was told what to expect. Everything was peachy. I went into the MRI machine, comfortable and confident.

I came out of the machine a tad disoriented but happy. Radiologist gave me his name card and said to call if I have any question at all. I thanked him, got changed, paid and left the building. The scan results were delivered to my neurosurgeon – who runs a private clinic within the hospital – the next day.

Raffles Hospital
I visited Raffles Hospital in November for mandatory immigration medical checkup and was appalled by the lack of service. On my first trip, I was directed to the wrong clinic twice and when I got to the correct clinic, I had to wait 20 minutes at “registration” only to be told the doctor was unable to see me that day.

I returned a week later, at 8:45am (they open at 8:30am), and waited 30 minutes for my turn to register. I was told to fill up a form that clearly printed should be completed before the examining doctor. Despite my resistance, the administrator said that’s how it is done around this pricey hospital. It wasn’t until 10:20am that I was called up to have my height, weight and vision tested. I kept waiting and waiting for what will happen next. Nothing, apparently, as I kept waiting in a holding area that truly resembled a government polyclinic from the 1980s.

(Why 1980s? Because our current government polyclinics are immaculate! With enough seats! Strategically placed television sets and call numbers! i.e. Polyclinic experience was more pleasant than that of the leading private healthcare provider in Singapore – Raffles Hospital.)

By 11am, I was still waiting to be called for a blood test. Following the blood test, I had to wait to see the doctor. Are you tired of the word “waiting” already? Cause I was surely miffed. I see the doctor for five minutes and was told to take all my papers with me, make payment and proceed to get my X-ray done.

I held my medical report in my hands, while carrying all my other barang barangs, make my way to the cashier. Cashier tells me to call the hospital in two days to get the courier tracking number, and that I can go off after my X-ray.

The radiologist made me wait after the X-ray was done to collect my own X-ray film and bring it to the radiology department upstairs. This SHOCKED me. What? Did she just ask me to deliver my own X-ray film and medical report? Am I really in a 1980s government hospital?

At the radiology department, I was told to wait 40 minutes for the X-ray results. WHAT? No way, I told to just drop it and leave. So the lying hospital staff said to give her five minutes to check if I could go off. Five minutes later, wait another 10 minutes. Eventually, I waited 45 minutes for the staff to tell me, “Oh the results are ready, here take this downstairs.” I retaliated. “Nope, why should I be delivering the report myself? I just paid your hospital to deliver the results to the immigration department. And, did I just pay $500 for the liberty to tamper with my own medical report?”

Staff then said she would accompany me downstairs to “make sure” there was nothing else required of me. She wouldn’t believe when I said I was told I could leave as soon as the X-Ray was done. These liars, they are unable to believe anyone, right?

I did not call the hospital two days later. I figured they are a reliable hospital and would deliver as promise. Bad mistake because when I called them a week later – after many failed attempts at getting through the hotline – I was told that no tracking number is available because they have yet to dispatch my medical report. I hit the roof.

“What do you mean it has not yet been dispatched? I was told it would go out latest by last Friday. What day is it today?”

“Oh, this you have to talk to the dispatch person. Hold on, I will ask her to talk to you,” she said.

I was told that the examining doctor had gone on leave and so there was no one to sign off on the blood test results etc, until he returned on Sunday. So the entire report would be dispatched on Thursday (the day after I called).

I asked, “If the report was signed off on Sunday, why wasn’t it dispatched on Monday? If I did not call today, will the report ever be dispatched?”

Ummmm. Crickets.

“Is your hospital going to be responsible for any problems I may experience with immigration?”

“Ummmm. Are you flying off soon?” she asked.

IS THAT ANY OF YOUR BUSINESS? Just get your job done! Turns out, she didn’t know where to send the report to! How professional. Can you be sure that your medical report is safe with this hospital? I can’t. Not anymore.

Eventually, she got the courier company to pick up the package that very afternoon and told me to call the courier company the next day to get a tracking number from them.

I fired off an email to Loo Choon Yong, the co-founder of Raffles Medical Group.

“Perhaps it is my high expectations of the Raffles branding. Unfortunately, at this point, I highly regret my choice of going to Raffles Hospital, and will most unlikely recommend Raffles Medical Group to anyone.

While I may never again step foot inside any of your establishments, by choice, I hope by highlighting my experience to you, as executive chairman of the Raffles Medical Group, you will be able to do something about it and bring value to your shareholders before more and more people get turned away.”

A very nervous man from his customer support team called me back a few days later to say they are looking into the issue. It has been two months and I have not heard from them since.

–

My experience with Raffles Hospital demonstrates that the staff are ill-informed. They do not know the procedures themselves. And to top it off, patients are trusted with their own medical reports and have to do their own running around. Waiting time was much like that of a free clinic and really unexpected for a private hospital.

Also, Raffles Hospital was not forthright with the fees chargeable. They only tell you how much you have to pay when you’re at the cashier, giving you no opportunity to back out because you cannot afford it.

At Mt Elizabeth, I was told at registration, how much the MRI would cost and how much additional injections etc will cost. Only after I said “Okay” did she proceed with all the paperwork.”Perhaps it is my high expectations of the Raffles branding. Unfortunately, at this point, I highly regret my choice of going to Raffles Hospital, and will most unlikely recommend Raffles Medical Group to anyone.

While I may never again step foot inside any of your establishments, by choice, I hope by highlighting my experience to you, as executive chairman of the Raffles Medical Group, you will be able to do something about it and bring value to your shareholders before more and more people get turned away.”

UPDATE, January 26: The hospital called me today and here is what they had to say.

“She’s not wearing my ring. Nope, not my wife,” Eli joked, as I spent some time today without his ring for the first time since we exchanged rings before family and friends, almost a year ago.

I went for my brain MRI today and had to remove all things metal. It was one of those experience I’m sort of happy to have had (although happy really doesn’t seem like the correct choice of word) and never want to experience again. Both the ring removal and the scan.

I wore a pant-suit scrub and a shower cap. They stuffed stuff around my head and placed a face “guard” over my face. I was asked to close my eyes, but of course I opened them from time-to-time; I’m a middle child. The coolest of the entire experience was the face “guard” they put on me which enabled me to see the radiologists seated at my foot while I was in the machine. I’m bad at all-things science so that really intrigued me.

I don’t really know what else to say about the experience, but I do have a lot to say about the difference in service standards between Mount Elizabeth Hospital and Raffles Hospital – both reputable private hospitals in Singapore, which calls for another post altogether.

Today did not happen but it did. Unreal is how it feels.

And at the end of this long, long, too long of a day, I am thankful for my family and our sense of humour. We are able to make light of bad situations and we keep on going, for and with each other. And maybe today happened so I would pause, take stock of my life, appreciate all that I have and quit complaining.

After many near misses, today I had my first accident as a licensed driver. A mere six years and a week after I secured my driver’s license on the first go, I drove the car, at 100km/h, into the centre divider of the highway. I said to myself, “That did not happen.” I pulled over, looked at the damage, ran my hand over the scars and said to myself, “That did not happen.” I did not cry. I said a prayer, drove all over the island trying to find my way, and came clean to my father as soon as I could. I apologised and took full responsibility. No excuses. I cried. He was quick to say, “It’s okay. It happens. Are you hurt?” He also told me that we should be thankful I’m alive. My father came round his office desk and hugged me. As we approached the car to survey the damage, my father said: “I guess it’s a sign that it’s time for a new car!” He also asked me if I took photographs of my “masterpiece”. My mother didn’t skin me alive as I thought she would. Instead, she was gentle and concerned. She even managed a laugh. My parents, they continue to surprise me.

Then on his way to the workshop, Dad dropped me off at my hair appointment where I would spend the next four hours of my life wondering what in the world is going on. The day could not possibly get any worse than it has already unfolded. Unless, at my next stop the neurologist would tell me my circuits aren’t working as they should. Then I’ll get all melodramatic, a la Japanese drama series of star-crossed lovers where the girl actively breaks her groom’s heart to force a breakup because of her illness. He never finds out the real reason behind her “change of heart” until she dies.

He ordered me an MRI. I never want to break my groom’s heart.

I returned home to a stinky backyard where the stray cats have raided the freezer. UNREAL.

The recent passing of a friend’s father took all of us by surprise. Learning about the circumstances surrounding his sudden passing was staggering.

His wife had gone to Disneyland with their daughter and was checking in for her 20-hour flight home when she received the most dreadful call. Her life partner was dead and her eldest son wants to know what to do.

He was found slumped over his steering wheel after his car wavered on the road. He was 60, a year younger than my father. His youngest child, a daughter, is almost a decade younger than my younger brother. He died from a heart attack. No one was by his side.

It is his widow’s birthday today.

The news was shocking to say the least. It is never easy to lose a love one, particularly to death because there is no returning. Yet it is a reality of life. I often lament about how unfair it is that men have a shorter lifespan yet the majority of women tend to marry older men. Of course we’re on the losing end. Frequently, I tell Eli to please outlive me because I cannot go on without him. I selfishly do not want to be the one left behind. I pray that his healthy lifestyle will sustain him, while my less healthy food choices will take me.

Ideally, I wish to be taken together with my partner. Neither will mourn the other and neither will have to experience the excruciating pain of having your beating heart snatched out from you. How sweet was that scene in Titanic where the old couple held hands and awaited the submersion of the ship? Or the scene from The Notebook, where Noah and Allie die in each other’s arms?

But how will that happen if we are not together?

Naysayers will say I have an unhealthy attachment and dependance on Eli. Maybe I do. Maybe I’m just really passionate about the man whom my heart loves. And I really do not want either of us to lose out on a single moment in the other’s life. I want to be there for him at all times; physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually.

Come what may, I like to have shared it with the most important person in my life. While most brides taboo the groom seeing their wedding gown and seeing them in the wedding gown prior to the wedding, I wanted my groom to be there with me when I found the dress. I wanted to share the moment with him.

When adversity strikes, I want us to go through it together. As useless as I might have been in the incident, where my lack of physical pain was inversely proportionate to what he endured, I am somewhat thankful that I was there with him when it happened. Sure, I might have to live forever with scenes of what I could have done and should have done replaying in my head, I can blame myself for what happened, but at least I know quite clearly what happened. I don’t have to hear it from a third party, or from him who will try his might to hide the gruesome details from me.

(For the record, I am done replaying the scene in my head and if my beloved has forgiven the assailant, how can I not let it go and let healing take place? After all he calmed my trembling body despite being bloodied and swollen.)

Each time he is not by my side, I worry about what might happen to him. He is my beloved and I would keep him in a bubble if I could!

Till today, I cannot understand how my parents feel comfortable enough to drop us off at the school gates when we were teeny weeny kids with backpacks heavier than our being. Perhaps when I figure out homeschooling is not my forte I will have to learn to let my children leave my sight for a little while.

But beyond and above my stalker-like reasons, I really want us to experience everything together. For what is an adventure if not shared with someone that matters?

Missing someone isn’t about how long it has been since you’ve seen them or the amount of time since you’ve talked. It’s about that very moment when you find yourself doing something and wishing they were right there by your side. – Unknown.

My beloved fiancé and I spent our Christmas of 2011 and the eve of 2012 physically apart for the first time since we met. While the thought of it pained me initially, in many ways the distance was very special and symbolic.

This will be our last Christmas as part of the family unit we were born into. The Christmas before we leave our father and our mother, to be joined together as one flesh (Genesis 2:24). And so, instead of jetting off and spending a twosome Christmas as we’ve done in as many years as we’ve been together, we spent Christmas with our parents.

My family participated in the children’s choir at Christmas anticipatory mass, which “forced” us to spend the weeks leading up to Christmas, together as a family, as part of the greater community, to stretch our vocal cords. We spent Christmas eve at Church with practice, children’s mass and eventually, midnight mass – a family tradition.

In between mass times, I put together a short three-minute clip for my beloved to the tune of “All your Christmas needs is me”, by a Montreal band. Needless to say, it was filled with photograph after photograph of me in-your-face. I’m sure he appreciated it. Or at least that’s what he said, loosely. I think his exact words were more like: “I enjoyed looking at photographs of our old times.”

With divine blessings, sixty years from today, my groom and I will have plenty of photographs to reminisce from “old times” and a lifetime of memories together.

In this new year, we will have less of “I wish you were here” and, a lot more of “I’m glad I have you to share this with”.

In the meantime, my beloved and I actively set aside quality time to be together. Our relationship continues to be strengthened by the daily decision to put the other first and by communicating with each other as effectively as possible. We continue to learn more about each other. We have learnt to gift each other in creative ways. We have learnt to prioritise what is important and what is not. In the face of challenges and the cruel reality of distance, we choose each other and continue to want each other.

The Catholic marriage preparation retreat Eli and I attended earlier in December, reaffirmed our roles and positions in each other’s life and our decision to marry each other. It served as a very meaningful time for us to spend together and as we like to joke, it has provided us with hand-written evidence of where our priorities lie, and that is: I’m number one, always.

While we did not get to hold each other as we greeted Merry Christmas, or share a kiss to welcome in the new year, we were one in heart and mind. His love for me radiates across platforms, media, time and space.

Twenty twelve will see us begin a new journey together as husband and wife. I will move to a new country, adapt to a new culture and pick up a new language. We will both learn to keep house and deal with in-laws. I’ll have twice the amount of laundry to do. It is going to be a fabulous year!

Dreams are like another dimension and I never dwell very much on them. But today, I woke up very pleased that more than being able to remember the dream, I actually knew in my dream (and later on in my conscious state) whom I dreamt about.

I love that in my dreams, there is finally a face to complete the story. No more stopping short at the shoulders, or having a clever dream director who changes the frame whenever I am so very close to identifying who it is I might be dreaming of.

When I started thinking about boys, I wanted the handsomest of them all. When I started thinking about relationships, I wanted the sweetest of them all. But I didn’t think I was good enough for what I wanted. I wasn’t ready for my dream man.

Then when I was comfortable with being by myself, the Queen of Sweethearts sent me a man. And boy did she know how to pick him. She sent me the one man who makes me weak in the knees. The one man who reduces me to tears by his tenderness. She sent me the one man who helped me experience what flying without wings means, and what it means when they say I dreamed you into life.

She sent me the man whose face I see in my dreams, whose hand I hold in reality.

She sent me my beloved fiancé, who makes my dreams come true.

A year ago, Eli asked me if I would be his wife. It has taken me long enough to sit down and pen the proposal. For no better reason than the honest truth that I am terrified of doing a terrible job at putting down, in black and white, the details of how I made the promise to marry the most beautiful person I have ever known.

It didn’t happen on a hot air balloon ride. There was no air scribbling by jets. I didn’t swallow the engagement ring in my champaign or dessert. We were not at a ball game. If it were any of the above, it would have been easy. My proposal story would already have been written for me by the girl who got engaged before me, who got it from the girl before her, and so on.

It was a wet Saturday evening and my parents were scheduled for dinner with friends, leaving Eli and myself to some alone time since the beginning of November. Eli had spent the day with my folks and was working on some IQ brain teasers with my father as my mother and I got ready for the evening.

Nonchalantly, my beau with his eyes still on his quiz and dressed in track pants and jacket, told me we might stay in this evening despite my in-the-face-hint that we finally have the opportunity for a one-on-one date. So I pulled on blue straight-leg jeans, a camisole and zip-up chic “sports jacket”. Slipped on my knee-high boots, my knee-length wool coat and we were out the door. We dropped my parents off at their friends’ house and made our way to dinner.

We ran into friends at the restaurant and Eli asked me if I was looking for something. I asked him if he was up to something. Nope, nothing. We finished up dinner and headed back to his place where we reminisced about our entire relationship, the day we met, what we’ve been through, where we’ve been and how blessed we feel to have each other. You know, the usual things we talk about.

Then Eli asked if we should go pick up my parents. I told him the arrangement was that we’ll drop my parents off and my sister will pick them up. The night was ours. He asked me if the adoration room at the parish we had our first date was open. I said it should be, but I do not know the combination lock to the door. We checked with my sister but as it turned out, the combination we had was wrong. As we prepared to leave his place, Eli pulled on his wool coat to which I asked, “How come the change of jacket? It’s cold out. The other jacket is warmer, isn’t it?” “This one’s okay,” he replied.

Since we could not get into the adoration chapel of All Saints Parish, we stood praying outside the main church. For a few moments there, I heard the gentle nudging of, “Don’t turn around! Keep your eyes closed! Give him the chance to propose!” It did not happen. We walked towards the car. He stopped on the pretext of checking out the construction of the new parish centre. Nothing. We made it back to the car and I really thought we were calling it a night as he drove towards my house. “The night is still young!” I protested. As we approached the junction to my house, he drove on despite giving the impression that he was indeed turning in.

We arrived at the carpark of the nature park by my house and sat for a while, talking again, about what we’ve got and how amazing it all is. I love conversations like these. They never get old because more than being a stock-take of our life, it offers us the opportunity to appreciate what we have been given, to appreciate each other, and to know that he appreciates me, vice versa.

“Let’s go,” he said. I reached for my seat belt, convinced there was no proposal tonight, while he reached to open his door. Oh, we were getting out of the car!

We walked on the perimeter trail but never got very far before we stopped, talked and embraced. It was a clear and chilly night. There was no one else around and the roads were quiet. It was just him, me, street lamps and distant stars. He squeezed me tight.

Then as we walked back towards the car, Eli stopped and called out to me: “Carine, I love you.” I spun around, leaped onto him and wouldn’t let him go. No, I know he did not propose. But hearing him declare his love for me so distinctly in spoken English makes me leap, every single time. It is a very strange emotion and reaction I have never before experienced. More so because I know those three words are really very sacred for Eli.

He freed himself from my embrace, got down on one knee, pulled out a black box, opened it and asked: “Will you marry me?”

HYSTERICS.

I started laughing uncontrollably. Then I started crying uncontrollably. I laughed and cried uncontrollably. I was the epitome of hysterics. I knelt down and held him, still laughing and crying. The whole time my head was going, “Give him an answer! Say YES! Say YES! Hello, give him an answer!”

Again he asked: “Will you spend eternity with me?”

HYSTERICS.

“Yes,” I said, as I buried myself in my beloved. “YES! Of course!”

(Somewhere during my fit of hysteria, we both stood up but never let go of each other.)

Eli got back down on one knee and slipped my dream engagement ring onto my left ring finger.

We’re getting married!

How do you know I’m an optimist who believes in love?

The song goes like this:

“Everybody’s somebody’s fool. Everybody’s somebody’s plaything.”

All I hear is:

“Everybody’s somebody’s boo. Everybody’s somebody’s baby.”

Don’t hate me ’cause I’m in love!

They did not have a Church ceremony but he serenaded his bride as she walked down the aisle of the ballroom with her father, meeting them halfway and asking Dad for her hand in marriage, promising to take good care of her for the rest of his life, and promising to keep his promise. He drew laughter, and he very quite nearly drew tears from me.

My cousin got married tonight to his girlfriend of three years. His vocals were phenomenal. I, and along with (I’m sure) many others took double, triple and quadruple takes, that it was indeed him singing. We’ve always known he had a great voice. But tonight, it was wow.

And he did it twice.

He also emceed the evening himself, both in English and in his much-to-be-desired Mandarin. The crowd laughed. It was a fun yet untacky event.

In her Thank You speech, his wife tried cracking a joke that went something like: “Good thing he said ‘beautiful’ wife, if not he’d get it tonight.” Haha.

I thought this was funnier: My comeback with, “Oh yeah, he is getting it tonight.” Hahahahaha, right?

But, she wins brownie points tonight because she complimented my dress!

With this wedding out of the way, Eli and I are up next. Five months and three days to go, folks!

Almost exactly a year ago, my beloved and I had dinner at a drive-in. More specifically, at the White Spot carhop drive-in.

We’ve always done drive-through, and some times pull up at the neighbouring carpark to wallop those artery-clogging carbohydrates. How a drive-in works, is slightly different.

At a drive-in, you pull up at the carpark behind the restaurant, switch on your flashers to indicate that you’re ready to order. A server hops on out and takes your order. She then comes back out with your bill and a “table”, which rests upon the facing windows of the vehicle. When you’re done, switch on your flashers and she’ll come clear up. It is much like dining in at the restaurant but you’re your own DJ. Very neat idea.

However, it might not have been a fantastic idea a year ago because it was winter is Canada. At the same time, it was towards the later part of the night and I was in my hot pink polka dotted pajamas. I was not about to step foot into the restaurant. (Although, I have had dinner at a Japanese restaurant dressed in Eli’s old and oversized gray sweats – very sexy indeed.)

Tonight, I stuffed my face with those artery-clogging carbohydrates. Alone, in the car. Does that sound pathetic?

Despite the dramatic accompaniment of raindrops, I’m not feeling miserable. I know I can be alone and I’m pretty darn good at being alone. At the same time, I cannot wait for a night like tonight to begone in a hundred and fifty-six days. Simply because whom I devour drive-through meals with, is a pretty darn fine feller.