One of the many podcasts I subscribe to recently revealed a surprising update. By the Law of Attraction, the podcaster had attracted a woman into his life, fallen in love with her, married her, had a child together, all archived in the last two years of podcasting. And now they're going through a divorce. Does that invalidate the law of attraction itself? Was my faith in the law shaken at the core? Not at all, and with more pontificating, it has reaffirmed my belief even further.

How we experience whatever it is that we have attracted into our lives is solely dependent on ourselves: once we've ordered the soup of the day, it's up to us to enjoy it, or not. The Law does not guarantee ever-lasting love, not even promise anything more than what we actively wish for. I learnt it the fun way.

One stormy evening stuck in a hotel in Taipei with typhoon number 17 (even typhoon signals are inflated and exaggerated over there), I had already exhausted options at the tiny hotel spa, and tried to find amusement online. Crouched in the corner surfing generously unsecured wireless signal, I started chatting to an Austrian based in Shanghai. He was charming enough, albeit laden with spelling mistakes, and we flirted pleasantly for some time. He grew ardent and impatient with the fact that I was not due back in Shanghai for another few weeks, and so proposed coming to Hong Kong to meet me the following weekend. He had begun with a flimsy idea of hitching the next flight out to Taipei from Shanghai, but even if I welcomed him with open arms, it was quite evident from the forecast that Taipei airport would not.

So we toyed with the idea of his impending visit. Where would he stay? Oh, the W just opened recently. Yes, and their spa should be ready soon too, said the spa junkie in me.

There's something about the awkward timing of treatments for couples at the spa that is so delicious and tantalising. Lying bare-skinned on massage tables, aware that your partner is relaxing to the therapist's warm, assuring touch, skin tingling, because you're experiencing the same yourself; sharing a vanilla bath in a design-savvy jacuzzi intended exactly for 1.5 which allows only room enough for one body on top of the other, for that (in)delicate duration of just thirty minutes, which they announce upon exit as if to challenge any aspirations of lewd conduct; leaving you alone again to rinse off with enough nozzles and shower heads for all kinds of dirty, but once again while the clock is ticking. Some rooms even have peekaboo panels on the unlockable doors.

I didn't relate quite as much wanton detail to Mr. Vienna, but in putting the possibility of a spa tryst to him, I began casting my desires for licentious aquatic fun to the Universe. Images of the W interior and other lascivious thoughts lolled in my head for the rest of the week, even after I had swiftly forgotten about the cyber conversation and the man himself.

Instead of romancing an Austrian the following Friday night back in Hong Kong, I was heading home with an inkling of a long night out ahead of me. A girlfriend got online to see whether I was out and about, a tad tired of the thus far inane evening she herself was having. Was I up for drinks? Sure, not usually my thing to come home after dinner and head out again, but tonight, I'm game. Where should we go? The cocktails at W are potent, shall we meet there? Bingo.

I felt charged by the 'coincidence' — a fallacy in my book — and put on a dress that I had not dared to wear since its purchase, along with new Blahniks. New shoes somehow always bring me luck, maybe that's why I can't stop buying them.

We had a fantastic girl-time at the bar at W. After four rounds of serious mixology and witnessing two individual guests consorting intimately then ascend together in the same elevator (I ran after them to check, like some giddy schoolgirl), we were inspired to continue our own Friday night.

By the time we were queuing for entry at the club, we were so giggly we didn't care about waiting, and were offered more shots besides. Once inside, it was evident that the Universe as well was having fun that night. The club was packed with men, dripping with testosterone. We were still picking our jaws off the floor when my girlfriend was promptly cornered by a somewhat acrobatic dancer. I strayed from her and meandered through the throng. I was appreciating the plethora of candy around me when I felt a gentle hand resting at my hip. It lingered, and before I had time to react, came the delectable brushing of the upper arm with the back of his index finger, followed by the confident stubble nuzzle at the nape of my neck. Brazen, sensuous and typically French: touch first, talk later.

Waz yawr name, sexee? I'm Jean-Charles. Of course you are, darling. More salacious moves and lychee martinis served with prurient banter in French later, JC went for the kill: I really want to take a bath with you. Jackpot.

A bouncer gave me two thumbs up as Frenchie led me out of the club, the same one that ushered me in just twenty minutes earlier. I couldn't help winking at the sky before snuggling into a cab with the boy. I had projected the W and some scrub-tub fun, and that was exactly what fell on my plate that evening. Immaterial that the players were unexpected, irrelevant that the screenplay was spontaneous and subtitled. I attracted, then I engaged. I could've stayed in. I could've declined to meet his bath tub.

But I didn't. And what an amazing tub it was.

How has the Law of Attraction worked for you?

Highlights: The Universe, All About Love

After the discovery of two tumours in the left hemisphere of my brain — frontal lobe: 0.7 cm and temporal lobe: 1.3 cm — and a sprinkling (6) of teeny weeny ones on the right this past week, I've been contemplating dysphasia.

Defect in the expression and comprehension of words, caused by damage to the frontal and temporal lobes of the brain. It can result from head trauma, tumour, stroke, or infection. Symptoms vary with the brain area involved, and the ability to put words in a meaningful order may be lost. Speech therapy may be useful. In some cases, improvement may be due to assumption of some language functions by other areas of the brain.

Despite my brother 'consoling' me that dysphasia would be the least of my concerns should these tumours be allowed to develop, stroke and paralysis being undoubtedly the more devastating scenarios, I just cannot help wondering how can life be, how can it possibly exist, if the ability to communicate, to express myself were stripped from me. What are the readers of this blog going to do? What a waste of my voice? How will I convey sarcasm?

I sought the opinion of the most articulate person I know, Chris, a good friend in New York, one of my favourite writers ever, and a fellow lover of language, irony and absurdity.

Me:	Have you ever thought what you would do if you weren't able to write? As in cerebrally?
Chris:	Does that mean you're having trouble? Like cerebrally?
Me:	I have about 8 tumours in my brain, Chris.
Chris:	Oh... Rae, it's hard to imagine: you're one of the most articulate people I've met.
Me:	This is the procedure I'm starting tomorrow.
Chris:	'CyberKnife'??
Me:	Yeah, B-grade thriller fiction name, I concur.
Chris:	And it looks like Wall-E. You're being saved by Wall-E.
Me:	Wall-E has no language/speech cognisance.

The written word is a powerful outlet for me indeed. It has certainly served its purpose of keeping me sane in the last few months. If I may borrow and share some inspiring ones from friends and readers of this blog, comments, quotations and words from which I have particularly drawn strength:

'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.' - Dylan Thomas

'Today the present.
This very day right here and now.
Today is yesterday returned.
The day before tomorrow.
Nowadays.
This day a day that is here.
Between the past and the future.
The rising and the setting of the sun.' - Fiona Banner, Today, Portrait of a Word

Fall in love with someone who deserves your heart, and not someone who plays with it.

Buddha's widchualldeway!

You have got to do well and keep writing and broadcast this stuff to people around the net.

I'm hoping to develop a super power from undergoing CyberKnife. If not turning invisible, or transforming energy fields by manipulating excessive radiation, then maybe a bit of supertronic linguistica would be handy, enhance the spoken word, while we're at it. Russian could be hot while I'm zapping traffic lights. Would life stop being ironic with super powers?

What super powers would you want?

PS. fuck those fuckers.

Highlights: Cancer Talk , All About Love

In the recent years, Easter has become symbolic on numerous levels to me. A time of death and resurrection according to the biblical calendar, it has marked several beginnings of significant changes in my life.

Easter 2002: Arrival to Shanghai

Easter 2008: Return to Shanghai after an 8-month health hiatus due to cancer

Easter 2009: Discovery of more tumours in my brain


Scorpio Horoscope for week of April 9, 2009
If you ever wanted to learn how to do lucid dreams or out-of-body travel or shamanic explorations that help you retrieve lost portions of your soul, this is an excellent time to begin. You're in an astrological phase when the veil between this world and the other side is thinner than usual, and that means you could make connections that haven't been possible before. If the things I mentioned in the beginning are too woo-woo or scary for you, there are other ways to take advantage of current conditions. First, you could conduct productive imaginary conversations with the spirits of dead friends and relatives. Second, you could do intense meditations in which you imprint the future with scenarios you'd love to see come to pass. And third, you'll probably be able to incubate a highly informative dream by asking your unconscious mind a well-formulated question that you'd love to get guidance about.

Questions: if these tumours — my cancer — are only symptoms, because they just don't seem to end, then what is the real disease? Am I supposed to 'transition' to the other side before experiencing rebirth?

This Easter also happens to end Young Adult Cancer Awareness Week. I am aware, more than ever. Yet I still am not.

Thank you for your prayers, I know I am in your thoughts. Would love to hear from you, but email or text: I will be in and out of hospital in the next coming weeks and won't be able to answer voice calls.

Highlights: Cancer Talk , The Universe

How does a mother spend her birthday when her daughter is diagnosed with cancer? Or undergoes life-threatening surgery?

Part I of this entry here.

After discovering a tumour from an ad hoc scan in September 2007, my parents and I met with emergency consultation the day we were scheduled to fly out to Europe for a family reunion on the Mediterranean. We met with the thoracic specialist early that Friday morning, solemn and hopeful. From the results of tests carried out the previous day, it was determined quite clearly that there was a tumour in my chest, of a size and location definitely considerable for surgical removal: the mass was obstructing the superior vena cava, condition known as SVCO (obstruction), restricting blood flow, and hence I was congested chest up. For visible symptoms to be so exaggerated — even though the good doctor only had my Dad's wallet-size family portrait of the 14 year-old me to compare — the pressure caused by the tumour was more than substantial, even dangerous. I processed the idea that every time I lied down to sleep, completely horizontally, without propping up my head and chest, there was a chance I could've slipped into a coma.

I now think about that, sometimes. Before I fall asleep, with my eyes closed, I wonder, seriously, what if I don't wake up? But that's a whole list of what ifs.

Apart from the biopsy scheduled for that same day, to ascertain histology of the tumour, and the PET scan arranged for the following Monday for an all-over screening, surgery to remove the damn thing was also 'penciled in' for Tuesday. Regardless of what this mass is, whether parts of it have congregated elsewhere, it is too large, and already jeopardising major bodily functions for it not to be removed. And if the internationally renowned expert in minimally invasive surgery believes this isn't a procedure to be done minimally, then I guess there's no choice but to get right in there.

I remember everyone tiptoed around the label 'cancer', it was the unspeakable, the dirty word. Not knowing at that point whether the tumour was benign or malignant, we were still in shock with everything happening so fast that we couldn't quite wrap our heads around the idea of the big C.


I was admitted into hospital straight after the consultation, mainly so I could sleep with my upper body raised. We often referred, unconsciously, to Union Hospital as the 'hotel'. With in-room fridge (no, not exactly a mini-bar), LCD TV with cable, DVD player, wireless internet, bath toiletries from Kiehl's, and a choice of morning newspaper, optional private nurse and bodyguard at admission, it sure as hell felt like a 5-star luxury retreat. We, of course, had a room with a view.

Ann arrived from London on Friday evening, concerned, but relieved to be able to share the apprehension and confusion my parents and I were going through. Our poor brother, on the other hand, hit jackpot scoring air miles. Despite his discovering the change of plans while on transit in Dubai, he still had to fly to Venice, and back, since his luggage was transferred directly from Australia to Italy. Four days of airport transfers, an overnight stay in Venice — at a fully booked hotel where he had to reinstate accommodation on site which we had over zealously cancelled from London — and more layovers at Dubai International later, he arrived at the hospital, worn out and unshaven, looking very much like a terrorist.

My mother accepted birthday phone calls and wishes only in brief that day, keeping conversations sweet and short. It was also her way of dealing — one of her children's constitution is under attack, the family is reeling in shock, the birthday can 'jolly well' wait.

By the weekend, my parents announced the situation to our extended family, and I called a selected few friends personally to share news of the impending surgery. It's strongly believed in my family never to impart negative news to those in celebration, a Chinese tradition that we adhere to quite earnestly. I remember the conversation online with my dear friend, Chris, on the eve of surgery, was especially difficult. It was his birthday and I didn't want to avoid chatting with him, to miss out on wishing him the best on his special day, but it was tough skirting questions like 'Why aren't you sailing through the Mediterranean already?' To prevent unnecessary concern, my usual tact, I expressly didn't want the situation to be widely publicised until after the procedure, which I believed without a doubt would be completely successful. Even then, I held off directly notifying friends celebrating arrivals of newborn, or those on nuptials.

We filled a full room that Sunday when the entire Leung family gathered for dim sum brunch. I felt a strong sense of support and generosity from my aunties, uncles, and cousins. The eyeliner that day wouldn't glide on because my eye lids, too, were swollen. Along the same vein, or rather, the lack of one, the needle for the scan the following day was administered in my left inner ankle, since my arms were too engorged to find blood flow superficially. A prick in the foot is not so newsworthy when one has their feet up, but walking back and forth to the bathroom with a needle up my ankle to pass out contrast fluid was just bloody annoying.

September 25 of 2007 was Mid-Autumn festival, also my mother's lunar birthday, and just five days since initial diagnosis. I woke up early to get ready for surgery, and wished Mom a 'happy birthday' for the second time since the weekend. She had stayed with me at the hospital the night before, on the fold-out sofa for visitors, another perk at the 'hotel'. I took extra time looking at myself in the mirror that evening, flattening my open palm against the skin in the centre of my chest, lingering over the smoothness, savouring over the even skin, accepting from the next day onwards, I would be scarred, for life. 

A mediastinal sternotomy is surgical incision of the sternum — yes, ripping open the bone that is the central pillar connecting and supporting the rib cage — through to the partition between the left and right thoracic cavities. With the size and location of the tumour, the cut would begin from just beneath my collar bone, then all the way down to the end of the sternum. Nine raw inches down my front.

Everything was hazy when I woke up. I heard voices first, even while the bed was moving. The nurses and the anesthetist were telling me to wake up. My first thought was that I couldn't breathe, probably due to the heaviness I felt in my chest. When the bed was still, I took stock of my surroundings, and then registered I was in the ICU. I laid still, and despite being too weak and numb to feel much, I knew there were tubes coming out of me: a drip in right arm; drainage tube on the right beneath the rib cage; catheter from between my thighs; something going on in my left ankle; and an injection pod on my left wrist. I stared down my front which was bandaged very lightly and neatly, but it felt incredibly heavy, almost oppressive, like a breast plate of a gladiator's armour.

The lighting in the room was disorientingly dark, I couldn't place what time of day it was. I first saw Joey and Dad, who announced that I had just won a huge battle. Then Mom and Ann. From their expressions, their intense concern, I sensed that something went beyond expectations. What happened? Mom began to speak but was so muddled and convoluted in her overwhelmed state that I just turned to Ann for complete sentences. Instead, the only thing I remember before slipping into morphine oblivion was something ethereal, a distinct physical presence on the left of the bed. It was so strong that I specifically stared at the empty spot on the floor. It was a warm, kind and loving energy. It was male, and elderly.

It was later recounted to me that the 7 hours I slept through in surgery were nothing short of a miracle. What the attending surgeon saw once I was carved open was much larger and positioned much worse than the relatively simple tumour resection that he had anticipated. The tumour, 9 cm in diametre, was situated so that it could not have been clearly and entirely detected via imaging, and had invaded into part of the superior vena cava, as well as connecting sections of major blood vessels leading to the head. He had to break away from the theatre, consult with my parents explaining the situation and offered one option: close me back up directly, administer chemo in the hope of reducing the size of the tumour, with a prognosis of just 6 months. That, to my parents, was not an option at all.

The idea of removing the damaged sections of the veins and transplanting a synthetic graft was then conceived, and my parents were required to authorise separate consent for the procedure on my behalf. The complex nature of the procedure at the most intricate area of anatomy meant the attending could not undertake this surgery on his own. It just so happened, a trusted colleague — another distinguished surgeon — was supervising in the neighbouring theatre, and could immediately scrub into mine. The hospital was not equipped with a graft of this particular shape, but there just so happened to be a suitable Y-shape ready and available at a nearby hospital. There also just so happened to be enough compatible blood reserves for my extended time (from the original plan of only 2 hours) under the knife.

I, it just so happened, lived.

On this same day of surgery, the spawn laid in Dad's aquarium hatched into hundreds of little fishes.

Highlights: Cancer Talk