Smiles and service

After decades of helping the needy, a medical assistant has put away her uniform. Her daughter is confident that she will handle retirement with the same confidence and grace.

MY mother, Supamah Japamalai, retired on Sept 20 (at last!) after 38 years of service as a PPK (pembantu perawatan kesihatan, or medical assistant) in Hospital Batu Gajah, Perak.

When she first started working in 1973 at 18, her job title and scope wasn’t as attractive as now. She was a hospital attendant and was paid RM120 a month. But she was desperate for a job as her mother was ill and her father was struggling to feed his seven children.

Mum scrimped and saved just to live in rented accommodation. Most Fridays after work, she would patiently wait for any ambulance that was going to the Ipoh General Hospital (now known as Hospital Raja Permaisuri Bainun) so that she could get a ride to her hometown, and save on bus fare.

Grandmother died a year later, after seeing my eldest aunt get married, and mum become engaged.

An incident during my parents’ wedding in 1976 still puzzles them now – they lost their “angpow” – the cash that well-wishers gave them. You see, they had put all their savings into their wedding preparations. With the loss of the much-valued gift, they had to start their married life from scratch.

Batu Gajah became their new home and they often travelled on their motorbike to Ipoh and Sitiawan to spend time with their families. Dad, the second of 11 siblings, had lost his father at a young age. Since my parents had to support their respective families, they had only two children, my Anneh (elder brother) and I.

After our arrival, Dad often urged Mum to stop working, but she refused. She had a strong sense of responsibility towards their siblings.

As children, we did not know how or from where our food and new clothes came. We only knew how to accept them gratefully, and never waste anything. Mum would mend our torn clothes as she wanted us to look presentable always.

We used to go everywhere on Dad’s rumbling CG125 Honda, me wedged between my parents and Anneh on top of the petrol tank. Those were the best rides of our life! My favourite destination was mum’s hometown, where her family lived at the JKR (Roadworks Department) quarters in Lahat Lane, Ipoh.

Grandpa worked as a heavy vehicle driver after his retirement from the Royal British Army in the 60s. He doted on us and our word was law. My uncles and aunts always kept their loving eyes on us as we played in the big compound.

Sundays weren’t for sleeping late as we had to go to church. Mum would literally drag us with her but over the years, we got used to the routine, and went willingly.

Mum was strict with me while Dad was very stern towards my brother. Dad and I became the A Team, while Mum and Anneh were Team B. We still joke about that today. We always knew who we could go to if we wanted something.

Mum would wake up early to prepare our meals before going to work. She had the time to teach us to pray and was always the first to attend to us when we fell ill.

I don’t know how she managed to do all that despite working shifts. Neither do I know how she managed to smile and look beautiful for us even after a long hard day (or night) at work. I took it all for granted, I just assumed that that was what mummies did, even when they were sick.

Yes, my invincible mum did fall sick. It happened in 1995 and cast a dark cloud over the family. I was in Form Four then, and Anneh, Form Five.

It started with a bout of severe stomachache, which the doctors initially dismissed as food poisoning, but later diagnosed as cancer of the uterus.

At first, my brother and I didn’t know. My parents would speak in hushed tones in their bedroom while looking at a white sheet of paper. We would go into their room under one pretext or another and they’d stop whispering.

Somehow, Anneh got hold of the paper (the medical report) but the words didn’t make sense. He went to the public library and looked up a medical dictionary. The information shocked us beyond belief.

Mum had surgery and we saw the jar which contained her ovaries, which were all black. She had to undergo radiotherapy and the doctor gave her six months to live. We saw Dad crying helplessly for the first time. Some close relatives shunned us; they thought cancer was contagious. But friends rallied around us.

Anneh and I grew up overnight. I dabbled with cooking and he cleaned the house. Dad, too, pulled himself together. He used to work away from home, leaving Mum to deal with the chores and us. But now, he spent more time with us and took Mum to her radiotherapy appointments. Thank God, Dad had an understanding director in Josie Fernandez, who let him plan his schedule as co-ordinator of Orang Asli welfare projects at Era Consumer around caring for Mum.

A few months later, I found out that Anneh had stopped his tuition classes. So where did the fees go? I brought this hot news to Dad and he was furious.

When cornered, Anneh revealed that he had saved the money for mum’s treatment.. We were strapped for cash and had pawned some jewellery. I was touched by his sacrifice and stopped checking on him after that.

At the back of our minds was the deadline – six months! Those were the longest, scariest and bleakest six months of our lives.

Somehow, Mum emerged victorious. I think it was her sheer willpower, her unwavering belief in God and Dad’s true love. She has outlived her six months by 16 years. She often says that God has loaned her this second life and so she lives each moment to the fullest.

Mum went back to work within the six months and Dad took it upon himself to drive her to and from the hospital.

Before her illness, Mum had worked shifts in the nurses’ hostel, the sisters’ mess, the kitchen and the wards. Now, she was put on light duty in the Record Office. She would come home hot and sweaty each day due to the effects of her radiotherapy and medication. Yet, she still had a smile for us, listened to our stories and cooked delicious meals for us when we came home for the semester breaks.

I was a postgraduate student in UTM Johor then and Anneh was with the Akademi Laut Malaysia (Naval Academy). We were reluctant to leave home just when she needed us most but our parents insisted. It was their dream to see us get a good education and hold respectable jobs.

Mum bought a world map and would mark out the countries that Anneh sailed to. When I called home late one night and cried that I could barely memorise the cases in my industrial law paper, she calmed me down and told me to do as much as I could. That’s her, always optimistic and believing in our abilities.

Mum received her first Outstanding Service Award (Anugerah Prestasi Cemerlang) in 1998, during her 25th year in government service. Among the gifts she received was a silver Alain Delon watch, which she gave to me. I still wear it and will never replace it with any other because it’s a symbol of her strength and belief in God.

Just before she retired, Mum received her second Outstanding Performance Award, a fitting end to her career.

We are so used to seeing Mum in her white uniform. How does she feel about putting it away permanently?

After her 56th birthday, I saw her shaking off melancholy and outlining her retirement plans. I know she misses her job dearly and the memories – at least until she falls into a new routine. It’s not the loss of income; it’s being cut off from helping the needy. For years, she had woken up each morning with a purpose. What will motivate her to do the same now?

Yet, I have a feeling that she will emerge victorious again. She will march through retirement with the same confidence, careful planning, prudent ways and belief in God.

One thing’s for sure – Dad will be fully occupied as well because Mum always manages to get him involved in her plans, willingly or grudgingly.

I wish to take this opportunity to wish my mother a happy retirement. You’ve done a great job Mum, not only as a government employee but also as a mother, wife, sister, mother-in-law, grandmother, aunt and friend. You did all this with grace and dignity.

I take inspiration from you and hope that I, too, will retire gracefully as a schoolteacher some 25 years from now.