The Post Treatment Plan

Photo taken of the door next to the boutique hotel I was staying at in Bali. I’ve chosen this photo because it’s what the Bali trip meant to me: closing of a chapter, and opening another one.

It could have been Starbucks at Our Tampines Hub.

It could have been Happy Hawker at Bedok Reservoir Road.

Frankly, the only difference to me would be the intensity of white noise (and I prefer louder). Then why Bali? Because ChatGPT suggested it.

Since August 2023, I had been undergoing treatment for breast cancer. Travelling was out of question because of the treatment schedule, and also because my immunity was low, and I did not want to risk getting sick overseas.

Once the treatment was over, travelling was a symbolic exit from treatment jail. More importantly, I was anxious to plan out my second life. Secretly and ironically I had dreaded the end of the treatment, because I needed to have an answer to “What’s Next?” (Note that the urgent need for “What’s Next” on the day after treatment is all man-made constraints by me. You may question the necessity of it, and frankly, there isn’t.)

So, 2 days after the last radiotherapy session, I was on a flight to Bali.

It didn’t matter where I went as long as it was somewhere I haven’t been, near to Singapore, and not at mercy of the blasting monsoon that was sweeping through Southeast Asia at that time. ChatGPT says “Bali” and so Bali it was.

Birthing

I chose Ubud, because I reckoned it would be more calming to reflect about my new life amidst padi fields versus the sandy beaches in the South (there is absolutely no grounds for this assertion, and it’s entirely made up by me). Therefore, I chose a new, boutique hotel that, according to Google pictures, seemed to sit right in green lushness, and corroborated by reviews. When I opened my eyes each morning, padi fields will be right at my doorsteps. But the reality is that the padi field can’t be seen from our ground floor unit. In fact, our unit was very visible to fellow tenants passing by. So instead of seeing, we were being seen.

But that’s fine. Nothing will stand in between me and me planning for my new life.

At this moment, let me back track and explain what my old life looked like, and why I needed to a new one.

Right up till my cancer diagnosis, and throughout the entire treatment, I had been pre-occupied with a business that attempts to sell diagnostic tools and data insights to startup incubators and accelerators. In addition, I was teaching at 3 universities. And, I was consulting with a few SMEs.

Note the conjunctions - “In addition”, “And”. It also means “too much”.

Too much for a body that had been rampaged by drugs and radiation.

Too much for a body that creaks like 80 when I’m only 50.

Too much for a brain that depletes quickly like the battery of a used iPhone.

I needed a Goldlilocks life: Not too much, not too little, just nice. Just nice for a rickety rack body that only God knows when it will give way.

Born

But as I sat high up at the hotel cafeteria overlooking the pool guarded by fearsome looking Kumbhakarna, the meditative sound of the running water did nothing to unblock my brain constipation. On the opened notebook before me, there were random scribblings of things that came to mind, but nothing worthy of mention (truth is that I would be embarrassed if I told you what they were).

Is it so difficult? You may wonder. It’s a matter of 3-bullet points (or less).

Yes, but welcome to my life as an over-thinker.

Imagine I ripped out a large part of a dress I own (or a piece of garment for male readers who insist to be gender sensitive), and I have ONE chance to mend the dress to show who I REALLY am. I couldn’t decide.

Fortunately, I’m not one who spins my wheels. By the time I left the hotel cafeteria that morning, the blank page on my notebook had a triangle that read “Work”, “Life”, “Alive”.

The details are not important, but it suffices to know that from now onwards, I will focus on helping SMEs innovate through my teaching and consulting work. I will write a newsletter that educates SMEs, entirely on my own pace. My new identity will be an educator and innovation strategist. Oh, and I’m going to write a book about my cancer journey.

It’s something that I feel passionate about

It’s a continuation to what I’ve been building all these years

It’s something that I have the flexibility to work on in spite of my rickety rack body

Note the conjunction: “And”

The temporary (and forced) clarity made me feel like the Bali trip was absolutely worthwhile.

Read Part 2 to find out how everything falls apart.