My mother, Tang Wai King, lived life with a quiet but unmistakable joy—most evident in the way she loved food and travelling. Whether it was a short local getaway or a trip abroad, she delighted in discovering new tastes, new places, and the simple pleasure of being on the move. She was never one to complain of fatigue; even after a full day of exploring, she would often be the last still eager to keep going—walking a little further, looking a little longer, savouring each moment just a bit more.

For her birthday in 2023, we had planned a surprise trip to Taiwan. We brought together her sister, my sister, and a few of her close friends. What unfolded was more than just a holiday —it became a deeply meaningful time of togetherness. She was overjoyed, not only to be travelling overseas again, but to be celebrating her birthday surrounded by the people she loved most.

That trip carried an even deeper significance for us. Before her surgery, we had promised her that once she recovered, we would take her travelling again. She held on to that promise with hope. To be able to fulfil it, even in that moment, meant the world to her—and to all of us. She was truly happy. And for us, it remains one of the most precious memories we have of her—seeing her smile so freely, doing what she loved most, with the people who mattered to her.

When my mother was diagnosed with colon cancer, we struggled to come to terms with it ourselves, let alone find the words to tell her. She has always been a lively, positive person —someone who enjoys conversations, travelling, and finding joy in everyday moments. Because of this, we made the difficult decision to delay telling her the full diagnosis until her surgery was confirmed.Even then, we did not tell her it was cancer. We explained it only as an intestinal obstruction that required surgery. We were unsure how to tell her the truth, and fearful of how she might respond. We did not know what would happen if she understood the full extent of her condition. In that uncertainty, we chose silence—out of fear, and out of a desire to protect her, even as we carried that burden ourselves.

When her oncologist eventually referred my mother to hospice care, our understanding of what that meant was very limited. We assumed it would feel similar to a hospital environment—clinical, focused on illness, and something that might diminish hope or take away her positive outlook on life.We were also deeply anxious about what would be shared with her, particularly regarding the seriousness of her condition. At the same time, there was fear around treatment discussions, especially chemotherapy, which she was already very apprehensive about. When Nurse Sunita first visited, we were still carrying all of these worries. What happened next slowly changed our perspective.

Instead of beginning with medical procedures or overwhelming details, she took time to understand my mother as a person. She asked about her interests, her routines, and what brought her comfort. My mother, true to herself, spoke about the things she loves—simple conversations, familiar routines, and the importance of staying mentally strong.

There was a calmness in how Sunita approached the visit. She did not feel like a “hospital” professional coming in to deliver instructions. Instead, she felt like someone who had come to sit with us, to listen first before speaking. That shift alone eased much of the tension in the room.

Over time, we began to trust her presence. Communication became easier, not just between nurse and patient, but within our family as well. We were able to express our concerns —especially around how much to tell my mother and how she might cope emotionally.

Sunita gently explained her role and reminded us that while honesty is important, so istiming, sensitivity, and emotional readiness. She reassured us that care is not only about treatment plans, but also about supporting the patient’s emotional strength and dignity.

What stayed with us most was the sense of calm she brought into each visit. She never felt rushed, and she did not come in simply to check on symptoms. Instead, she came as someone my mother could speak to—creating space for her to share her thoughts, ask questions, and, at times, simply feel heard.

For my mother, this made a meaningful difference. She began to look forward to each visit and would even record them in her diary. Sunita’s steady and reassuring presence helped her maintain a sense of grounding, and gave our family emotional strength. For our family, the change was just as significant. We were no longer approaching each visit with fear or uncertainty. Instead, we felt supported and less alone in what we were navigating.

Looking back, what Nurse Sunita brought into our lives went beyond medical care. She offered a steady presence during a time when everything felt uncertain—when we were moving between different opinions, hospital visits, and decisions, unsure of what to do next.

With her guidance, things became clearer. She helped us slow down, understand what was happening, and focus on what truly mattered. Over time, we found our way from confusion towards a quieter sense of acceptance.

She also helped us see palliative care differently—not as giving up, but as a way to continuecaring for my mother with comfort and dignity.

Because of that reassurance, we felt ready to fulfil a final wish. In November 2024, my sisterand I took our mother to Port Dickson. It was a simple trip, but a meaningful one—filled with small, happy moments and the chance for her to enjoy the things she loved, especially food.

She passed in January 2025. That trip remains very close to our hearts.

“Auntie, lu ho bo? Ji kai lei bai ok bo? Oo tiea bo?”

(How are you, Auntie? How was your week? Any pain?)

That is how Lisa remembers Dr Justine greeting her mother during every visit — speaking gently in Hokkien, in a tone that immediately helped her mother relax.

Lisa is the youngest of four siblings. Her mother, Goh Tang Tee, was a talented tailor who learnt her craft from a teacher trained in Japan. Lisa still remembers the signboard that hung at the gate of their house in Penang, advertising her mother’s tailoring services — the skill that helped support the family.

Her mother was also a devoted Buddhist who meditated every day.

Years later, Lisa became the last of the siblings to move to Kuala Lumpur, and her mother eventually moved there with her.

When her mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer, Lisa’s world turned upside down.

Cancer was something they had heard about, something that happened to other families —but never something they imagined happening to their own, and certainly not to their mother. The shock and anxiety of the diagnosis affected Lisa deeply. She remembers how the stress even caused her physical symptoms, including severe diarrhoea.

What surprised her most was how differently her mother received the news. Her mother remained calm and serene.

This was a woman who had already endured so much. Years earlier, she had been diagnosed with sebaceous carcinoma of the lower eyelid, and one of her eyeballs had to be removed because of the cancer. Yet even with a stage four diagnosis now, she accepted it with remarkable peace.

Lisa and her siblings immediately sprang into action. Like many families, their first instinct was to search online for answers — how to care for someone with cancer, what food a cancer patient should eat, what changes they should make.

Lisa quickly adjusted her mother’s diet, reducing sugar and salt. When they explained the changes to her, her mother simply accepted it with the same calmness. In July 2025, Aunty Goh was referred to Kasih Hospice.

Despite her illness, she remained positive and cheerful. She especially looked forward to visits from Dr Justine, who was also from Penang. Being able to converse in Hokkien made a difference — her condition and symptoms could be explained clearly, and the familiarity of the dialect put her even more at ease.

“My mother always looked forward to Dr Justine’s visits,” Lisa recalls. “She was very professional, but she also brought joy — even to patients who are dying.

”Even as Aunty Goh’s condition deteriorated, Dr Justine always greeted her with a smile. There was never any sense of rush or panic during the visits. She remained calm and reassuring, never showing worry in front of the patient.

That calmness mattered. It reassured Aunty Goh that she was in good hands, and it also helped ease the anxiety of the family caring for her.

After checking on Aunty Goh, Dr Justine would then sit down with the family and speak honestly about what to expect in the coming days or weeks. She explained the signs of deterioration they might notice — changes in breathing, a slowing pulse — and guided them on how to care for Aunty Goh during those moments.

She showed them how to position her comfortably, how to continue speaking to her, and what to do when the time came.She even walked them through practical matters many families may not be prepared for —who to call, how to inform the ambulance so they could certify the death, and what the next steps would be.

Dr Justine also provided medications to keep Aunty Goh comfortable, anticipating symptoms that might arise such as restlessness, agitation, or the “death rattle” that can occur near the end of life.

Before leaving, she would remind them gently:“Call me if anything happens that worries you. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”Lisa also remembers the day the hospital bed arrived. Aunty Goh only needed the hospital bed near the end of her journey. Once the family requested it, Kasih Hospice quickly arranged for the bed to be prepared and ready for delivery.

By coincidence, it arrived on Aunty Goh’s birthday.Today, when Lisa thinks of her mother, she remembers more than the illness. She remembers the tailor who supported the family with her craft, the quiet discipline of her daily meditation, and the calm strength she carried even through illness.

And she remembers the small kindnesses along the way — like a doctor who spoke to her in Hokkien, and a hospital bed that arrived just in time, on her birthday.