One Moment, and Everything Changes

 

One Moment, And Everything Changes

We tend to think that our life unfolds in slow, steady chapters — years of plans, habits built one day at a time, milestones we see coming to fruition. But more often than not, it comes down to this: one call, one diagnosis, one decision, or one action. Just one, and everything changes.

About 3 years ago, my life was moving along its familiar path — until one moment, 27 months ago, rewrote my entire story. That was when I received news of my liver failure. In an instant, all the ordinary worries and my hopes of daily life faded away, to be replaced by one urgent and painful question and uncertainty: What matters most now?

Three months later came the decision that gave me a second chance: a great doctor and her team of doctors, a call from SGH at 3 a.m. in the morning, and a liver transplant. That single procedure, and the courage and generosity of those who made it possible (the family of the deceased donor), opened a new chapter — but it was not the end of the journey. Ten months ago, another blow arrived: my body rejecting the new liver. A liver biopsy. Once again, everything shifted. Every choice, every dose, every consultation became critical.

The medication that saved my transplanted liver brought its own hard truth: it led to my chronic kidney disease, now at stage 3b. Then, just as I was finding my footing again, my bile duct constriction surface, and my consistent gradual weight loss of 1 kg per month. A sudden alarm. CT scan of full body, colonoscopy, thyroid function test, ultrasound of thyroid, and a diagnosis: 3.1 cm Level 5 solid nodule in my left thyroid. Prognosis: thyroid cancer.

Each time, it was never a slow, predictable turn. It was a single moment — a test result, a doctor’s voice, a choice to keep going — that divided life into before and after.

I share this not to talk only of the constant adjustment and struggle, but of what these sudden turns teach us: that is, we hold far less control over the timeline than we imagine. What we can choose is how we walk through the changes. We can choose gratitude for every day we are given, care for the body that carries us, and love for the people who stand beside us through every "one moment" that comes our way.

Life does not always follow the script we write. But in every twist, in every new diagnosis, and every hard-won reprieve, there is still a life and story worth living — one day, one choice, one breath at a time.

A Letter of Gratitude for Dr Chanda Ho

Dear Dr. Chanda Ho,

I am writing to you with a heart filled with gratitude—gratitude that I once thought I would never have the chance to express.

On the 8th of May 2024, about 20 months ago, I was transferred from CGH to SGH with a failed liver. I was then just a shadow of myself and at the edge of my life—physically broken, mentally lost, and spiritually defeated.

Physically, I was immobile. I could not even stand up on my own. I was languishing in bed, sleeping most of the time, unable to care for myself, and wearing diapers. I was completely stripped of the dignity that I once had—helpless, weak, and reduced to a version of myself whom I never thought I would become.

Mentally, I had severe memory loss. I was dementia-like, and everyone thought so. My mind had become a fog of confusion and disorientation. I couldn’t follow conversations, couldn’t recognize the faces of those trying to care and help me, and couldn’t hold onto memories. The doctors who examined me saw dementia. I was awake without awareness. At times, I was delirious, and at times, suspicious and paranoid. My family saw me slipping away. And I had given up hope entirely. I was suicidal, ready to surrender to whatever fate awaited me.

That is the version of me when you saw me on 8 May 2024. You were the first doctor from the SGH Liver Team to see me that day. At that time, I cannot remember who saw me, I cannot remember faces, and I do not know what happened during that period until early April 2025, when traces of my fractured memories started coming back to me slowly with plenty of blank spaces. And, through my wife and daughter, and a bedside journal maintained by my wife on my behalf, I got a glimpse of how my days were like, the fear, the words spoken, and the decisions made, that would determine my fate.

While I lay there in my fog of despair, unaware of the battle being fought for my life, you looked at my distressed, lost, and traumatized wife and daughter, and you firmly and decisively told them and me - "You are only 67 years old. Still young. Go for the transplant." Those words were a lifeline. At a time when they see me fading away, and I had already given up on myself, you were there speaking to them with clarity when everything around them was chaos. Your word feels like a verdict to them, like someone switching on a light in a dark room. Not because the danger has disappeared, but because there was a direction. A path. A reason to keep going. You did not see me as a "gone case" patient with liver failure, but a human whose life was still worth fighting for.

You told them that you would put me on the transplant workup immediately so that I could be placed on the waiting list for a matching deceased-donor liver. You acted and followed up with urgency and speed. I learnt from my wife that I was difficult during the workup. I was uncooperative, resistant, and insisted on giving up on the painful workup. But, you and your team of doctors pushed me on knowing the state of my mind - lost, confused, and unable to judge. For example, in my journal record, when I insisted on giving up my workup midway, Dr Thinesh Lee spoke to my wife and daughter in my presence immediately. I recalled Dr Thinesh's words to all of us - "If you stop your workup now, you will not live beyond 2024." And, during this pre-transplant period, there was another doctor in your team who came to my wife and daughter when they were lost, stressed and exhausted. She was Dr Samantha Koh. She was a beacon of lights to my wife and daughter during that period.

In the end, I completed my workup and was quickly placed on the waiting list for a donor liver.

On July 11, 2024—barely two months later—I received a deceased donor liver. And today, the first day of 2026, I am alive to write this letter, alive to understand what my wife and daughter had gone through, alive to feel the full weight of your role, and alive to feel gratitude with a clear mind.

I want to thank you for your decisive actions, judgement, and seeing a life worth saving when I could not see it myself.

I am alive today because of you. My wife still has her husband. My daughter still has her father. My 6 years old grand daughter still has her grandfather. And I have been given the precious gift of more time—time to remember, to hope, and to be grateful. And to see my wife being well, my daughter completing her PhD and started her work as a Professor of Practice at  Singapore University of Technology and Design, and to see my grand daughter going from kindergarten to Primary 1 in RGPS tomorrow. All of which I have never thought I could live to see.

There are no words adequate enough for me to express what you have done for me and my family. You have left an indelible mark on our lives. You are not just a doctor to us—you are the reason I have a future. I will always remember you, and will always be grateful to you.

With deepest gratitude and profound respect,

Ding Ting Hock

1 January 2026