Glioblastoma

I lost a schoolmate, known him since we were in Standard Two together, at the beginning of this year to glioblastoma. Now, I’ve just heard from another friend that he is going through the same ordeal, and he’s undergoing surgery in Taiwan today. News I find hard to fathom. The same rare, aggressive brain cancer striking two people I know in such a short span of time.

Glioblastoma (GBM) is not our garden-variety tumour. It’s the most common type of malignant brain tumour in adults, and also the most aggressive. It begins in those support cells in the brain that normally help keep everything running smoothly. Once they go rogue, they don’t just form a neat lump you can scoop out. GBM sends tendrils deep into healthy brain tissue, thus making the idea of a complete removal more of a wish than a reality.

There are two main types. Primary GBM appears out of nowhere and barrels ahead full-speed, while secondary GBM starts off as a slower, lower-grade tumour before mutating into the full-blown menace. Either way, the result is the same fast growth, sudden symptoms and an uphill battle.

The signs can come quickly. Persistent headaches that refuse to budge, seizures out of the blue, nausea, weakness or numbness on one side of the body, problems speaking or finding the right words, blurred or double vision, changes in mood or personality, memory issues, even balance problems. It all depends on which part of the brain is under siege.

Treatment revolves around surgeons, oncologists and radiologists. The first step is surgery to remove as much of the tumour as possible without causing more harm. But they can never get to all those invasive tendrils. Radiation follows to target the area where the tumour was. Then comes chemotherapy. But even with the best treatment, survival hovers around 15 to 20 months. My friend lasted 10 months after surgery. Some people beat the odds and live several years, but long-term survivors are rare.

There’s plenty of research going on with new drugs, immunotherapies, better surgical methods and genetic profiling to personalise treatments. But for now, the reality is harsh. So today, while my friend is in an operating theatre in Taiwan, I’m thinking about how fragile things are. How one ordinary day can suddenly turn into a fight for your life. And how unfair it feels when lightning strikes twice in your own circle of friends.

Totsu-totsu

I first came across the totsu-totsu dance several years ago quite by chance when I attended a workshop organised by Dr Cecilia Chan at the Bagan Specialist Centre in Butterworth. I remember being intrigued not just by the gentle rhythm of the movements but also by the man leading it. He was a genial Japanese gentleman named Osamu Jareo, whose warmth seemed to fill the room.

The totsu-totsu dance isn’t a performance in the theatrical sense; it’s more like a quiet conversation between body and mind. The movements slow and deliberate, feet tapping, simple arm gestures that sweep through the air like you’re brushing away clouds, using simple props like stools. There’s a natural sway from side to side, a subtle rocking forward and back, each step paired with steady breathing. No rush, no strain, just an unhurried, slow-motion flow that feels almost like moving through water.

Originating in Japan, the totsu-totsu dance was created as a community-building exercise for seniors, particularly those living with memory decline. Its name, “totsu-totsu,” echoes a Japanese onomatopoeia that suggests a slow, rhythmic tapping much like the heartbeat of the dance itself. In Japan, it’s often taught in eldercare centres and community halls, not only for physical activity but as a way to bring people together in a calm, non-competitive setting.

That day in Butterworth, I didn’t think too much about it beyond the pleasant novelty of seeing an unfamiliar form of movement therapy. But the memory stayed with me.

Fast forward to this year’s George Town Festival 2025, Saw See and I were wandering around the Hin Depot after dinner with See Ming, a friend visiting from Kuala Lumpur, when we stumbled upon a small group in rehearsal. There was that same unhurried rhythm, the same gentle swaying, and it brought back memories of the dance we’d seen in Butterworth. And yes, there was Osamu again, still radiating that same patient energy. We noticed Cecilia practicing her introductory spiel and went up to say hello.

Seeing it again, I realised how well suited the totsu-totsu dance is for dementia therapy. Its repetitive, predictable patterns help stimulate memory recall and give participants a sense of mastery. The slow tempo reduces the risk of falls while still engaging balance and coordination. For caregivers, joining in becomes a shared experience. A rare moment where both can move together without the pressure of achievement, just the comfort of presence. There’s something grounding about it, as though the steady rhythm quiets the mind and makes space for connection.

Perhaps that’s the real gift of the totsu-totsu dance: it’s less about the steps themselves, and more about creating a gentle rhythm that people can immerse themselves into, together.

From The Star to Chessbase

I've achieved another small milestone in my chess journey: for the first time, I've been published by the world-renowned ChessBase website. Every chessplayer worth his salt knows ChessBase, the Number One authority in chess news, and fronting their homepage today is my story on Yeoh Li Tian, soon to be Malaysia's first grandmaster once his achievement is ratified by the World Chess Federation. My article, From Prodigy to Grandmaster, traces Yeoh’s 20-year journey from a bright-eyed six-year-old to the history-making player he is today. You can read it by clicking here. [UPDATE: Chessbase India has also carried my story here.]

It took quite a bit of effort to get this story out. After Yeoh won the ChessHub–MCF First GM–IM Invitational Tournament at the Corus Hotel in Kuala Lumpur on the third of this month, I had to dig deep into my computer archives to retrieve a story I'd quietly kept on standby since 2018, in anticipation of this day eventually arriving. I went through it once, twice, many times, updating the facts, rechecking the timelines, polishing the phrasing (and still, one fact managed to slip through wrong!).

My regular chess column in The Star was discontinued back in March 2012, but there was an understanding that I could submit stories on an ad hoc basis if the occasion called for it. And to me, that meant only when something truly significant happened. In all these years, I had used that privilege only once, in October 2018, to pay tribute to Dato’ Tan Chin Nam after his passing. He had done so much for chess in this country. At the time, I remember thinking the next momentous occasion worth writing about would be when Malaysia finally produced its first grandmaster. By 2019, Yeoh had already secured two GM norms. The mood then was optimistic. The third norm felt imminent. So I drafted my first version of the story even though I had no idea when it would see the light of day.

Fast forward to this month, and during Yeoh’s ninth-round game against Nayaka Budhidharma, eyes across the country were glued to the live broadcast. When the final handshake came, and the result confirmed, I know for a fact that cheers erupted from living rooms, chess centres and WhatsApp groups everywhere. Suddenly, chess was news again. And I was ready. My story only needed its final polish. 

Believing that The Star ought to have the right of first refusal, I wrote to both editor@thestar.com.my and the Chief Content Officer, a rather grand title for Chief Editor, if you ask me, offering them the story. One day passed. Then two. Nothing. No reply. No acknowledgement. Look, I don’t care whether one is ordinary or a Datin Paduka, but professionalism should mean that one shouldn't be too busy to ignore little courtesies. Basic courtesy dictates that you at least reply to someone you’ve published before. Not too big a demand. Basic courtesy, get it? But no, just silence. Complete silence. To this day, not a word. Rather high-handed, right? And this from a media house fretting about declining readership and circulation. Good luck to them.

Thankfully, I had another avenue. Edwin Lam, who has contributed regularly to ChessBase over the years, recommended I send the story there. Over the last few days, I’ve been corresponding with their editorial team, and the version published today is a significantly updated and expanded version of what I originally sent to The Star. Do enjoy reading it.

The writing on the wall

All good things must come to an end, and it’s with a heavy heart that I say the student leadership workshops my friends and I have been conducting at the Penang Free School since 2017 might have come to a close earlier than I had expected. Our last session at the school was in 2023. We took a one-year hiatus after that because one of our core team members was indisposed. Unfortunately, that break disrupted the rhythm and continuity we had built up over the years.

Several weeks ago, we approached the headmaster with a proposal to hold one final workshop, just to give some closure to the programme. After all, none of us are getting any younger. The passion remains, but the reality is that conducting two to four weekends of intensive coaching is physically demanding. Still, we wanted to give it one more go.

Over the last two weeks, my fellow coach held interview sessions with potential participants from the school’s sixth formers. The first session brought in 11 students. Some were truly outstanding, others just beginning their journey in leadership, hoping to grow in confidence. All spoke well in English, and we were quietly encouraged. We looked forward to the second interview session, hoping to hit a minimum of 16 participants. That was our threshold. Without that number, it would be hard to proceed.

As it turned out, there weren’t enough of them. The school tried to help by including some fourth formers, but my friend felt strongly that mixing cohorts like that wouldn’t work. Too big the age gap risks making the dynamics in group discussions suffer. I trust his judgment. He consulted the headmaster, and together, they agreed to call it off.

His principle has always been clear: quality over numbers. This was never about saying “we did a workshop this year.” Every participant deserved a genuine, high-quality experiential learning journey. And if we couldn’t offer that, we shouldn’t waste anyone’s time, least of all the students’.

So unless something changes in the coming weeks or months, the student leadership workshops may truly be over.

GM-elect Yeoh Li Tian

CONGRATULATIONS 

to Grandmaster-elect

YEOH LI TIAN

He shall be Malaysia's first chess grandmaster.
A dream of the late Dato' Tan Chin Nam fulfilled.
Fifty-one years in the making, but what a sweet moment.

(NOTE: I shall provide a full commentary at an appropriate time.)

We wait for Yeoh Li Tian

(Image from the MCF website)

Malaysia's 26-year-old international master, Yeoh Li Tian, holds his fate in his hands this morning as he faces Indonesia's young upstart, Nayaka Budhidharma, in the ninth and final round of the Chess Hub-MCF first GM-IM invitational championship in Kuala Lumpur. Already with two Grandmaster norms under his belt, he is aiming for the unprecedented third norm which shall qualify him to become Malaysia's first-ever chess Grandmaster. The attention of the chess-players are all tuned in to him. Best of luck, Li Tian!

To follow the game on the Lichess server, click on the link below: https://lichess.org/broadcast/chess-hub-mcf-1st-gm-im-invitational-chess-championship-2025/round-9/49R4YjKO/ZRvui2QJ

My mother's relatives

My mother’s side of the family was a lot more complicated than my father’s. There were simply a lot more people to keep track of. For a start, my maternal grandfather, Oh Joo Siew, had a brother named Joo Hock who lived in Port Swettenham, the old name for what we now know as Port Klang. Granduncle Joo Hock had several children, including three daughters my mother always referred to as “the three sisters from Kang-Khao (港口),” this being the colloquial name for the Port town. 

One of them eventually settled in Petaling Jaya. She had four children and by pure chance, I crossed paths with one of them at a chess tournament in Selangor. We played our game, made polite conversation, and still didn’t know we were cousins. Only when I visited him later at his home did we discover our family connection. That cousin, Phuah Eng Chye, later stood beside me as the Best Man at my wedding. We still keep in touch. Through him and others, I’ve remained connected to many of my cousins with the Oh surname, particularly Harry, Amy, Peggy, and a few more whose names now slip my mind.

Together, we managed to trace our Malaysian roots back to our great-great-grandfather, Oh Cheng Chan. As it turned out, he was a contemporary of Cheah Chen Eok, the man who built the Queen Victoria Memorial Clock Tower in George Town. I've already written of Oh Cheng Chan many times previously.

My maternal grandmother was Tan Kim Lean, the eldest in a family of five boys and two girls. Of her siblings, I can recall only five names: Boey Hooi Hong, Tan Hooi Teik, Tan Hooi Cheng, Chan Fui Kam and Tan Kim Bee. One of the brothers died during the Japanese Occupation, and I never knew his name. You might wonder why the eldest, Hooi Hong, had a different surname. But this wasn’t unusual in those days. Families sometimes gave a child up to be named by a godfather, who lent his surname for one generation. In Hooi Hong’s case, his son reverted back to the family surname; full name being Tan Kuan Hai.

As the siblings married, they moved into homes of their own. Granduncles Hooi Hong settled in a townhouse along Hutton Lane, Hooi Teik lived on Gopeng Road, Hooi Cheng in Green Road Four and Fui Kam along Lim Lean Teng Road. Grandaunt Kim Bee, meanwhile, lived with her husband, Chong Swee Cheang, in a modest attap house in the Ayer Itam village. Their three daughters, my mother’s cousins, were part of my growing extended world. The eldest, Hoon Goey, had married a Eurasian man, Ralph de Vosse, and lived in a government quarters in Bayan Lepas with a clear view of the airfield. Visiting them was a real treat for a small boy like me. I'd be watching aircraft land and take off with wide-eyed wonder alongside my four cousins there: Eddy, Eleanor, Edgar and Edwin. Uncle Ralph was a passionate stamp collector, and it was from him that I picked up the hobby. I remember being fascinated by the names and colours of faraway countries. My stamp album became my first geography teacher.

Grandaunt Kim Bee’s two other daughters were Hoon Cheng and Hoon Kew. Sadly, Hoon Cheng passed away sometime in the 1980s from complications after surgery to fix a congenital heart defect. Hoon Kew eventually married and is settled down in the Zoo Road area of Ayer Itam. There was also an adopted daughter in my grandaunt's family. Hoon Eng, the daughter of Granduncle Swee Cheang’s brother, had also grown up under their roof. She married Goh Eng Kheng in 1952 and had seven children of her own. That attap house in Ayer Itam must’ve been bursting at the seams. With so many voices and so much activity, it had the energy of a kampung within four walls.

And if that sounds complicated, well—it was. All these women were daughters of two very close sisters. Naturally, there were tight family bonds. But the twist came when my parents and Hoon Eng agreed to make me her godson. Just like that, I found myself with a new set of godsiblings: Johnny (Huat), Susan, Simon (Leong), Dolly, Rosie, Lilian and Raymond. It was the first sudden expansion of my little universe.

Still, my parents and I continued to live with my maternal grandparents in our rented house on Seang Tek Road. Life still went on as normal. Every month, the rent collector would come around. I can’t remember the exact figure now. Was it $16 or $32 every month? Either way, that little moment of ritual was part of the rhythm of our lives back then.

I assume Grandfather Joo Siew and Grandmother Kim Lean had lived there ever since their wedding on 17 March 1927. As his brother was in Port Swettenham, Grandfather often travelled back and forth between the towns, sometimes bringing along his two precious daughters, Oh Cheng Yam and Oh Cheng Kin. Those trips must’ve been formative, because the two girls from Penang and their three Port Swettenham cousins bonded for life.

My mother, Cheng Kin, was the younger of the two sisters, but the first to marry, to my father, Quah Ah Huat, in January 1954. Aunt Cheng Yam married a decade later in 1964 to Quah Boo Seng, who shared the same surname as my father but wasn’t directly related. Then again, our ancestors were Ow-Quah clansmen from Tia Boay (鼎尾) village in Hokkien Seng, China, so perhaps a more distant kinship existed. From their marriage came Irene Quah, my closest cousin on that side.

But Uncle Boo Seng had already been widowed once and had six children from his earlier marriage: Swee Beng, Molly, Swee Eng, Swee Siang and Swee Kheng. I was elated, welcoming them into the extended family, totally embracing their sudden appearance and presence, the second time in my life. I was closer to Swee Kheng since we were both in Standard Five at Westlands School, thus sharing a kind of kinship that went beyond family trees.

I can’t help returning now to one particular memory of the house in Seang Tek Road. It wasn’t just where my maternal grandparents lived, it was the family hub, the place where everyone returned to during festivals, the kong-chhu (公厝). Come Chinese New Year, the Mid-Autumn mooncake festival, the Seventh Moon offerings or the Winter Solstice Tang Chek celebration, the house came alive. The memorial tablets of our great-grandparents had a special place in the hall, atop a cupboard where Granduncle Hooi Hong kept his book and magazine collection. I’d flicked through old copies of Popular Mechanics without understanding much, except being fascinated by the pictures and illustrations. Maybe it was because of this collection that I found a special affinity with Granduncle Hooi Hong. In his old age, I would visit him in Hutton Lane, each time bringing with me a new tin of cocoa powder as a gift. Not Van Houten but Cadbury. I'd sit with him, talked with him, before moving on. I never did this with the rest of them. 

During festivals, Grandmother would lead the charge in the kitchen, preparing elaborate Nyonya dishes with help from her daughters and a few of my granduncles' wives. They’d lay everything out on the table to invite the spirits home for a meal. The granduncles brought their own offerings of sweet meats, fruits and even durian if they were in season. After the worship, there’d be a big makan session and merriment. I looked forward to these gatherings, not so much for the food, but for the warmth of being among so many relatives, young and old. The relatives were complicated, yes, but they were also family.

There will be more memories to share in later stories.

NOTE: This story is part of my reminiscence series which I've been adding to my blog once in a while. The series is meant to document things I remember about my younger and childhood days; my important memories, which may be pretty mundane to other people, to pass down to my son and daughter. Life as it used to be in the 1950s to 1970s, perhaps into the 1990s. But let's see how it goes...

My father's relatives

It would be a rare family indeed that doesn’t have extended relatives. Come to think of it, while I was an only child for much of my childhood until my sister, Judy, came along I’d still consider myself quite wealthy in terms of relatives, especially on my mother’s side. Her family was large and closely knit, and I had no shortage of uncles, aunts and cousins around me. But on my father’s side, it was a different picture altogether. There were only my paternal grandparents, Quah Teik Beng and Lim Poh Choo, and my aunt, Quah Liew See, with whom I had constant interaction.

The Japanese Occupation had a devastating effect on their lives. Grandfather Teik Beng couldn’t find permanent work after the war, and my father had to leave school in Standard VII to help support the family. He found his calling in banking, joining the Mercantile Bank (later to become the Hongkong & Shanghai Bank) in Beach Street and remaining there until his retirement. But because his father couldn’t earn a steady income, the responsibility of the family’s finances fell almost solely on him. They were staying in a rented room in Malay Street back then—a small, tight family unit.

It was from there that he later married my mother and moved in with her family at Seang Teik Road. That arrangement wasn’t uncommon in those post-war years. Meanwhile, my paternal grandparents and Aunt Liew See moved to another rented room in Green Hall. I still remember that old townhouse. It used to be some sort of association building: long and narrow, with the kitchen, bathroom and toilet  tucked way at the back, shared among all the occupants in the house. A sturdy wooden staircase hugged the side of the wall, leading to the first floor, which was partitioned into individual rooms for different families. My grandparents stayed in one of the rooms at the rear.

At night, the whole place was dimly lit with yellow incandescent bulbs as fluorescent lighting hadn't yet come into fashion. The corridors were dark, and there wasn’t much to do in the evenings but retire early or seek out cheap entertainment around town. My mother and I used to visit regularly, and I remember she and Aunt Liew See would occasionally take me across Light Street to the Supreme Court compound in the afternoons. The grassy field there, where the Francis Light statue and the Logan Memorial stood, was often overgrown and full of weeds. One particular weed made a popping sound when you put it in your mouth. Simple joys for a little boy. It was on that field that I first learnt to ride a bicycle. Unfortunately, I crashed my aunt’s bicycle more times than I care to admit. Sometimes we’d even walk to the Esplanade, which wasn’t far off.

It was at Green Hall that my grandfather died in 1963. I was in Standard Four and missed being in the annual Westlands School class photograph that year. He had been sick for some time, walking with the help of crutches after an accident left one of his legs permanently bent at the knee. He died in the wee hours of the morning, and someone came to Seang Tek Road to awaken my father. When we arrived, he had already gone, his body stiff, his leg still bent.

Later, a man from the coffin shop—no such person as a present-day funeral director then—came to move the body to the Toi Shan Convalescent Home in Hutton Lane, where the wake would be held. Everyone familiar with that place knew the name was misleading. There was no convalescing at all. The upstairs housed the dying destitute, and the ground floor was entirely a funeral parlour, divided into cubicles for wakes. Lighting was poor, and at night, after the prayer rituals, only a single bulb might light the corridor and partitions. Shadows were cast on the walls. The dead, still covered with only blankets, lay on wooden planks awaiting their coffins. As a young boy, I found the whole atmosphere terrifying.

One ritual involved us wiping my grandfather’s darkened face and symbolically feeding him some rice. Placing a few grains on his lips for his final journey. That ordeal of staring into the lifeless face of my grandfather, haunts me till this day. But I survived the funeral. The procession ended at the Thai cemetery in the Wat Pimbang On monastery in Green Lane, where his body was openly cremated on a stack of charcoal tended by an Indian caretaker. A few days later, we returned to collect the remaining bones, placed them in an urn and buried it in the grave on the temple grounds.

On the seventh night of his passing, we performed the customary vigil of waiting for his spirit to return one last time. My parents, grandmother and aunt gathered in the darkened Green Hall house. The lights were switched off and we laid down, pretending to sleep. I was so scared that I closed my eyes tightly and covered my ears with my pillow, trying to block out all sight and sound. Eventually, someone, probably my father or grandmother, threw a small metal object into the corridor to scare away the (bull head and horse face) spirit guardians of the underworld and announce the vigil’s end. Everyone got up rather relieved to inspect the offering which had been left open overnight: a plate of bee-koh (sweet glutinous rice cooked with coconut milk) left out for the soul. If the rice showed signs of having been bitten into, it meant the soul had returned and realised its earthly journey was over. But nothing had changed. Ritual complete, life slowly returned to normal, although we wore black and white clothes for a year to mark our mourning, before transitioning to blue and white for the remaining two years, a small square piece of black cloth always pinned to the left sleeve of the shirt. Thank goodness that tradition has fallen out of practice today. In my opinion, it was just to show how filial piety one can be.

My father with Lee Chee Jin, his relative
from Sarawak (left)

After Green Hall, my grandmother and aunt moved briefly to another room in Carnarvon Lane. Whether it was Green Hall or Carnarvon Lane, it was impossible for two ladies, one elderly and the other unmarried, to live alone in a rented accommodation without a man around. So it was decided that they come to live with my parents and maternal grandmother in Seang Tek Road. It was there that Grandmother Poh Choo passed away in 1967. For about two weeks, she had complained of being unable to move her bowels. An enema was arranged for her at home—an old-fashioned treatment even then—but it turned out to be the last straw. She never got out of bed again. A few days later, just four days before Chinese New Year, her death arrived. My maternal grandmother was unable to escape the Seang Tek Road house in time and so she, too, had to remain in the house for all the funeral rites. That year, there was no Chinese New Year for us. The neighbourhood still celebrated with prayers, joss sticks and firecrackers but our house was silent. No red sashes across the doorway, no angpows to receive. We just sat on the five-footway and watched the festivities from a distance. We donned black and white clothes again but thankfully, we switched to blue and white after the 49th day, before discarding all the mourning colours after a year had passed.

Apart from Aunt Liew See, my father had no other close relatives in Penang. He had some first cousins living in Love Lane, descended from my grandfather’s younger brother, Quah Teik Lim. His family included Quah Kong Chai and Ah Siew, and their sisters, Quah Siang Bok and Quah Siang Kheng. The ladies married off and moved off elsewhere, Kuala Lumpur and Sungai Petani, I believe. The men, after the death of my granduncle, relocated to Butterworth. Of his four cousins, only Siang Bok remains. I still keep in regular touch with two of my cousins, Poh Chuan and Siew Suan. They’re my closest surviving relatives on my father’s side. Grandmother Poh Choo was said to have family in Sarawak, but I’ve never been able to trace them. All I know is they once lived in Keyalang Park, Kuching. There was an uncle, Chee Jin. His daughter, Choon Chai, stayed in Penang for a year or two in the mid-1960s while training as a nurse.

More reminiscences about other relatives in later stories.

NOTE: This story is part of my reminiscence series which I've been adding to my blog once in a while. The series is meant to document things I remember about my younger and childhood days; my important memories, which may be pretty mundane to other people, to pass down to my son and daughter. Life as it used to be in the 1950s to 1970s, perhaps into the 1990s. But let's see how it goes...