39 inches

 

Over the past three years, two near-death experiences: heart bypass surgery and systemic sepsis.

Four surgeries.
Sixteen hospitalisations.
Thirty-nine inches of vertical scars.
Nine keyhole and drainage scars.

My body became a battlefield.
My skin became a medical map.
My scars became the permanent autograph of survival.

Three years ago, I was 42.
A non-smoker. Non-drinker.
Active in triathlons. No thirty-nine inches of scar.

May 2023.

I was diagnosed with severe triple coronary vessel disease. Two vessels were totally blocked. Another was 80 percent blocked. My heart function was only about one-third. The only treatment option: Heart bypass surgery.

Life felt unfair. Why me?

I was climbing Mount Kinabalu six weeks ago!!

Then my doctor told me something I will never forget.

“Alan, you are a prime candidate as a drop-dead case. But you are blessed. You got diagnosed on time.”

10 July 2023. I went for heart bypass surgery. In the operating theatre, my heart stopped beating for 4 hours 18 mins.

When I opened my eyes, it was midnight.

My chest felt broken. My left leg was numb. Tubes were in my mouth. I could not speak. I tried breathing through my nose, but no air came. For six long hours, I waited for the tubes to be removed. Tears rolled down my face, not only from pain, but from helplessness.

At 6.30 a.m., doctor came to remove the tubes.

Air entered my lungs. I breathed again.

Strength is not always climbing mountains.

Sometimes strength is lying flat on a hospital bed, facing death, drawing one more breath.

Battles in life arrive like raging fire. Unexpected, rapid, and scorching.

30 September 2025. HDU. The fever did not rise. It erupted.

One moment I was shivering cold. The next, I snapped awake, burning alive.

Forty-two degrees. The tunnel closing in. My breaths shrinking into tiny puffs. My body slipping, not fainting, but letting go.

Alarms exploded. Nurses were shouting. I saw silhouette of doctors, pointing. But I only could hear them, as though I was underwater.

Through the chaos, I heard a voice: “Fight back”.

I drew every single ounce of my strength to climb back. Slowly, the breath returned. The world sharpened. I thought I would be dead, but I am still… alive.

Again, strength is not always climbing mountains.
Sometimes strength is refusing to let go when your body is failing, your world is fading, yet life is calling you back.

Two near-death experiences. Thirty-nine inches of scar. And three quiet choices that rebuilt my strength: decide, forgive and surrender.

First: Decide.

Decide that your pain will not have the final word.
Decide that one more breath means one more chance to live with purpose.

It is the quiet promise to return to life, to God, to family, to purpose, even when your spirit is tired.

Second: Forgive.

Forgive life for not going according to my plan.
Forgive my own body for becoming weak, lying in a hospital bed.
Forgive myself for feeling afraid, angry, helpless, or broken, when every breath reminded me of the pain in my chest.

Forgiveness began when I stopped asking "why me" and started whispering "what now."

Forgiveness does not erase the pain.

It releases the poison.

Third: Surrender.

Not surrender as defeat. Surrender as faith.

I could not control the fever.
I could not control the tubes, the needles, the pain, or the outcome.

But I could surrender the moment.

One breath.
One prayer.
One heartbeat.

Because surrender is not giving up on life. It is giving life back to the One who holds it. Father, into your hand, I surrender.

Look at your life again.

Not as a museum of pain.
Not as a list of regrets.

Every wound, every failure, every scar is raw material.
True strength lies in the scars you are willing to understand. Decide. Forgive. Surrender.

And to me, thirty-nine inches of scars is not a wound. It is the gift of life.