My father's name is Ah Hock. He is 68.
For 31 years, he drove a taxi. Twelve-hour shifts, six days a week, head fixed forward.
That built a neck condition so bad that his entire left arm felt heavy and thick.
But he never complained. He just started adapting.
He started sitting at the far end of the dinner table, angled slightly, so he could turn his whole body instead of his neck when he wanted to look at someone.
He stopped answering the phone while cooking.
He couldn't turn to check who was calling without the pain firing.
Then on a Tuesday evening, everything changed.
I was sitting in his living room.
My young son ran at him from across the room, arms wide open.
Ah Hock tried to turn and catch him.
He couldn't.
The sudden rotation triggered a spasm so sharp he yelled out, dropping to one knee.
He scared my son. My boy backed away, confused.
Ah Hock stayed on the floor for a long time.
"I can't do it anymore," he whispered later, looking at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes.
"I can't even play with my own grandson."
But Here's What Destroyed Me:
When I tried to help him up, he winced.
I put my hand on the back of his neck.
That's all it took.
Every movement ended in wincing.
Every attempted comfort became another reminder of what he'd lost.
The man who drove a taxi for three decades to provide for our family couldn't even pick up a child.
When I finally asked him directly how bad it really was, he just shook his head.
"Daniel, I am old already lah. This is just how it is."
And I just stood there.
Useless.
A physiotherapist who couldn't even help his own father.
I'd tried everything my training taught me. Traction. Ultrasound. Stretching exercises.
Nothing worked for more than a few days.
The "experts" weren't any better:
