A Giant Leap of Faith

The reflection below was sent directly to me by Haji Ambotola on 25 February 2021, shortly after his brain tumour surgery at Sunway Medical Centre. I have retained his own words and voice as faithfully as possible. Haji Ambotola passed away on 27 November 2023. His message has therefore become something far more meaningful to me than a simple post-operative reflection. I share his own words first, followed by my personal recollection of looking after him, what I came to understand about the man behind the patient, and the friendship with his family that continued after his passing. A Giant Leap of Faith, by Haji Ambotola On 14th Feb, I flew to Kuala Lumpur from KK with my family with mixed feelings of confidence and anxiety. Confident based on my Kuatagh brothers and sisters' recommendations to undergo a brain tumour operation in Sunway Medical Centre. Anxious as I had this fear of the unknown — to have a scalpel remove a growth in my brain. As I arrived in SMC, my beloved Kuatagh brothers, Dr Akhtar and Dr Hyzan Yusof, who are resident surgeons there, took me in their good hands to meet a handsome neurosurgeon named Dr Syed Abdullah Al Haddad. He is such a calm and composed man whose soothing words, as he took me through the nitty-gritty of the procedure, made me less anxious. I felt my confidence level slowly replacing my anxiety as he showed me the results of the MRI and CT scan done by Dr Tan in Gleneagles KK. I heard Dr Syed tell us he was working in London and one day his mum advised him to come home. He obediently followed his calling to return to his homeland to serve his nation and his fellow Malaysians. Then I realised that we were ordained to cross paths here in KL. It was all Allah's plans for this gentleman to operate on me. Alhamdulillah syukur. I observed that Dr Syed Al Haddad keeps such a low profile, is very humble, has a good sense of humour and is always smiling. After my consultation with him, I was taken to my room for the staff to prepare me for the surgery on Monday, 15th Feb 2021. That evening I heard that word had spread to many people in many places that the next day I would be undergoing brain surgery, and everyone, especially me, knew that it was a highly risky operation. With the many trials and tribulations in our lives, Allah, the Best Provider and Sustainer, gives ease and comfort. I received news that everyone was making solatul hajat, reciting the Quran and making special doas for me and my beloved family. Later I discovered my dearest beloved Kuatagh teachers, brothers and sisters had arranged doas and recited the Quran as I underwent this life-changing experience under the good hands of a well-trained brain surgeon. My friends and students from Mesir, Turkey and Cambodia recited Surah Yassin and made such wonderful doas for me to come out of the operation successfully — for Dr Syed to manage to remove the tumour that had been causing me to feel so sleepy, confused and absent-minded for the last few months. I remember I was invited to attend a briefing and I didn't even realise that I dozed off during the briefing. I woke up to concerned audience members who panicked at my awkward and sudden change of behaviour. It was a wake-up call, and I made a quick decision that it was time to get my health checked. I met Dr Tan in Gleneagles KK who did all the thorough medical examinations, including MRI and CT scans, which confirmed a tumour in my head. For everyone's information, the surgery, instead of three hours as I was told prior to the operation — nope, it was eight in reality. My dearest wife and family were very worried outside the operating theatre. Dr Syed Abdullah Al Haddad came out after such a long and challenging surgery and told them that the surgery went well and the team managed to remove the tumour. Alhamdulillah! Alhamdulillah! Alhamdulillah! As I woke slowly and groggily, still under the influence of the anaesthetics wearing off me, I felt... When I was fully conscious, the familiar face of my loving wife looked at me lovingly, gave me a smile, squeezed my hand gently and whispered softly: “Alhamdulillah, the surgery went very well.” Later the doctor and nurses came to update me about my surgery and what the follow-up procedures would be. They had sent the growth specimen to the lab for biopsy. Results of the biopsy would soon be released, and then we would know what actions to take. Do continue to make doa for me and my family. Alhamdulillah, now I am resting and recuperating well in my brother's place near the airport. Happy and blessed to be given a chance to breathe Allah's air and to live for the remnants of my life surrounded by so many who love and care for me. Having undergone a life-threatening situation makes one reflect on his life and what all these meant to him — and what could he do better, right? I learned one very important lesson from this ordeal: when you do good to others, others will do good unto you. What goes around, comes around. That adage is so true and will remain true. I wish to take this opportunity to thank my family, dearest teachers and friends whom I grew up with in Kuantan and in my kampung, Wallace Bay, Tawau, and my Maahad Tahfiz Sulaimaniyyah families in Mesir, Turkey, Cambodia, Indonesia and Malaysia, especially Sabah. I am so blessed to learn that the teachers and students had slaughtered a lamb to make a kenduri kesyukuran in my honour. Jazakumullahu khairan, and thank you very much for being so thoughtful. My special thanks to Dr Syed Abdullah Al Haddad and his medical team from Sunway Medical Centre. I am forever indebted, Doc! A special thanks to Dr Akhtar and Dr Hyzan for all the kind assistance and support, making it so easy to check into SMC, and for your pre- and post-op visits and updates to our Kuatagh groups. To my Kuatagh brothers K78, thank you for all the kind words, special prayers and, most significantly, your brotherhood. I am now able to walk around the house with the help of my tongkat. Such a blessing to be alive and appreciating things that I took for granted all this while. Indeed, health is wealth, everyone. Take care and stay healthy and safe, everyone. Thank you very much for your love and prayers. Only Allah could repay everyone for what you have done for me and my family. May He, the Most Benevolent, grant you and yours bountiful blessings for your kindness. Aamiin Ya Rabb, Aamiin. In Memory of Haji Ambotola: A Doctor's Tribute I received the reflection above directly from Haji Ambotola on 25 February 2021, only days after his operation. At the time, I read it as a deeply personal message from a grateful patient who had come through a major brain operation and was recovering well. Reading those same words now, knowing that Haji Ambotola passed away on 27 November 2023, they carry a very different meaning. When I first met him, I did not know who he was. One weekend, a senior colleague sent me a message to say that a good friend of his, someone from the same alma mater, would be flown from Kota Kinabalu to Kuala Lumpur and referred to me at Sunway Medical Centre. For me, a referral from any colleague is an honour and a responsibility. I did not think much beyond that. I simply knew that a patient required neurosurgical care. It was only when Haji Ambotola arrived that I began to realise there was something quite remarkable about this man. The messages started coming. Then the telephone calls. Friends wanted to know how he was doing. Colleagues asked for updates. People from different parts of the country were following his progress. And then, even during the operation itself, I received a call from a very senior surgeon — the Head of Paediatric Surgery in Malaysia at the time — asking about Haji Ambotola and how the surgery was progressing. That moment stayed with me. Here I was, in the midst of a difficult brain operation, and people of considerable standing were personally calling to ask about him. It reinforced something I was only beginning to understand: Haji Ambotola was a man who mattered deeply to many people. Even before I truly knew him, the concern of those around him was already telling me something about the person before me. He was clearly a much-loved and deeply respected man. At that stage, I was still relatively new to the neurosurgical scene in Malaysia. I did not consider myself particularly well known, and certainly did not expect someone with such a wide circle of friends and connections to be referred to me. Looking back, perhaps Haji Ambotola was right when he wrote that our paths had been ordained to cross. His tumour was located in a difficult area, deep in the central part of the brain and close to structures we had to protect carefully. The operation was technically demanding. What had initially been expected to take several hours eventually lasted around eight hours. Alhamdulillah, the surgery went well. And perhaps even more importantly, he improved afterwards. His alertness improved. His cognitive function improved. His mobility improved. The changes that had worried his family before surgery began to settle. For a neurosurgeon, that matters enormously. An operation is not ultimately judged by how impressive it appears technically. What matters is what it gives back to the patient. But there was another reality that we all had to confront. Haji Ambotola's tumour was malignant. We knew that surgery, however successful, could not remove every microscopic tumour cell. We knew that further treatment would be necessary. And somewhere in the background was the difficult knowledge that, eventually, the disease might progress. This is one of the hardest realities in medicine. There comes a point where we recognise the limits of what we can control. We operate. We treat. We preserve function where we can. We prolong meaningful life where we can. And then we walk alongside our patients for whatever part of their journey has been entrusted to us. Haji Ambotola seemed to understand this in his own way. What struck me most about him was not simply his illness, nor even his recovery after surgery. It was his character. He was remarkably humble. He was stoic. He did not dwell excessively upon himself. And he had a deep and very obvious faith. I believe that faith became one of the great sources of strength that carried him through the difficulties that followed. But he was also carried by something else. He was carried by people. His wife. His family. His brothers. His friends. His teachers. His students. His Kuatagh community. People in Sabah, throughout Malaysia and far beyond Malaysia. They prayed for him. They recited the Quran for him. They performed solatul hajat. They called. They visited. They asked for updates. They remembered him. And perhaps illness revealed something about the life Haji Ambotola had lived long before any of us met him. It revealed the number of lives he had touched. He himself wrote: “When you do good to others, others will do good unto you.” There is considerable wisdom in that simple sentence. Perhaps all the goodness that surrounded him during his illness was, in some measure, the goodness he himself had placed into the lives of others over many years. He lived for more than two and a half years after that surgery. In medicine, we often speak about survival in months and years. But patients and families do not live in statistics. Those months and years contain birthdays. Hari Raya. Family gatherings. Meals. Conversations. Marriages. Laughter. Ordinary afternoons. Time with children. Time with a spouse. Time with old friends. And when one knows that time may be limited, those ordinary moments become extraordinary gifts. After Haji Ambotola passed away, something happened that I had never anticipated when I first met him as a patient. My relationship with his family did not end. I remain in contact with his brothers and with his son. From time to time, they update me about what is happening within the family — marriages, family occasions and, especially, greetings and news around Hari Raya. Those messages mean a great deal to me. They remind me that the relationship between a doctor and patient does not always end when the consultation ends. Sometimes, caring for one person connects you with an entire family. And sometimes that connection quietly continues even after the patient has gone. Recently, I was reminded of Haji Ambotola again in a completely unexpected way. I met an old friend of his whom I had never previously met. During our conversation, I asked him whether he had known Haji Ambotola. His reaction answered the question before his words did. There was emotion on his face. Almost tears. And in that moment, I was reminded once again that Haji Ambotola was never simply my patient. To someone, he was a dear friend. To another, a brother. To another, a teacher. To another, perhaps a mentor. To his children, a father. To his wife, a husband and companion. And to so many others, he was simply Haji Ambo — a name spoken with familiarity, affection and respect. It is very easy in medicine to see a patient first through his disease. A scan. A tumour. A neurological deficit. An operation. A pathology report. But behind every scan is an entire human life. Haji Ambotola reminded me of that. When he first came to me, I knew almost nothing about him. Over time, I came to understand at least a little of why so many people cared so deeply for him. His humility impressed me. His stoicism impressed me. His faith impressed me. But perhaps most of all, I was struck by the way people continued to speak his name with affection. The measure of a life is difficult to define. Titles eventually disappear. Achievements become memories. Possessions pass to others. But the effect we have had upon other human beings remains. And sometimes we see that most clearly after someone has gone. I am grateful that a colleague sent me that message one weekend in February 2021. I am grateful that Haji Ambotola was referred to me. I am grateful that we were able to give him meaningful additional time with his family and the people he loved. And I am grateful that what began as a straightforward neurosurgical referral became something much more enduring. Haji Ambotola once wrote to me: “I am forever indebted, Doc!” If I could answer him now, I would tell him this: there was never any debt. It was my privilege to look after you. As doctors, we are entrusted with people at some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives. Patients entrust us with their fears. Their hopes. Their families. And sometimes, quite literally, their lives. But the privilege travels in both directions. Our patients also teach us. And Haji Ambotola reminded me of something that doctors occasionally need to remember ourselves: we may treat the disease, but we must never lose sight of the person. إنا لله وإنا إليه راجعون — Indeed, we belong to Allah, and to Him we shall return. May Allah forgive Haji Ambotola. May Allah shower him with mercy. May He accept all the goodness Haji Ambotola brought into the lives of others. May the suffering and difficulties he endured become a means of purification and elevation for him. May Allah grant strength and sabr to his wife, children, brothers, family and the many friends who continue to remember him. And may He grant Haji Ambotola Jannatul Firdaus. Perhaps the most fitting ending should remain his own words: “Such a blessing to be alive and appreciating things that I took for granted all this while.” “Indeed, health is wealth.” And: “When you do good to others, others will do good unto you.” May those words continue to benefit others long after their author has returned to his Creator. Al-Fatihah for Haji Ambotola.