29 August 2021, Singapore

Thank you all for joining us in-person or online to celebrate the lives of our daughters, Abigail and Lara. If it was not for the pandemic, we would love to have everyone here with us today.

About two weeks ago, Mandy and I both mentioned to each other that the moment we had been preparing for over the past 8 months was starting to feel… real. That feeling was tinged with some anxiety, but overwhelmingly, it was excitement. Excitement about the two new lives who were about to enter our family.

However, just under seven days ago our lives were turned upside down. The excitement was replaced by shock and grief. The anxiety now threatened to overwhelm us.

We prepared for an unplanned labour 48 hours after our babies’ hearts stopped beating. We were also having to arrange their funerals.

Normally, the beginning of life and its end are separated by decades. And the significance of these events evokes different emotions. Yet Mandy, myself and everyone here, are trying to understand how life and death can overlap so closely, and what it all means.

I have delivered eulogies in the past, but for people much older than Abigail and Lara. I find it a great honour to be asked to reflect on someone’s life, distil down their character and understand the impact they made. But we do not have decades of memories for Abigail and Lara. Fate did not give them a chance to enter the world. Instead, we, everyone here, are left with unfulfilled hopes and dreams for Abigail and Lara.

We are only able to contemplate what kind of people they would be, by sewing together tiny insights into their character. Abigail was cheeky, always restless in the womb. Lara, the more relaxed one of the pair.

And their names. Abigail, which means a father’s joy. Lara, which means protector.

Originally I thought it was a complete, wholesale tragedy that Abigail and Lara would not be able to receive the hopes and dreams of Mandy, myself, our family and our friends. The dreams Mandy had for them to become gold medal athletes, as we watched the Tokyo Olympics. The excitement our families felt about two new granddaughters, in families dominated by grandsons. Likewise, our niece, Ellie, looking forward to playing with girl cousins when she’s currently surrounded by boys.

And all the thought, both practical and emotional, Mandy and I put into preparing for Abigail and Lara’s arrival.

Although this week has been utterly heartbreaking, I can also acknowledge there is another angle to the passing of our little girls. It is incredible that Abigail and Lara were the cause of so much happiness in their short lives.

The outpouring of love and support from our family and friends over the past 7 days, because of Abigail and Lara, is humbling. This is the love and support that Mandy and I receive on behalf of Abigail and Lara.

Make no mistake, Mandy and I are hurting deeply. Even when we seem composed on the surface.

We feel robbed.

This is not fair for our daughters.

We want to nurture our little babies.

But alongside my grief of losing what could have been, I can also cherish what we had, thanks to Abigail and Lara.

A few weeks ago, I said to Mandy that we would look back, and see the time we spent preparing for our daughters’ arrival as one of the happiest of our lives. This remains absolutely true, despite the past seven days.

My little girls, we miss you so much.

We love you so much.

For what you have done, and what you could have been.

We’re so happy we got to hold you.

And be with you for a short time.

We're so happy you got to visit home once.

But we now need to let you rest.

You'll always be our daughters.

You'll never be forgotten.

16 May 2016, Pinnaroo Valley Memorial Park, Perth, Western Australia

When a loved one passes away, it’s inevitable that you may never have had the opportunity to tell them some things. This must be particularly so, between father and son.

Over the past week, many people have told me about how proud my father was of me. But what Dad doesn’t know, is how proud I was of him.

I’m proud that Dad was Chinese in Australia during a time when Australia was not necessarily so welcoming. He was born in 1946, around the same time his parents received a letter from the government requesting that they depart. But Dad’s birth meant his parents could stay, and he would laugh and boast that he was the saviour of the family’s future in Australia.

These early years are mostly a mystery to me. However, as a child, Dad remembered sitting around warehouses watching his father and other Chinese men while they smoked opium. And up until a few years ago, a Northbridge history website had pictures from the late 1940s of young Jimmy, and his sister, outside of the Chinese furniture factory where their father worked.

But I’m also proud that Dad was staunchly Australian. His first car was an FJ Holden. Someone once said he was one of only a few Chinese playing football and cricket in Perth in the 1960s.

When I accompanied him to the East Perth Football Club rooms after a grand final victory in 2002, one-by-one several gentlemen, of similar vintage to Dad, came over to shake his hand and reminisce about East Perth’s good old days.

I asked him who these blokes were. He laughed and said, “I have no idea”. I can only conclude that the Chinese fellow that frequented the Inglewood and East Perth football scene in the 1960s was probably a novelty at the time.

Dad also cared about Australia in a more sophisticated sense. His grasp of politics was impressive. He read the newspaper every day from cover to cover and watched hours of TV news and current affairs every night. His vintage tight fit t-shirt celebrating Bob Hawke’s 1983 election victory would be the envy of many hip political advisors today. And I’m not sure many brickies bought a copy of former prime minister Paul Keating’s book on Australia’s international relations in the 1990s. But Dad did.

I’m proud that Dad was resilient. For decades he was up at 5am and off to the building site, and rarely did I see him visit a doctor. I once had to pick him up from work Christmas drinks at a bar. After Dad had bought all of his colleagues a round of shots, a young apprentice bricklayer turned to me and said: “I don’t know how your Dad has been doing this every day for 30 years; I’m already over it after 12 months”.

The ultimate test of his resilience was his battle with cancer. Yet he never let it affect his outlook on life, and he calmly shrugged off any concern from others. He was determined to not let his illness get in the way of so many things he wanted to do.

Never did I hear him complain about the medical treatment he received over the years.

Yet, for all of Dad’s strength, he wouldn’t have gotten through the final chapter without the love and support of Linda. And she helped to soften his tough exterior, just a little bit, for which I am very grateful.

I still expect to see Dad walk through the front door again at any moment.