THE red digits on the clock read 3.00am, but 54-year-old Singaporean Lin Qing Si lay wide awake, staring at the orange floral curtains in her bedroom, her mind racing through a thousand things.

She thought about the $190,000 she and her husband invested in Lehman Minibonds and High Notes 5, structured products linked to the now-bankrupt Lehman Brothers Bank, and the retirement dream that was as good as gone.

Not that it was much of a dream to begin with. The former tuition teacher, Chinese-educated, wanted just a simple life after retirement.

She would busy herself with household chores. Exercise once in a while. Be the perfect grandmother. Draw comfort and pride from the fact that she would not be a burden to her children, who will be free to lead their own lives.

The $190,000 counted for half of her and her husband's combined savings. The money was put in three investments, one in 2006 and two last year. Each would have matured after five years.

But now what?

These thoughts made it harder for her to go back to sleep. She wanted to go downstairs to watch TV.

But she lay there, still as a log.

Beside her, curled up, was her husband of 32 years. He has high blood pressure. If he knew she can't sleep, he wouldn't be able to sleep too.

Worry. And then, raise his blood pressure.

Bad enough that two months ago, before the financial crash, she was diagnosed with cancer.

She had watched her husband - 58, gaunt, genial, the strong and silent type of a man - weep on the living room sofa, as she explained to him what doctors were going to do with the life-threatening 7.2cm tumour she found in her right calf.

She had discovered it early. The doctors removed it, then put her on a three-year follow-up programme of radiotherapy and regular check-ups.

The bills were mounting and her insurance covered only half of it. She was banking on their retirement funds to see her through.

Then, the Lehman Brothers collapse hit her like a ton of bricks.

All she had wanted, she said, was a safe place to put her cash. Now, she's in a fix.

On one of those sleepless nights, she made a decision: She'd stop treatment to save money, if she had to.

Her polyclinic had referred her to a private doctor. She was frightened, she said, and continued treatment under him despite the high cost.

But now, with $190,000 gone, she wanted to downgrade from B1 class to B2 class.

It would ease her burden because her insurance plans, which should cover about half of the $20,000 she had incurred so far, would be of little use in the follow-up programme consisting mostly of outpatient treatment.

'There will be bone scans and MRIs. The bill will run into the thousands,' she said.

Her head told her downgrading shouldn't be a problem.

But deep down, she couldn't let go of a worry. What if, she thought, I'm stuck in B1 class because I started out there?

She would cease treatment, she decided. If the cancer returns, she would go through the same route again - polyclinic first - and make sure she asks for B2 class this time.

'The doctor told me that if I don't go for the follow-up programme, the chances of the cancer recurring is very high,' said Madam Lin. 'But I have no choice.'

She admitted she had sneaked off to the doctor's a few times without her husband and children knowing, so she could discuss things in private.

'If I die, yes, my husband will be sad,' she said. 'But it will only be for a while. If we use up all our retirement savings, the pain will last a longer time.'

Her husband refused to hear any of it.

'He tells me I am more important to him than money,' said Madam Lin.

'But I can't use up all our money. I also have to think for him. I'm not trying to hurt him. I'm doing this for him.'

She had already let her husband know she didn't mind him remarrying.

'Just don't marry one of those China girls who will cheat your money,' she had told him. 'Otherwise, my sacrifice will be in vain.'

They had met one afternoon on Chinese New Year's Eve in 1974 at a Yio Chu Kang roadside.

Her car tyres had gone flat. He was the knight on a shining Honda motorcycle who stopped to help.

He was 24, she was 20. He came from an English school and spoke little Mandarin.

But they fell in love and, two years later, they married.

He was away often because of his work as an oil rig engineer. She slogged at a Chinese tuition centre at Kovan, working six days a week.

But they encouraged each other: Work now, can enjoy later...

They ate at home. Movies were an occasional treat. Slowly, their nest egg grew. They got a maid. They bought a Toyota Camry. Their two kids graduated from university.

Then in 2005, it all came crashing down with a letter in the mailbox.

In it was a notification that she had been slapped with a six-figure sum fine for under-declaring her earnings.

'I wasn't sure how to fill in the forms properly... what to add and what to deduct,' said Madam Lin.

'And I was so busy running the tuition centre by myself that I didn't think about asking for help.'

Depression

With a big chunk of her savings wiped out, Madam Lin sold her business, fell into depression and teetered on the verge of suicide.

Her husband quit his job to nurse her back to health.

He took her on short holidays. They flew budget, travelled with a backpack and squeezed into public transport with the locals.

They weren't looking for luxury, just healing.

And slowly but surely, Madam Lin was returning to her old self.

Illness and the Lehman Brothers collapse brought her crashing down again.

Now, she watched forlornly as her husband, who declined to be interviewed for this article, quietly took over the house.

He had banned her from the kitchen. He cooked for her, cleaned up after her and did the laundry.

At night, as the weight of the world bore down on her and a pang of guilt in her heart, she lay alone with her worries, still and silent, and watched him sleep.

This article was first published in The New Paper on October 21, 2008.