Fear

What is fear?

I thought fear means falling from a bike and got scratch. But I once fell from a cliff to water that felt like hard rock, so now a mere scratch is no longer my fear.

One of my fears was losing my mum's hand in a crowd. But I once stood on the unknown ground all by myself and make it alive until now.

I believed fear means losing someone you love. But it's doesn't matter anymore.

***

On Wednesday morning, I woke up earlier than any other days. I got excited because it's been nine days since the last time I saw Mbah, my grandfather. In that peaceful morning, I knew I shouldn't had been got too excited because Mbah's condition wasn't good at all. He had been in a hospital for three days due to high sugar blood level. But I was still excited anyway in that morning, thinking I would see him again.

I walked through the hall. The very same hall where Mbah and I waited patiently for his turn to get administered for his routine medical check-up two years ago. It's familiar. For a couple of times, I would go to this hospital in Jakarta after school, or when I came back home from college, or paid a visit after a long day of work if he was hospitalized. Mbah was pretty much well-known in this hospital, because he diligently checked up his health here and chose to be hospitalized here if necessary.

But the room I walked to in that morning was different. It wasn't a surgery room. Neither a patient's room nor a doctor's room. It's called HCU. "What's HCU?", I asked Dad on Monday night when he just got home after a night shift to take care of Mbah. "It's almost the same with ICU but the patient's still awake in HCU," said Dad simply. Still awake.

At that time, my uncle showed me the way. He instructed me to take care of Mbah's belonging and showed me where to find his important documents if it's asked. I nodded understand. I couldn't get in the HCU because it wasn't visitation time yet. I peeked through the 30 x 15 cm window glass on the door. There he was laying unconscious with many small tubes twisting his body and nose. Unconscious. 

Thirty minutes later, his bed was dragged out. It was time for his dialysis. I stayed in HCU waiting room until I was called out to the dialysis unit in different part of the building. I was allowed to see him at last. He was there, laying in the room where another 30 other people got the same treatment. He was there.

I held his hand, like he used to holding mine. I squeezed his hand, hoping he would squeeze mine back but I got no response at all. "Mbah" I come, I'm here, I said to him gently. They say, High Care Unit is for patients who have stable consciousness, but why didn't my grandfather respond me? I walked outside the room. 

Two hours later, I kept checking the clock. I tried to postpone my work so I could stay longer. The universe didn't grant it. Reluctantly, I came in to the room again to say goodbye to Mbah. He was still laying there with the beep, beep sound indicating his heartbeat, and his blood was being taken out and cleared out in the machine. He was still there.

I called him, he just gave me an uncontrolled grunted in respond. I called him once more, and he did it again. And I said, "I'm going home" I don't want to but I must, I will be back again soon, promise. I couldn't say anything more in front of him. I just readjusted his mask to his nose properly and caressed his face. I didn't even dare to kiss his cheek like I used to because he looked so fragile although I knew I'd miss him. Alive.

Less than an hour after I arrived at home and asked my parents "will he be conscious again?", I got a phone call from my cousin. Mbah passed away peacefully. No longer part of this world.

***

Joan Didion took six years after his daughter's death to finally able to write 200 pages of memoir about her loved one. I'm partly glad it doesn't take too long for me to write down this small piece of writing about Mbah. It's like letting out a big chunk out of my chest.

Mbah is a husband of 58 years of marriage, a father of eight children and a grandfather of 24 grandchildren. He had a big power in family literally and metaphorically. He was a devoted servant of the Almighty one and always relayed His message in his speech. He was a politician, a lifetime chess player and a big fan of football game. He had contagious joy and loved to gather with his big family. 

Everybody knows his own national anthem, sung in every event by himself, that was Bubuy Bulan. He wasn't even a Sundanese, but he married one and was fluent of the language. But a couple years ago, he told me, "My very favorite song is Love is a Many Splendored Thing." He said this was the song when he fell in love to my grandmother. Then he sang it to me.

His favorite food is fish. He's a big eater. But when it comes to fish, you could hardly spot the leftover bone in his finished plate. His in-laws would cook him fish curry, grilled fish, fried fish and any kind of fish foods whenever he visited their houses. Yet, the look on his face when he was allowed to eat grilled ribs after medical check-up or when we stopped by in his favorite restaurant before we arrived in our village house is indescribable. He savored every inch of the taste. Mbah and grilled ribs are the scene that I keep playing on my mind now.

Although, he was finally too old to play actively with his grandchildren. He never got angry to us. Unless we stole his favorite food or changed the football TV channel. He was a grandfather who let us jump on the bed while he was sleeping and didn't get mad. He let us run around the house and screamed on the top of our lungs. He let us play with his notebook and pen as long as we didn't get caught. But honestly, that statement isn't entirely true. I always got yelled because I rubbed his big belly whenever we met. It was ticklish for him and he hated it. Sadly, that big belly wasn't exist anymore in the past years. Age eats him up. And I miss that belly then and now. 

I often saw Mbah sat down in his office desk with the lamp on, wearing his glasses, reading a lot of papers and writing in cursive letters. He was an intellectual person. He really was. His book collection covered the whole part of the wall. I once asked him, "did you read all of these?". "I did," he answered. "Lying," I said provocatively and he frowned hard. And I immediately said "Yes, yes of course that's cool", not wanting to be blacklisted from the family tree. So, when I grew up and finally understood the contents of his books, I asked him "Do you mind if I borrow the books?". "Will you read it?" asked him back. "Of course," I answered. Lying. I haven't finished the books even after I'm not able to give it back to him anymore. 

In the moment where I felt like I took the wrong path. He asked about my study and said that it's a precious skill. He encouraged me to keep talking in English every time and everywhere. He was so proud of my study. He was once an English teacher which gave him a chance to go to America and met his role model, the first president of Indonesia. So, in his old and fragile age, I tried my best to make him proud. I sometimes asked him in English just to see his glistening face, "How are you Mbah?" I'd ask. "I'm quite well, thank you," Mbah answered in clear pronunciation. Although it needed several attempts so he could hear what I was asking him. His hearing problem was the cause why the communication with him wasn't going well and lasted longer anymore. But until now, I can still hear the echo of him saying I'm quite well, thank you.

I sometimes sat beside him, he would ask how's my life going and grab my hands. I would ask if he had eaten and I held his warm hand. We would talk for sometime while I was playing with his hand. But the conversation ran out by the time and age. So we'd just sit in silent. I aided him his glass when he wanted to drink. I wiped the food dirt from his mouth, cleaned his shirt and did the best as I could do as a granddaughter. The small things that I really wish I could do to him again now. But most of the time, we just sat and held each other's hand. The hand that I could no longer reach. 

He was a proud grandfather. He would ask each one of us. He would be fussy calling our name, just checking if we're inside the car already even though he, himself, forgot his own slippers. He would ask how's his grandson's game going, ask where their grandchildren work and how's their study, wait for his granddaughter to come home from abroad, tell us to have meals, clap his hands enthusiastically when we sing and dance in an event, call me like a Buddha just because I pose with my hands joined in front of my chest, and.... and so many inexplicable memories.

***

I thought fear means losing someone you love. That's why, I followed the words from Yoda: "Train yourself to let go of everything you fear to lose." I live day by day, control my own fear, try to do my best so regrets won't come afterwards. But, this second greatest loss, after losing my maternal grandmother in the first place, is making me understand what's my actual fear. 

My fear is not only about losing someone I love. My fear is living with grief loss and the world still works perfectly fine without the presence of someone I love. 

I go by to the place where Mbah used to be there. Everyone goes by. And everyone is trying their best to pretend the truth isn't hurting anymore and move on with their life. When everyone does that, I feel like I have no right to feel sad anymore. Out of that feeling, I fear that my memory of Mbah will fade.

I'm taking this moment to write this small piece about you, Mbah. In case that my memory about you is fading, When it happens, I'll go back to read this again. So, once again I can feel your presence.

In loving and fondest memory of the greatest grandfather I ever have,

HNR.