On the second of May thirteen years ago, my dad passed away. Writing that sentence felt pretty much surreal. Thirteen years ago was kind of long but not that distant. I was twenty years old by then, in my fourth semester in the university. It was around midday in the university, my mother phoned me while crying. Words stuck on the edge of her throat. Either she couldn’t find the best way to explain the situation, or her heart was shredded to pieces watching my dad’s final moments. No kind of person would stay strong in this situation. I had to ask my professor if I could leave the class because my dad was on the deathbed. The question was very trivial. What kind of human would say no to this situation? To this day, I had no idea why I pointed out that question.
The traffic that day was like everyday’s Jakarta. Packed with cars, full of honks, and oxygen paired with metropolitan dust. I was expecting 90 minutes but it only took a third of the time to reach hospital. Miracle did happen but not to my dad. I ran through the hospital corridor. Tiles were all white, the air felt dark and heavy. I was the last person to arrive in the hospital. Some of my parents’ relatives were there, pointing to the room where my father was waiting to embark on his final journey.
My dad was surrounded by my mother, brother, and I. Words couldn’t come out. I was the loudest person in the family but not that time. Finally I knew why my mother broke down to tears, because I did too. How come this woman bears the pain of watching a person she loves wither away in the past few years? I thought giving birth was the ultimate experience of mortal pain for women. On that day, I discovered sadness can reach another elevation.
The last thing I remember was the three of us murmuring for forgiveness, and hopefully he would end up in a better place. My dad, who was in vegetative state, suddenly raised his right hand. All three of us were holding it tight. It was the last journey on this earth. Around 1PM, he passed away in his fifties. My mom was the last person he saw.
My dad and I never had the best relationship like in movies or any poetic books. Love comes in different packages. His’ came in the shape of a rocky mountain. He grew up in the hardship of poverty with his other ten or eleven siblings. In Bangka island where he was born, electricity was scarce and had to be generated from a diesel machine. It was only turned on to catch up on some news or Chinese-speaking television channels. Senior high school was the highest grade he could graduate in.
He moved to Jakarta in his early twenties, met my mom and got married, had my brother followed by me three years after, brought and helped his siblings from the hometown to find opportunities in Jakarta. The 1998 monetary crisis almost crashed us. He still broke boulders into pebbles for me and his siblings to walk through, and yet walking over pebbles gave me a hard time. He knew his life was never easy in the first place. Not even until his last moment as a father and a husband.
Perhaps I was the luckiest person on my dad’s last day. He fought for his life to see me before he closed his eyes forever. This month marks my thirteen years without him. Everything still feels like yesterday, I often forget he’s not here anymore. I don’t know where he is right now. Probably on a journey somewhere in this world. Under the ocean, above the sky, on a rocky mountain, or in a field full of lilies. I hope life gives you a good one this time.
