The Male Figure
“You’ll never be too young to make a change.” That’s what my opa said to me, as he was sitting in his favourite chair, and me in the sofa. I remember that day, we were talking about the books I recently bought. He was always so proud of me, even to the point that he bragged about the books I bought from either a local bookstore or a big bookstore. I remember that he was in awe when he learned about what books I like to read. He was a big influence on what books I have read. One time, I bought a book, How Democracies Die (I actually don’t know if it is the exact book but you get the point.). I came home holding a bag full of books and stationeries. Of course, I walked pass him because his favourite chair was in the living room that was connected to the stair leading to my room. He noticed the bag I was holding (well he noticed because the bookshop name was on the bag) and said to me, “Hi, Kazka! what did you bought?” I then smiled and showed him the book. He said to me, “Wow! I never ever seen a teenager reading such a heavy book!” We both laughed. In my mind, I thought that, “Oh my god, I’m scared that he will be mad at me for reading something is against what he strongly believed in.” But in reality, he didn’t. He was actually proud of me, maybe he thought that there will be another granddaughter that can talk about politics with him. Time went by, we then talked about news, books, and documentaries.
One day, he fell sick and needed medical help. He was hospitalized because there were unwanted liquids in his lungs. Everyday, there are doctors and nurses that come and go to help him feel better. All of my family members came to the hospital room and take turns to whoever will accompany him in his room. Of course, not all of us can stay for a night in his room. Days went by, more and more guest visited him, even the officials. Some of them we don’t even know well. But he was still accepting them and refuse to reject them. You can guess how many people come in a day. If you’re asking, of course, there were rest days.
Fast forward, I was in school. Remembered it was in biology class. One of my teachers called my name in the middle of me taking notes. I was confused, she seemed panicked. Then she said that I need to go to the hospital. I didn’t ask her any questions, but I know from her face that it was my mom that told her. I immediately knew, it was an emergency. I kept calm. Trying my best to think positive. Then I got to the car park, and oh my god. My driver was panicking and rushing too. I got to my car, playing my phone. I forgot if my mom has texted me or not. Through countless traffics and red lights, I finally arrived. Then someone told me to go to the ICU. He was already in the ICU for days. So, I went through the oh my god-so slow elevator and arrived in the ICU floor. We waited, and waited, and waited, hoping it’ll get better. It was not. His health was deteriorating. His organs were not functioning well. He was connected to tubes. It hurts seeing him hurting. We all were hysteric. Especially my mom. She was crying, repeating the words: “papa, papa” all over. We all knew God was going to take him. Mama said to say goodbye to him. I did. I whispered in his ears, “Say hi to oma for me, please” and “You’re not hurting anymore, right?” After that, we looked at his heart monitor. It was flat, but miraculously, it revived (only for 30 seconds or more, no more than 1–2 minutes). We got hope. And then, it was flat. No more revived heartbeat. He was gone, forever. I didn’t cry. That doesn’t mean I’m a psycho though. I was comforting my cousins, hugging my mom.
At wake, that’s when I cried. Like crazy. Hysterically. We then said our last goodbyes before he was buried six feet under. Took our last picture, except he was not breathing anymore. I then went to the car to go to his final resting place. It was big because it’s an official burying. Oh yeah, he was a former police chief, that’s why there were so much police officers and officials. After his funeral ceremony, we sprinkled flowers on his grave. We all said goodbye, and then went home.
So, I think a few day pass by, we wrote words about him. In islamic culture there’s this thing called a Yasin. It is a surah, but, as I know in Indonesia, we compose many surah and hadits into a book. It is usually for people who has passed so they will be in peace. I wrote little words, and that, ladies and gentleman, what I regretted the most. So I wrote this little story for him.
A year has passed by, one year without you. Opa, I regret getting mad because you bother me everyday, you don’t. Hope you’re having fun with oma, opa. And your parents too. Hope you guys are laughing together. I don’t know what heaven’s like. But, tell them our funny stories. Tell oma what the people you love, especially about our family, that you are proud of us. I know you are looking at us right now. You will always be my favourite male figure, my inspiration.
We’ll meet again. don’t know when, but I know we’ll meet again. I love you opa. Rest in peace. We all miss you and love you.
Sincerely, Kazka, your youngest grandchild.
