A Year Ago, Today (1)

Please note that the short sentences and empty space made between each sentence in this post are intentional. They signify the emptiness the writer felt when recording one of the tragedies in her life.

A year ago, today, Papa fell. On the floor, at his bedside.

He was standing up on his own, and he fell, in front of my eyes, after my shower.

I lifted him onto his bed, still clad in my towel.

He was in pain. I saw him in pain.

I asked him to lie down, and called Liza and Nina.

The sisters came, called for an ambulance.

The beeping ambulance brought him to the hospital, while the 3 of us try to catch up with it, in our cars.

Papa was brought into the ICU, Hospital Kajang. We sat in the waiting room-a small room with smaller chairs, while they were working on Papa in the opposite room.

I sat beside the window, held my knees close to my chin, and looked outside.

I saw many gloomy faces walking. People in hospitals are always gloomy, I thought.

And so was I. I must be gloomy. I am gloomy, aren’t I?

But then, why should I be gloomy?

Look at that mother carrying a child in her arms. She looks gloomy. Maybe her husband has had an accident, and she is thinking about the mouths she has to feed, if he never comes out of the OT alive.

Look at that man walking with canes because he broke a bone in his left leg. He looks gloomy; the woman beside him looks gloomy, because he might not be able to work for the next 3 months, and who to pay the bills then?

People in hospitals are gloomy because of their fear of losing the people they love, losing the happiness they once had, losing their freedom from problems.

I am not losing the person I love.

So I shouldn’t feel gloomy.

Papa will be fine. He’s fine.

See, the doctors are coming in. And the nurses too.

They are going to fix Papa up.

After they fix him, they’re gonna say, like all of the doctors Papa have been to have said, ‘He’s fine. Just a bruise. But he’s fine. You say he’s 86? Well then, he is the fittest 86 year old I’ve ever met! You can take him home now.’ That’s what they’re gonna say.


But what is taking the doctors so long?


I looked outside the window again, I saw the main gate. That’s where we got in, and that’s where we’re gonna leave, all four of us, with smiles on our faces.

And I’m gonna scold Papa for being adventurous, getting up on his own. And he’s gonna just stay quiet. But I know he’ll be listening.


But what is taking the doctors so long?


‘Papa, I’m going to buy a car, you know’ I said, sitting beside him on his bed last night.

Papa was busy arranging the little packets of ‘Kuih Lapis’ in a plastic Tupperware.

‘When Ayu ada kereta, kalau Papa sakit, then we don’t have to call Liza and ask her to come all the way and take you to the hospital. I can’, I said proudly.

He was quiet, and then said, ‘Don’t make promises. When the time comes, you won’t have the time’,


Why are the doctors taking too long?


Liza was on another chair, near the door, on the phone.

Nina was on a chair in front of me; her fingers are busy with the phone, too.

I, have nobody to call or contact. Why should I call anyone? Papa is fine.

‘Doctor, boleh saya cakap sebentar?’ was the voice of a young doctor standing at the door, looking at my Doctor sister, Nina.

‘OK, Doctor,’ Nina said, standing up and walking to him. They walked slowly together to the opposite room, where Papa was being fixed.

I looked out the window again. My knees, still close to my chin.

Did I lock the front door? Did I switch off the iron? There’s this document at the office which my boss is supposed to sign. Did I tell him? Does he know?


‘Guys, you wanna take a peek?’ Nina said, at the waiting room door.

We walked up.

We stood at the door of the opposite room, and we saw Papa.

He was on a bed, his eyes closed.

He had wires and tubes all over his chest and wrists, and some were even put through his nostrils. There were beeping sounds, coming from the machines he was connected to.

But his eyes were closed.

‘You have two options,’ the young doctor said. ‘You can let him stay here, for observation, or you can take him to HKL for a CT Scan, since we don’t have the scan here’.

But you’re supposed to say he’s fine! He is fine!

Nina was doubtful that the Scan could tell us anything more than we already should know by now.

Liza was quiet.

I want to go to HKL. Take him to HKL. Now.


‘Ayu, you go with the ambulance, we’ll be right behind you’

I sat beside him in the ambulance.

The wires are still with him. The beeping sounds too.
And then the siren.

Why are my cheeks wet? Damn these tears.

We arrived at HKL. They rushed Papa to the scan room and asked me to stay outside. The red light above the door turned red. Papa was being scanned. They are gonna find out what’s wrong him and they are gonna fix him.


Another waiting area.

There were chairs, unoccupied. Why do they have chairs? I can’t sit, I can’t stay still, nobody can, when their loved ones are in that room. So why do they have chairs?

Staring at the red light, I fought my own denial.

He is leaving us.

Liza and Nina finally arrived.

Soon after that, the red light was turned off. Papa was then rushed out of the scan room into another room.

In that room, there was only one wire connected to him, to read his heart beat and blood pressure.


‘The doctor wants to talk to you’ someone said.

‘There, let’s take a look at this’, the doctor said, holding up Papa’s CT Scan results up.

The doctor said that the fall had caused his head to bleed extensively. The blood now occupies the room in his skull, taking the space of the brain and at the same time pushing the brain to one side, which causes his unconsciousness. The bleeding will continue, she says, and there is nothing they can do about it.

Nothing they can do. Even if this happened to a younger person, they still cannot do anything.

They cannot fix Papa up.

She suggests us to take him back to Kajang Hospital ‘for observation’. To observe what?

We went back to the room where Papa is.

We waited for the ambulance.

Liza was outside the room, walking back and forth.

I went up to her.

She leaned on the wall, her body slowly nearing the floor. She burst into tears.

I hugged her and cried too, there, on the hospital floor.


We reached Kajang Hospital.

Papa was placed in a four bedded room.

Papa was connected to more wires and tubes.

‘Ayu stay the night here ok? Anything you need?’

No.

‘Ok so then, please call us if anything,’

Ok.

‘Will you be okay?’

Yes.

‘We will come back later for you, tukar shift’

Ok.


They left.

I stared at Papa.

It was getting dark.

I was getting numb.

‘La ilaha illallah, La ilaha illallah, La ilaha illallah’

Follow me Pa, say ‘La ilaha illallah’