Hope is a Ferris wheel - It takes low and high; And when you reach the top, it's like you can touch the sky! And when it takes you down hope becomes a thing that, when you`re getting off, you take with you to bring. - Robin Herrera
Seven years had passed, yet I couldn't shake the memory from my mind. Whenever I tried to revisit it or recalled an unexpected flash of that moment, it was as vivid as if it had happened just yesterday. Sometimes, it brought uncontrollable tears; other times, I grasped the illusion that it was all a dream. There were moments of irritation between these emotions, especially when people wouldn't cease with their condolences. They stated that my father was no longer with us, but what irked me even more was when someone remained expressionless, as if nothing had occurred.
As time flowed, life gradually returned to its own rhythm. Nande resumed her teaching routine, I struggled to complete my master's degree, my older sister embarked on her new family journey, and my older brother was burdened not only with his job but also with the responsibility of becoming the head of our family, stepping in to fill our father's role for Nande and me. The well-meaning elders comforted us in our grief by reminding us that only my brother had lost his father, while my sister and I had not.
Receiving sad news from friends was not a new concept for me; it had started in elementary school when I formed bonds outside of my family circle. Yet, in my wildest dreams, I never imagined that I would be the one to deliver such heartbreaking news to those very friends. As a person of faith, I should have known that death is an unavoidable part of life's intricate tapestry.
We had been sick on several occasions, each requiring visits to the hospital to consult with doctors. However, I never imagined that not every ailment would result in recovery and a long life. Who could have predicted God's enigmatic plan, in which He chose my father to face an entirely unknown and formidable disease? It was a lingering question in my mind, a puzzle with no clear solution, a testament to life's unpredictability and the mysterious nature of fate.
Under Herna's Medical Care
Nande, accompanied by my brother, had taken our father to various doctors in search of a cure. One doctor had recommended a professor who claimed to be a senior dermatologist in Medan. The skin creams prescribed by this professor seemed to work, albeit slowly improving my father's health. However, we eventually decided to discontinue our consultations with him and explore other treatment options.
Before receiving treatment from this professor, my father's condition had been extremely unstable. His skin would briefly improve for a few days, only to deteriorate rapidly afterward, with cracks and a clear reddish liquid oozing out. I vividly recall one night, while giving him a gentle back massage, feeling that liquid soaking through his shirt. It felt as if my heart was being squeezed like wet clothes.
Witnessing my father's helplessness at its peak, Nande sought treatment at Herna, one of Medan's private hospitals that did not accept patients with health insurance. We assumed this policy was an unspoken guarantee that the best care would be provided by the most competent doctors in their field. Upon arrival at Herna, the first step was the placement of a CVC (Central Venous Catheter), which functions like an IV but is actually a catheter inserted into a major blood vessel leading to the central vein, which carries blood to the heart. We prayed to Allah, the Creator of the Universe, to replace our pain and fear with hope and healing.
The initial three days of hospitalization showed no improvement, and new issues emerged, such as shortness of breath. My father's hypoalbuminemia (low levels of albumin in the blood) required administering at least four bottles of albumin via IV. Adding to our anxiety and sadness were his words of despair. We vowed never to let him face this ordeal alone, even though we tried to convince him that everything would eventually be fine.
The only source of warmth during this difficult time was a skin cream prescribed by one of the doctors. It worked so well that my father's skin stopped peeling. Although his strength had not yet returned, and he couldn't even sit up in bed, my father felt as if he had found a glimmer of hope while receiving treatment at Herna. However, Nande was burdened by the rising hospital costs. Moreover, we couldn't predict how long my father would need treatment. Nande tried to persuade him to transfer to a hospital that treated BPJS patients. Initially, my father refused, but eventually, he agreed. The battle for my father's health continued at Medan's Adam Malik General Hospital.
Under Adam Malik's Care
Our journey within the walls of Adam Malik Hospital began with a procedure aimed at alleviating the excess fluid in my father's frail body – catheter insertion. Alhamdulillah, this intervention marked the beginning of an improvement in his shortness of breath. Hope flickered like a distant star on the horizon.
However, the road ahead was paved with challenges, which proved to be turbulent. Regrettably, within less than a week of our stay at Adam Malik, my father's condition drastically worsened. His deteriorating health necessitated a transfer to the High Dependency Unit (HDU), a facility dedicated to patients requiring more observation, treatment, and care than standard rooms could provide.
Close to the HDU was an open room where patients' families could wait and rest, but visitation times were strictly regulated, allowing only 30 minutes in the morning and afternoon. It became a cause for concern whenever we were summoned outside these designated hours. Nande and I sought solace on the terrace, close to the HDU, during the long, chilly nights. Our hearts were warmed by the anticipation of my father's recovery while my mother yearned for her soulmate by her side. Our beloved father, although battling his own pain, never uttered a refusal throughout this ordeal. He always reminded us to be patient, even when our wishes couldn't be immediately fulfilled.
The HDU experience was an emotional roller coaster. There were days when we rejoiced because my father managed to change his body position or utter a few words. But just as quickly, our spirits would plummet. Nande was in tears one day, calling my father's name as he lay unconscious. We learned from the compassionate HDU staff that my father was grappling with severe complications – infections in his heart and lungs, severe stomach issues, and fluid retention that gave the illusion of weight gain.
After enduring a week of intensive treatment in the HDU, my father was transferred back to a regular room. Yet, his condition was still far from stable. He could only consume porridge through a tube, and his once robust physique was dwindling before our eyes. Most of the day, my father slept, his body weakened by the relentless battle against illness. His nights were filled with restlessness, although he could now sit up and utter a few words.
The beginning of the third week at Adam Malik brought hope as the central venous catheter (CVC) and catheter were removed, addressing concerns about potential infections from prolonged use. My father's strength gradually improved with a new infusion into his leg, allowing him to make slight movements, although confined to his bed. Then, one night, my father uttered something difficult for our minds to grasp.
In a moment of delirium, he forewarned us of an impending flood and even predicted the president's arrival. The hospital psychiatrist administered a sedative and explained the situation – my father's body and mind were utterly exhausted. He needed a profound, uninterrupted sleep for at least three days to return to normalcy. Following the sedation, my dear father, who had not experienced a restful night's sleep in months, finally slept for a full fifteen hours.
However, in the wake of this slumber, my father spoke incoherently the following day, and his temper flared sporadically. He was adamant about going home, blissfully unaware that he had been hospitalized for nearly a month. In response to his persistent longing, my brother took the initiative to borrow a wheelchair, hoping to give my father a taste of fresh air outdoors. During this outing, my father's confusion began to clear, and he slowly started to understand the gravity of our hospitalization.
"Come on, let's go home," he urged, a yearning in his voice that pierced our hearts. Our longing for my father's return home in good health far exceeded his desire, and it was a promise we clung to, with hope and faith as our guiding lights through this arduous journey.
After enduring a challenging month of treatment, a glimmer of hope finally pierced through the darkness. The doctor, who had been tirelessly attending to my father's needs, delivered the long-awaited news – it was time for us to return home. However, this homecoming came with a crucial condition: my father's recovery would still necessitate routine outpatient care.
The prospect of returning home filled our hearts with an overwhelming sense of relief. For my father, it meant more than just the comfort of his own bed and the familiar surroundings of our house; it was a return to the simple pleasures of life that he had sorely missed during his hospital stay. One thing he eagerly anticipated was savoring Nande's home-cooked meals once more, a prospect that brought a smile to his face and a twinkle to his eyes.
Yet, my father's weakened state presented a unique challenge. His mobility was limited, and even something as basic as going to the bathroom was daunting. In these moments, my brother stepped in, turning what could have been a somber task into a heartwarming experience. He carried my father with the utmost care, their interaction resembling a playful game rather than a mundane chore – a poignant reminder of the strength of their bond. In my father's tired and frail body, there was an unmistakable sense of relief and contentment.
The hospital experience left a lasting impression on my father, particularly the comforting presence of air conditioning in his room. Therefore, upon his return, he made a special request to Nande – to install air conditioning in our home. This seemingly small luxury symbolized comfort and healing for him, a reminder of his journey and the importance of making every day as comfortable and pleasant as possible. It was a small change in our home, but it held immense significance as a testament to my father's resilience and the enduring strength of our family's unity.
Returning to Adam Malik
As the days passed, my father's condition continued to deteriorate alarmingly. His strength waned to the point where he could no longer summon the energy to form words, rendering him unable to respond to the heartfelt greetings and suggestions that surrounded him. Even as Nande, the caring and attentive figure, suggested forgoing the installation of the air conditioner to engage my father, there was no discernible response from him. He was slipping further into the grip of his ailment, his once vibrant presence fading away.
Then came that fateful Tuesday, July 7, 2015, a day etched into our memories with painful clarity. We had to hire an ambulance from a small hospital near our house to transport my father to Adam Malik Hospital. The urgency of the situation weighed heavily on us, and time seemed to slip through our fingers like grains of sand. A heartbreaking scene unfolded as Nande gently tried to change my father's clothes before the journey. My father cried softly in his frailty and vulnerability and rested his head on Nande's shoulder as if this moment marked a poignant farewell.
Upon our arrival at Adam Malik Hospital, there was a whirlwind of activity. My father was swiftly admitted to the emergency room, where the medical team conducted a thorough examination. The air in the room was tense as we all gathered, bracing ourselves for the grim truth about my father's condition. With a compassionate but somber tone, the doctor revealed the harrowing details. Bacteria had invaded my father's bloodstream, and his bacterial count had skyrocketed to over 33,000, far beyond the normal range of 7,000 to 11,000. These relentless bacteria were mercilessly consuming antibiotics, rendering treatment all the more challenging. The doctor didn't mince words; he made it clear that my father's condition was critical and that only a miracle could offer any glimmer of hope.
To compound the gravity of the situation, the doctor conveyed that my father's internal organs were beginning to fail, and his albumin levels had plummeted. Despite the stark reality before us, we clung to the thin thread of hope and turned to our faith, praying fervently to Allah for our beloved father's healing and a reprieve from this relentless ordeal. My father lay there, eyes closed, as if in a deep slumber. In that fragile moment, I leaned in close and whispered softly, "It's okay, Dad," hoping that my words would reach his soul, reassuring him that he was not alone in this battle and that our love and support would be his unwavering companions on this arduous journey.
We were in a dire situation when my father's health suddenly worsened, and the doctor's orders necessitated his admission to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). It was a race against time, but our quest to secure a spot at renowned hospitals like Adam Malik and several other healthcare facilities that accepted our health insurance yielded no positive results. These institutions were operating at maximum capacity, leaving us in despair.
Desperation hung in the air as we considered returning to Herna, searching for a suitable ICU bed. When it seemed like hope was slipping through our fingers, a ray of light broke through the gloom. We received the unexpected news that Imelda Hospital had a single ICU bed available. It was our only glimmer of hope, and we clung to it desperately.
Nande, understanding the gravity of the situation, consented to the transfer without hesitation. Our journey to Imelda Hospital felt like a race against time itself. The streets were a blur as we rushed through traffic, our hearts heavy with worry about my father's deteriorating condition.
Upon arrival, there was a whirlwind of activity in the emergency room as the medical team worked tirelessly to stabilize my father. Time seemed to stand still as we anxiously awaited news of his condition. The minutes felt like hours until, finally, the doctor emerged with a solemn expression.
With a heavy heart, the doctor delivered the devastating news that my father had passed away. It was a gut-wrenching moment, one that shattered our hopes and left us in a state of profound grief. Despite our desperate efforts to secure the best possible care for him, fate had dealt us a cruel hand, and we were left to grapple with the profound loss of a beloved family member.
Nande, accompanied by my brother, had taken our father to various doctors in search of a cure. One doctor had recommended a professor who claimed to be a senior dermatologist in Medan. The skin creams prescribed by this professor seemed to work, albeit slowly improving my father's health. However, we eventually decided to discontinue our consultations with him and explore other treatment options.
Before receiving treatment from this professor, my father's condition had been extremely unstable. His skin would briefly improve for a few days, only to deteriorate rapidly afterward, with cracks and a clear reddish liquid oozing out. I vividly recall one night, while giving him a gentle back massage, feeling that liquid soaking through his shirt. It felt as if my heart was being squeezed like wet clothes.
Witnessing my father's helplessness at its peak, Nande sought treatment at Herna, one of Medan's private hospitals that did not accept patients with health insurance. We assumed this policy was an unspoken guarantee that the best care would be provided by the most competent doctors in their field. Upon arrival at Herna, the first step was the placement of a CVC (Central Venous Catheter), which functions like an IV but is actually a catheter inserted into a major blood vessel leading to the central vein, which carries blood to the heart. We prayed to Allah, the Creator of the Universe, to replace our pain and fear with hope and healing.
The initial three days of hospitalization showed no improvement, and new issues emerged, such as shortness of breath. My father's hypoalbuminemia (low levels of albumin in the blood) required administering at least four bottles of albumin via IV. Adding to our anxiety and sadness were his words of despair. We vowed never to let him face this ordeal alone, even though we tried to convince him that everything would eventually be fine.
The only source of warmth during this difficult time was a skin cream prescribed by one of the doctors. It worked so well that my father's skin stopped peeling. Although his strength had not yet returned, and he couldn't even sit up in bed, my father felt as if he had found a glimmer of hope while receiving treatment at Herna. However, Nande was burdened by the rising hospital costs. Moreover, we couldn't predict how long my father would need treatment. Nande tried to persuade him to transfer to a hospital that treated BPJS patients. Initially, my father refused, but eventually, he agreed. The battle for my father's health continued at Medan's Adam Malik General Hospital.
Under Adam Malik's Care
Our journey within the walls of Adam Malik Hospital began with a procedure aimed at alleviating the excess fluid in my father's frail body – catheter insertion. Alhamdulillah, this intervention marked the beginning of an improvement in his shortness of breath. Hope flickered like a distant star on the horizon.
However, the road ahead was paved with challenges, which proved to be turbulent. Regrettably, within less than a week of our stay at Adam Malik, my father's condition drastically worsened. His deteriorating health necessitated a transfer to the High Dependency Unit (HDU), a facility dedicated to patients requiring more observation, treatment, and care than standard rooms could provide.
Close to the HDU was an open room where patients' families could wait and rest, but visitation times were strictly regulated, allowing only 30 minutes in the morning and afternoon. It became a cause for concern whenever we were summoned outside these designated hours. Nande and I sought solace on the terrace, close to the HDU, during the long, chilly nights. Our hearts were warmed by the anticipation of my father's recovery while my mother yearned for her soulmate by her side. Our beloved father, although battling his own pain, never uttered a refusal throughout this ordeal. He always reminded us to be patient, even when our wishes couldn't be immediately fulfilled.
The HDU experience was an emotional roller coaster. There were days when we rejoiced because my father managed to change his body position or utter a few words. But just as quickly, our spirits would plummet. Nande was in tears one day, calling my father's name as he lay unconscious. We learned from the compassionate HDU staff that my father was grappling with severe complications – infections in his heart and lungs, severe stomach issues, and fluid retention that gave the illusion of weight gain.
After enduring a week of intensive treatment in the HDU, my father was transferred back to a regular room. Yet, his condition was still far from stable. He could only consume porridge through a tube, and his once robust physique was dwindling before our eyes. Most of the day, my father slept, his body weakened by the relentless battle against illness. His nights were filled with restlessness, although he could now sit up and utter a few words.
The beginning of the third week at Adam Malik brought hope as the central venous catheter (CVC) and catheter were removed, addressing concerns about potential infections from prolonged use. My father's strength gradually improved with a new infusion into his leg, allowing him to make slight movements, although confined to his bed. Then, one night, my father uttered something difficult for our minds to grasp.
In a moment of delirium, he forewarned us of an impending flood and even predicted the president's arrival. The hospital psychiatrist administered a sedative and explained the situation – my father's body and mind were utterly exhausted. He needed a profound, uninterrupted sleep for at least three days to return to normalcy. Following the sedation, my dear father, who had not experienced a restful night's sleep in months, finally slept for a full fifteen hours.
However, in the wake of this slumber, my father spoke incoherently the following day, and his temper flared sporadically. He was adamant about going home, blissfully unaware that he had been hospitalized for nearly a month. In response to his persistent longing, my brother took the initiative to borrow a wheelchair, hoping to give my father a taste of fresh air outdoors. During this outing, my father's confusion began to clear, and he slowly started to understand the gravity of our hospitalization.
"Come on, let's go home," he urged, a yearning in his voice that pierced our hearts. Our longing for my father's return home in good health far exceeded his desire, and it was a promise we clung to, with hope and faith as our guiding lights through this arduous journey.
Permitted Going Home
The prospect of returning home filled our hearts with an overwhelming sense of relief. For my father, it meant more than just the comfort of his own bed and the familiar surroundings of our house; it was a return to the simple pleasures of life that he had sorely missed during his hospital stay. One thing he eagerly anticipated was savoring Nande's home-cooked meals once more, a prospect that brought a smile to his face and a twinkle to his eyes.
Yet, my father's weakened state presented a unique challenge. His mobility was limited, and even something as basic as going to the bathroom was daunting. In these moments, my brother stepped in, turning what could have been a somber task into a heartwarming experience. He carried my father with the utmost care, their interaction resembling a playful game rather than a mundane chore – a poignant reminder of the strength of their bond. In my father's tired and frail body, there was an unmistakable sense of relief and contentment.
The hospital experience left a lasting impression on my father, particularly the comforting presence of air conditioning in his room. Therefore, upon his return, he made a special request to Nande – to install air conditioning in our home. This seemingly small luxury symbolized comfort and healing for him, a reminder of his journey and the importance of making every day as comfortable and pleasant as possible. It was a small change in our home, but it held immense significance as a testament to my father's resilience and the enduring strength of our family's unity.
Returning to Adam Malik
As the days passed, my father's condition continued to deteriorate alarmingly. His strength waned to the point where he could no longer summon the energy to form words, rendering him unable to respond to the heartfelt greetings and suggestions that surrounded him. Even as Nande, the caring and attentive figure, suggested forgoing the installation of the air conditioner to engage my father, there was no discernible response from him. He was slipping further into the grip of his ailment, his once vibrant presence fading away.
Then came that fateful Tuesday, July 7, 2015, a day etched into our memories with painful clarity. We had to hire an ambulance from a small hospital near our house to transport my father to Adam Malik Hospital. The urgency of the situation weighed heavily on us, and time seemed to slip through our fingers like grains of sand. A heartbreaking scene unfolded as Nande gently tried to change my father's clothes before the journey. My father cried softly in his frailty and vulnerability and rested his head on Nande's shoulder as if this moment marked a poignant farewell.
Upon our arrival at Adam Malik Hospital, there was a whirlwind of activity. My father was swiftly admitted to the emergency room, where the medical team conducted a thorough examination. The air in the room was tense as we all gathered, bracing ourselves for the grim truth about my father's condition. With a compassionate but somber tone, the doctor revealed the harrowing details. Bacteria had invaded my father's bloodstream, and his bacterial count had skyrocketed to over 33,000, far beyond the normal range of 7,000 to 11,000. These relentless bacteria were mercilessly consuming antibiotics, rendering treatment all the more challenging. The doctor didn't mince words; he made it clear that my father's condition was critical and that only a miracle could offer any glimmer of hope.
To compound the gravity of the situation, the doctor conveyed that my father's internal organs were beginning to fail, and his albumin levels had plummeted. Despite the stark reality before us, we clung to the thin thread of hope and turned to our faith, praying fervently to Allah for our beloved father's healing and a reprieve from this relentless ordeal. My father lay there, eyes closed, as if in a deep slumber. In that fragile moment, I leaned in close and whispered softly, "It's okay, Dad," hoping that my words would reach his soul, reassuring him that he was not alone in this battle and that our love and support would be his unwavering companions on this arduous journey.
Heading to Imelda
We were in a dire situation when my father's health suddenly worsened, and the doctor's orders necessitated his admission to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). It was a race against time, but our quest to secure a spot at renowned hospitals like Adam Malik and several other healthcare facilities that accepted our health insurance yielded no positive results. These institutions were operating at maximum capacity, leaving us in despair.
Desperation hung in the air as we considered returning to Herna, searching for a suitable ICU bed. When it seemed like hope was slipping through our fingers, a ray of light broke through the gloom. We received the unexpected news that Imelda Hospital had a single ICU bed available. It was our only glimmer of hope, and we clung to it desperately.
Nande, understanding the gravity of the situation, consented to the transfer without hesitation. Our journey to Imelda Hospital felt like a race against time itself. The streets were a blur as we rushed through traffic, our hearts heavy with worry about my father's deteriorating condition.
Upon arrival, there was a whirlwind of activity in the emergency room as the medical team worked tirelessly to stabilize my father. Time seemed to stand still as we anxiously awaited news of his condition. The minutes felt like hours until, finally, the doctor emerged with a solemn expression.
With a heavy heart, the doctor delivered the devastating news that my father had passed away. It was a gut-wrenching moment, one that shattered our hopes and left us in a state of profound grief. Despite our desperate efforts to secure the best possible care for him, fate had dealt us a cruel hand, and we were left to grapple with the profound loss of a beloved family member.
Inna Lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un
Indeed, we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him, we will return.
Indeed, we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him, we will return.
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