It's been forty days since my father's gone. Such a moment to commemorate, yet I can't find the gut to write about it. Twelve years in handicapped status, constantly deteriorated, sometimes I think death has just knocked on the door. It's only a matter of time. My father's sickness was really stressing, even depressing not only for him but also the entire family. How can you write about something so depressing, watching someone close to you slowly degrade into the end of the line in such a long and painful way anyone could ever imagined?
Ironically, I don't have much to say about my father when he's alive. Yes, he's been a very good father and a role model for us, but there's not much left out of it. All I can remember is how he took education very seriously, how he was angry when I blew my midterm grade back in high school, how he's always there when we got into college. My father himself visited me in Bandung all the way from Semarang by regular bus!.That was right before the stroke comes and destroys anything good in him. I remember taking his hand to the mosque every Friday. We had to come very early so that we can take a special place in the mosque before it got occupied by someone else.
The last two years were the most depressing times after he was completely incapable to move or assisted to move. He was also completely lost his ability to communicate in any way. It makes both sides frustrated, and made us can only think of the worst possibility that might happens.
And now that my father's gone, we still learn to live without him. My mother still finds it difficult to sleep getting accustomed to keep an eye on my father every night. My father left a hole, an empty space that used to fill this house up, even in his condition. Now this house feels so vacant, I cannot imagine how we can solve this dilemma. The way we lived revolves around him, and we have to determine a new course now, and so far is not yet determined. That's something that not many people understand, when all they care about is irritating me and my brother about our spouses-to-be and our aging state.
Ironically, I don't have much to say about my father when he's alive. Yes, he's been a very good father and a role model for us, but there's not much left out of it. All I can remember is how he took education very seriously, how he was angry when I blew my midterm grade back in high school, how he's always there when we got into college. My father himself visited me in Bandung all the way from Semarang by regular bus!.That was right before the stroke comes and destroys anything good in him. I remember taking his hand to the mosque every Friday. We had to come very early so that we can take a special place in the mosque before it got occupied by someone else.
The last two years were the most depressing times after he was completely incapable to move or assisted to move. He was also completely lost his ability to communicate in any way. It makes both sides frustrated, and made us can only think of the worst possibility that might happens.
And now that my father's gone, we still learn to live without him. My mother still finds it difficult to sleep getting accustomed to keep an eye on my father every night. My father left a hole, an empty space that used to fill this house up, even in his condition. Now this house feels so vacant, I cannot imagine how we can solve this dilemma. The way we lived revolves around him, and we have to determine a new course now, and so far is not yet determined. That's something that not many people understand, when all they care about is irritating me and my brother about our spouses-to-be and our aging state.
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