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Busy Day, Heavy Heart

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Saturday, August 30, 2025 Today was unbelievably busy. Like “I wish I had two clones and a personal butler” kind of busy. At 8 a.m., I left for Jakarta with my husband, my mom, and my youngest. Honestly, I was a little anxious. There were rumors about protests and possible unrest. I’ve lived long enough to know how quickly small sparks can become wildfire. Still, the show had to go on. Too many appointments, too many promises already made. Canceling would only pile on more stress, and my INFJ self can’t handle breaking commitments unless the universe gives me no other choice. By 9 a.m., two Cleansheet rangers arrived to clean the house. One worked upstairs under my husband’s supervision, while I stayed downstairs supervising the other. Since I still can’t climb stairs or walk too much, I recruited my daughter to be my “assistant on legs.” Imagine me as a general commanding troops, but instead of a sword, I had words and a teenager fetching things for me. While that was happening, the ...
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Trusting the Healing Process

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While bus stops were set on fire and fear spread across the city, I sat in a hospital waiting room, holding onto the thought that healing is still possible: inside me, and hopefully, around us. At 4:00 pm, I left the apartment for a doctor’s check-up. By 4:30, I was already at the hospital, going through the usual questions about medical history. At 5:00, I bumped into Mas Yusuf who, as usual, very helpful and proactive, making sure everything is well taken care of. By 5:30, I was still waiting… long enough to fall asleep sitting down. Hospitals do that to you, they stretch time in mysterious ways. Finally, at 6:30, I met Dr. Ong. And honestly? He’s one of those rare doctors who not only gives answers but also explains the   why   behind them. I love that. It feels like a mini-lecture, where you walk out healthier   and   smarter. He did an ultrasound, everything looked good. The bandages came off too. The incision looked dry and neat. Still, I asked about the throbb...
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The Well of Identity

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This morning I was giggling like a kid because my sprout experiment using this precious box actually worked. Three days only, and boom! Fresh, crunchy toge ready to eat. My kid and I munched them like goats, straight from the plate, dipped in our beloved Kewpie sauce . Cleaner, fresher, and somehow more satisfying than the sad, wilted ones I sometimes got from the market. Bonus point: my eldest already has a business plan to sell bakwan made from her DIY toge to her roommates when she’s abroad. That’s the spirit of entrepreneurship right there, thanks to bean sprouts. By noon, my mood was still sunny. I managed to surprise everyone at home with their favorite treats: durian sticky rice for my husband, bubur sumsum for me, jagung susu keju for my kid, and peach gum dessert for my mom. I didn’t make them from scratch, let’s not get carried away. I ordered from ShopeeFood, of course, because why not cash in on promotions and referral commissions while feeding the whole family? Two bi...
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Sore Sore Nonton Sore Lagi

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Today was another gentle step forward: I went out again, nothing fancy, just simple errands and a bit of fresh air. Funny how even the most ordinary routines can feel refreshing when you’re in the middle of recovery. After lunch, my husband and mom came with me to Indosat. The mission is to downgrade my internet package. See, I still keep my very first number from 25 years ago, the one I got when I bought my very first cellphone. Back then, topping up credit felt like a luxury, and texting “where are you” took serious typing effort. Somehow, through all the changes (different phones, different life stages) I never let that number go. By now it feels less like a SIM card and more like a piece of my personal history. These days, I hardly use it for data. Telkomsel has taken over as my daily driver. But still, I can’t bring myself to let go of that first number. Nostalgia is a stubborn thing, isn’t it? Some people keep old concert tickets; I keep an old phone number. My husband drove, my ...
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Small Joys in the Recovery Lane

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Recovery days are funny. They’re quieter, slower, yet filled with little stories that feel like puzzle pieces. Each one reminding me that healing isn’t just about medicine, but about the rhythm of everyday life. This morning started with food, because of course it did. My mom has been on a mission to keep me well-fed. And by “well-fed” I mean plates of home-cooked meals that would make even Michelin-star chefs nod in approval. Sometimes I wonder if she’s secretly competing with the hospital catering team, except she’s already won, hands down. Honestly, food made by someone who loves you is the best medicine. Somewhere between brunch, my friend in Canada replied my WhatsApp status. I proudly sent him this photo of the sunrise from my bedroom: misty, soft, a little mystical. His reply came with a chuckle: “Widih burem. Polusi ya? Lol.” And then, he sent me his backyard view: wide skies, rolling hills, golden sunlight. I had to laugh, but also… I’ll admit it, I envied him a little. His b...
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Fragrant and Fragile

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  I’ve always loved the scent of tuberose. It’s intoxicating, heady, and oddly comforting, like a soft perfume that hugs the soul. When I was in the hospital, I almost asked my mother-in-law to bring some fresh tuberose from my favorite flower shop near her house. They always have the best ones there: stems strong, petals thick, fragrance lingering for days. But then it hit me: this is a hospital. And if urban legend holds true, hospitals are crowded not just with doctors and nurses, but with, well… other invisible residents. Spirits, they say, love floral scents, especially tuberose. Can you imagine them flocking to my hospital room for a midnight buffet of fragrance? Nope. Not while I'm there, Casper. 👻 So today, since I'm back home, I ordered tuberose online . Instant delivery, no ghostly guests invited. Within an hour, my room was filled with that familiar scent I love so much.  This Monday wasn’t like the usual Mondays I’d spend with my eldest. She offered to take me for...
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A Feast of Healing

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This Sunday, we didn’t go to church. Not because I’ve suddenly become rebellious, but because I’m still in recovery mode and, honestly, the idea of making my husband escort me back and forth to the toilet using wheel-chair during service didn’t sound like the most spiritual activity. So we stayed home, tuned into the online service, and was actually really blessed. The sermon spoke about the phases of human life: dependent, independent, and interdependent. It was like someone had put words to what I’ve been experiencing lately. Watch the sermon here . Recovery humbles you. Suddenly, I’m dependent on people again. My husband helping me walk, my mom making sure I eat, my children pushing my wheelchair. But strangely, I don’t feel diminished by it. I’m reminded that life isn’t meant to be lived as a lone ranger or xylo. True growth is when we lean into interdependence . And maybe that’s why this season, with all its vulnerability, feels oddly rich. I thought the rest of the day would be s...
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Wheels and Warmth

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I woke up at 6 AM to the smell of delicious home cooking. Thanks to my mom, who’s still staying with me during my recovery. Honestly, she runs this household like a Michelin-starred restaurant. By the time I dragged myself out of bed, a complete spread was already laid out on the table, ready before I even popped my morning meds. Talk about VIP treatment 😄 Then came reinforcements from Depok: my sister, her husband, and their little one. They didn’t arrive empty-handed. No, they came bearing the holy gifts of fried bakwan and sweet potatoes. You know how some food just doesn’t last more than 15 minutes? Yeah, that was it. Gone. Vanished. Kaput. By the time I blinked twice, only the aroma lingered. They made themselves completely at home and spent the entire day exploring everything my place has to offer. Swimming pool, indoor and outdoor playgrounds, picnic at the botanic park. You name it, they did it. By evening, they were heading home with what can only be described as loot bags: h...
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I'm Alive!

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Yes, after 10 days in hospital and surviving three major operations, thank God I’m still alive, guys!  I know, I know, I’ve been absent for a week from this blog. Not because I don’t want to write, but because life gave me a little detour called “hospital survival mode.” And let me tell you, survival mode is no joke. Imagine trying to juggle post-op pain, a stubborn IV line, doctors coming in at odd hours, and me negotiating with nurses for one more round of painkillers like I was bargaining in a flea market. Add in Netflix running in the background, half-watched movies I don’t remember, and me dozing off mid-dialogue. That was my week. See? Even my fingers had a medical leave. Who knew something as small as an IV placement could make me feel like a baby bird learning to type? But apparently, while I was away, statistics showed hundreds of people were still peeking at this blog every day, as if to check if I’d left a heartbeat here. That thought touches me deeply. So now that my ha...
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Going Home with a 270 Million Bill and a Prayer

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Thursday, August 21, 2025 This is it! The day I finally got discharged after 10 nights in the hospital. After surviving ESWL for kidney stones + laparoscopy for appendix + mini laparotomy for myom and uterus removal.  In the morning, Dr. Eko came by with the golden ticket: “You can go home today.” And previously, Dr. Ong team also said the same. Finally! I’d been waiting for that sentence like a kid waiting for recess. Of course, it’s never as simple as “the doctor said I can go home.” Nope. There’s a whole backstage performance involving the nurses, admin, pharmacy, and let’s not forget the insurance company. Meanwhile, my husband was busy running back and forth between the hospital room and the car, carrying bags, while I reminded him, “Don’t forget to buy bread for the nurses and staff.”  Doctor on duty replaced the dressing on my laparoscopy wounds, but left the laparotomy one alone. Too wet, too risky. I didn’t even argue, I’m just glad someone else was brave enough to de...
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