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 slow: Netflix, snuggles, and some lazy banter with my husband. But recovery likes to throw plot twists. In the middle of a bathroom trip, my surgical bandage decided it had had enough of me and just… plopped to the floor. I froze. I panicked. Was I leaking? Was I unraveling like a poorly wrapped Christmas present?
WhatsApp to my oncologist? No reply yet. Of course, doctors have their own busy lives saving people. Cue my lifesaver, Mas Yusuf. Once again, he guided me like the guardian angel of hospital logistics, arranging things so I could rush to the ER and get it fixed. Sat set. Bandage replaced. No drama. Thank God!
And then came hunger. Real, gnawing hunger. The kind that doesn’t want a polite salad but wants something bold, unapologetic, and dripping with flavor. I looked at my husband and made my humble request: “Please, I need Padang food.”
We tried Payakumbuah first just because it's the nearest from hospital, but the waitlist was longer than my patience. And really, who wants to wait for gulai? Not me. So we went where all cravings eventually lead us: Resto Pagi Sore. The holy grail of comfort food. The moment the dishes arrived: rendang, gulai, sambal, and that glorious crispy stuff you don’t know the name of but eat anyway.. I was transported. Every bite was like an edible love letter to my healing body. Look at the photos. Proof that happiness can be measured in plates. The bill? Worth every rupiah.
Back home, I joined closing circle of Rahne’s 21 Days of Receiving program. Something about the word “receiving” hit me lately. Maybe healing is not so much about doing but allowing. Allowing people to care for me. Allowing food to nourish me. Allowing joy to sneak in between pain and rest.
Now here I am, typing this blog while waiting for my night meds to kick in. Tonight I’ll try something new: adult pampers. Not exactly the glamorous accessory of my dreams, but hey, if it helps me sleep without the 3 a.m. toilet struggle, I’ll take it. Healing requires humor too, right?
Elizabeth Gilbert once wrote, “You need to learn how to select your thoughts just the same way you select your clothes every day.” Today, I chose gratitude over panic, sambal over sulking, and laughter over fear.
Cheers,
Nuniek Tirta
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