Chereads / The Monologue of an Old Man / Chapter 35 - A Fight (August – Malaysia Independent Day)

Chapter 35 - A Fight (August – Malaysia Independent Day)

The evening of August 30th, the eve of Malaysia's Independence Day, carried a serene quality, a calmness that seemed almost out of place against the bustling preparations happening below.

 

I sat on the balcony of our apartment, leaning back in a new rocking chair Isaac had bought for me. It was a thoughtful gesture, his way of providing comfort and support as I navigated this new phase of my life.

 

Chomel, my loyal cat, lay purring softly in my lap, her warmth a comforting presence that anchored me to the here and now. The coffee table in front of me held the remains of an early dinner—meat soup, rice, and mixed vegetables in oyster sauce, lovingly prepared by Kak Gayah. The aromas lingered, mingling with the salty sea breeze that wafted up from the beachfront.

 

Beside the dishes sat a glass of herbal drink and packs of tablets, a stark reminder of the new routine I had to adhere to. These medicines were now a crucial part of my life, tiny sentinels that kept the more threatening aspects of my condition at bay.

 

The effects of the medication made me drowsy, a gentle tug that pulled at my consciousness, blurring the edges of the world around me. I closed my eyes, allowing the weariness to wash over me, the rhythmic rocking of the chair lulling me into a state of semi-awareness.

 

The world below was a stark contrast to the tranquility I sought on my balcony. The beachfront buzzed with activity as preparations for Independence Day were in full swing.

 

New stalls had been erected, each one adorned with colorful banners and decorations. Malaysian and Penang flags fluttered in the breeze, strung from end to end, creating a festive canopy over the bustling crowd.

 

A mini concert stage had been set up at the far end, just beyond Kak Gayah's stall, where local bands and performers were gearing up for the evening's entertainment.

 

The air was filled with the lively mix of patriotic songs that echoed from the stage, blending seamlessly with the rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the shore. Laughter from the crowd mingled with the calls of stall operators hawking their goods, creating a symphony of sounds that was both chaotic and harmonious.

 

The scent of grilled meats and sweet pastries wafted up, mingling with the salty sea air, making my mouth water despite having just eaten. It was a vivid reminder of the life and vitality that continued to pulse all around me, even as I sat in my quiet corner, reflecting on my own journey.

 

In my drowsiness, my thoughts began to wander, drifting to the concept of independence. Malaysia had gained its independence from colonial rule, a hard-fought victory that marked a significant historical milestone. The celebrations below were a testament to the pride and joy that came with that freedom.

 

But as I sat there, dependent on medication to get through each day, I couldn't help but question my own sense of independence. The pills that lined the coffee table were a daily reminder of my vulnerability, a stark contrast to the robust health I once took for granted.

 

Am I really free to celebrate when my body now requires these pills to function? The thought gnawed at me, a persistent whisper that undermined the sense of pride and autonomy that should have come with this day. Independence, in its truest form, meant self-reliance and freedom from external control.

 

Yet, here I was, tethered to a regimen of medications, my daily existence dictated by the constraints of my health. It was a bitter pill to swallow, this realization that my sense of independence had been compromised, not by an external oppressor, but by my own body's frailty.

 

My mind wandered back to the events that had turned my health upside down. The memories came in waves, each one more vivid than the last. Longing for Clara's companionship weighed heavily on me.

 

Despite our constant communication through messages and calls, her physical absence was hard to bear. Our conversations were filled with warmth and affection, but they couldn't replace the comfort of her presence, the reassurance of her touch.

 

Clara had explained her situation in Kuala Lumpur in detail, the complexities of her past now a barrier to our future.

 

Her daughters, insistent on reuniting with their father, were a constant source of tension. The thought of losing her to the entanglements of her past filled me with dread. Clara was maneuvering it carefully, trying to make them understand her perspective while maintaining the delicate balance of their relationship.

 

She had to stay longer in KL, navigating the stormy waters of family dynamics. Our relationship, still a secret from her family, felt like a fragile lifeline, strained by distance and secrecy.

 

The days stretched into weeks, and the weight of her absence grew heavier. I missed the way she made everything seem brighter, her laughter, her insight, her unwavering support.

 

The messages and calls, though frequent, were no substitute for the closeness we once shared. As I sat here, the enormity of it all pressed down on me, making the evening feel lonelier, the distance more pronounced.

 

I remembered the weeks following Isaac and Sally's meeting with a bittersweet clarity. My only daughter, Melly, had come to stay with us for a week, seeking a holiday in Penang. Her presence brought a different energy to the house, a reminder of the family ties that still bound us together.

 

Sally, being their cousin, occasionally dropped by. The dynamic between them was a comforting sight, a throwback to simpler times when family gatherings were a regular occurrence.

 

Since Isaac was working, Melly and Sally spent most of their time together. Their laughter would echo through the apartment, a cheerful soundtrack to my days. They would reminisce about their childhood, sharing stories and memories that painted a vivid picture of the past.

 

It was heartwarming to see them so close, but it also underscored the changes that had come with time. The bonds were still there, but they had been stretched and tested by life's many challenges.

 

One particular night, the tranquility of my room was disrupted by raised voices. I was resting but still awake, the door left ajar to allow Chomel to wander in and out. Her soft padding on the floor was a soothing sound amidst the turmoil in my mind.

 

Suddenly, the sharp edges of an argument cut through the stillness. Isaac and Melly were locked in a heated exchange, their voices growing louder with each passing moment.

 

I strained to hear, my heart sinking as I realized the topic of their dispute—my relationship with Clara. Melly's words were like a knife to my heart, each one slicing through the fragile peace I had tried to maintain.

 

"The path to the grave is so near, yet an old man still has a desire for a woman," she mocked, her tone laced with bitterness and disdain.

 

Her cruel words struck me hard, the sting of her judgment more painful than I could have anticipated. The tightness in my chest was sudden, an overwhelming pressure that made it difficult to breathe.

 

Excruciating pain radiated to my back, and my vision began to blur. The world around me started to spin, my breathing became labored, and then, darkness enveloped me completely.

 

When I woke up, the world around me was a blur of sterile white and soft beeping. Everything felt alien, disjointed from the reality I knew. There were wires connected to my body, intravenous lines snaking from my arm to a stand beside the bed.

 

The smell of antiseptic filled my nostrils, a sharp reminder of where I was. It took a moment for my foggy mind to process the scene, to understand that I was in a hospital.

 

A man in a white lab coat stood beside me, his presence both reassuring and alarming. His expression was calm, professional, but I could see the concern etched in the lines of his face.

 

The gravity of my condition hit me like a tidal wave, and my heart raced with fear and helplessness. I felt utterly vulnerable, a stark contrast to the careful, controlled life I had tried to maintain.

 

All those years of living with caution, of trying to avoid the pitfalls of poor health, seemed meaningless now. I was reduced to this—a patient in a hospital bed, dependent on machines and medications to keep me alive.

 

The sense of failure was overwhelming, a crushing weight that made it difficult to breathe. I refused to entertain the idea that this was my new reality, that I was now a man whose life depended on the constant vigilance of medical professionals.

 

The doctor spoke to me in calm, measured tones, explaining my condition, the steps they had taken, and the road to recovery that lay ahead. But his words were a blur, lost in the fog of my despair.

 

I couldn't focus, couldn't grasp the details. All I could think about was how I had ended up here, and what this meant for my future.

 

How had I ended up here? The sequence of events played out in my mind with relentless clarity. Melly's scathing remarks echoed in my ears, their cruelty reverberating through my soul.

 

The tightness in my chest, the pain that had gripped me, and then the all-encompassing darkness. And now, this sterile room filled with beeping machines, a testament to my fragility.

 

As I lay there, grappling with my emotions, the door to my room opened, and a nurse entered. Her presence was a welcome distraction from the turmoil in my mind. She was kind, her touch gentle as she adjusted my IV and checked my vitals. Her demeanor was calm and professional, but there was a warmth in her eyes that spoke of empathy and understanding.

 

I wanted to ask her how long I would be here, what my prognosis was, but the words stuck in my throat. The questions lingered on the tip of my tongue, unspoken yet insistent. I wasn't ready to face the answers, to confront the reality of my situation head-on.

 

The uncertainty was daunting, and I clung to the hope that this was a temporary setback, a hurdle I could overcome with time and effort.

 

The nurse's actions were efficient, her movements practiced and precise. She spoke to me in soft tones, explaining each step of her process, but her words were a blur. I nodded mechanically, my mind too preoccupied with the weight of my thoughts to fully engage with her explanations.

 

The beeping of the machines, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the coldness of the IV line in my arm—all these sensations blended into a background noise that I struggled to tune out.

 

I felt a pang of gratitude for her care, for the way she carried out her duties with compassion and professionalism. But there was also a sense of resignation, an acceptance that my life was now in the hands of others. It was a difficult realization, one that challenged my sense of self-reliance and autonomy.

 

As the nurse finished her tasks and prepared to leave, she offered me a reassuring smile. "You're doing well," she said gently. "Just take it one day at a time."

 

Her words, though simple, held a profound truth. One day at a time. It was a mantra I had heard before, a reminder to focus on the present and not be overwhelmed by the uncertainties of the future. It was a small comfort, a glimmer of hope in the midst of my despair.

 

In that moment, I realized how much I missed Clara. Her absence was a constant ache, a void that nothing else could fill. Her support, her understanding, her love—these were the things that had sustained me.

 

Clara would know what to say, how to comfort me, how to make the world seem a little less daunting. But she was miles away, caught up in her own struggles and responsibilities.

 

Later that day, Isaac came visiting me at the ward. I didn't know how long he had been sitting and waiting until I opened my eyes. His smiling face, shining with gratefulness, gave me the strength I had been lacking.

 

 "Dad... thanks to heaven you are awake. We were really worried about you." His hand, full of care, gently massaged my shoulder and arm.

 

Isaac told me how he had found me lying on the floor in my room. It was a loud noise followed by Chomel's deafening meows that alerted him. Melly had been hysterical, frozen in shock.

 

Isaac had called an ambulance, the management office, and Mr. Rajan. He couldn't even remember how many people had been inside the house. He himself had been terrified.

 

Luckily, there was a doctor staying nearby. While waiting for the ambulance, that doctor performed emergency CPR.

 

Arriving at the hospital, I was admitted to the ICU. Isaac explained that the doctors informed him I would be put to sleep to stabilize my condition. For the last ten days, Melly and he had been coming daily to monitor my condition.

 

I could sense his tiredness. Sadness took over me. I had become a burden. He told me Melly had just returned to Johor two days ago. Sara and Daniel, too, had come. They were here for three days.

 

Isaac's recounting of those events left me feeling a whirlwind of emotions. The realization of how much I had put them through weighed heavily on my heart. I had always prided myself on being the rock for my family, the one they could rely on.

 

 Now, roles had reversed, and I found myself dependent on them.

 

The weariness in Isaac's eyes, the lines of stress etched on his face, spoke volumes about the toll this ordeal had taken on him. Despite his reassuring smile and comforting touch, I could see the pain and fear that had haunted him these past days.

 

My heart ached with guilt and sorrow, knowing that my condition had caused such distress.

 

"Isaac, I'm so sorry you had to go through all of this," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I never wanted to be a burden to you or anyone."

 

"Dad, you're not a burden," Isaac replied firmly, his grip on my arm tightening slightly. "We're family. We take care of each other, no matter what. Seeing you awake and talking is all that matters to me right now."

 

His words were a balm to my troubled soul, but the sense of guilt persisted. I couldn't help but feel responsible for the worry and fear that had gripped my family. The thought of Melly, Sara, and Daniel rushing to my side, their lives disrupted because of me, was a bitter pill to swallow.

 

As Isaac continued to talk, filling me in on the details of the past days, I tried to focus on his voice, drawing strength from his presence. He told me about the countless hours spent in the waiting room, the late-night vigils by my bedside, the prayers and hopes that had kept them going.

 

"We all just wanted you to come back to us, Dad," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "Every time the doctors gave us an update, we held onto hope, believing you would pull through."

 

His vulnerability, his raw honesty, touched me deeply. I had failed my family once before, and now I was burdening them again. It was an unbearable reality that shook me to my core.

 

"I'll do my best to get better, Isaac," I promised, my voice gaining strength with each word. "For you, for Melly, for everyone. I won't let this defeat me."

 

Isaac's eyes glistened with unshed tears as he nodded. "That's all we ask, Dad. Just keep fighting. We're here for you, every step of the way."

 

Isaac then informed me that Clara, too, had been visiting each day. She had come back the day after I was admitted. One amusing detail was that Isaac had to schedule Clara's visiting hours carefully so as not to overlap with those of Melly, Sara, and Daniel.

 

Even Mr. Raju and Rajan had paid visits.

 

Knowing Clara was around, my heart felt so warm, a wave of eagerness enveloping me. But according to Isaac, today's visiting hours were limited to close family only and were shorter because the doctor said I needed more rest to stabilize fully.

 

"Don't worry about that," Isaac reassured me. "I'll bring Aunt Clara here tomorrow. She's been anxious to see you."

 

The thought of seeing Clara again filled me with a sense of anticipation and comfort. Her presence, even if brief, would be a source of immense solace. Isaac's words offered reassurance, and I found myself looking forward to the next day with a renewed sense of hope.

 

As the evening wore on, the fatigue began to set in again. The medications, combined with the emotional toll of the day's events, left me feeling drained. Isaac noticed and gently suggested I try to get some sleep.

 

"You need your rest, Dad," he said, his voice soft yet firm. "I'll be here first thing in the morning, and I'll bring Aunt Clara with me."

 

I nodded, grateful for his understanding and support. "Thank you, Isaac. For everything."

 

He squeezed my hand once more before standing up. "We're in this together, Dad. Just remember that."

 

As Isaac left, I settled back into the bed, allowing the weariness to overtake me. The events of the past days played through my mind, but now, they were accompanied by a sense of hope.

 

I wasn't alone in this fight; I had my family, and soon, I would see Clara. That thought carried me into a restless, yet hopeful, sleep.

 

The next morning, the hospital room was bathed in soft, early light. I awoke to the gentle hum of the machines and the muted sounds of the hospital waking up. True to his word, Isaac arrived early, his presence a comforting start to the day.

 

"Morning, Dad," he greeted, a warm smile on his face. "How are you feeling today?"

 

"Better," I replied, feeling a bit stronger. "Looking forward to seeing Clara."

 

Isaac chuckled. "I thought you might be. I've arranged for her to visit this afternoon. Just rest up until then."

 

The morning passed slowly, each moment a step closer to Clara's visit. Isaac kept me company, sharing updates about the family and the goings-on in Penang. His presence was a steady anchor, grounding me amidst the uncertainty.

 

When the afternoon finally arrived, a nurse came in to check my vitals and adjust the bed, preparing for Clara's visit. The anticipation built, a mix of excitement and nervousness. Seeing Clara again, after everything, felt monumental.

 

A soft knock on the door signaled her arrival. Isaac stepped out to greet her, and moments later, Clara walked in. Her eyes met mine, and the distance and struggles melted away in that instant. She moved to my bedside, her hand gently touching mine.

 

"Em Jay," she whispered, her voice filled with emotion. "I've missed you so much."

 

"I've missed you too, Clara," I replied, my voice choked with emotion. "It's so good to see you."

 

She sat down beside me, her presence a balm to my soul.

 

Isaac gave us some privacy, stepping out but staying close by. The time with Clara felt all too brief, but it was enough to recharge my spirit, to remind me of the love and support that surrounded me.

 

Clara gently squeezed my hand, her eyes filled with determination. "Em Jay, I need you to trust me. Don't worry about my situation in Kuala Lumpur. I will solve it. One step at a time."

 

Her words were a balm to my anxious mind, a promise that she would handle her challenges with the same grace and strength that she always had. She asked for my trust, and in that moment, I knew I had to give it to her. Clara had never let me down before, and I believed in her ability to navigate the complexities of her life.

 

"I trust you, Clara," I replied, my voice steady. "We'll get through this together."

 

Her smile was warm, filled with the reassurance I needed. "One step at a time, Em Jay. That's all we can do."

 

We talked quietly, catching up on everything that had happened. Each word, each moment, a step towards healing.

 

 

As she left, her words lingered in my mind, a beacon of hope. Trusting Clara meant letting go of my worries and believing in her strength. It was a challenge, but it was also a relief, knowing I wasn't alone in this journey.

 

With Clara's promise echoing in my heart, I felt a renewed sense of determination. We would face our challenges, one step at a time, and together, we would find our way forward.

 

As visiting hours ended, Clara squeezed my hand. "I'll be back, Em Jay. We'll get through this, together."

 

I nodded, holding onto her promise. "One step at a time, Clara."

 

With a final, lingering look, she left, and Isaac returned, his eyes reflecting the hope I felt.

 

"Feeling better?" he asked, sitting down beside me.

 

"Much," I replied, a small smile on my face. "Thank you, Isaac. For everything."

 

"We're family, Dad. We take care of each other."

 

As the day came to a close, I felt a renewed sense of determination. The road ahead was still uncertain, but with my family and Clara by my side, I knew I could face whatever came next. One step at a time.

 

I spent a total of 22 days in the hospital. Relatives and friends came to give me courage, their visits lifting my spirits in ways I hadn't anticipated. Clara was the most regular visitor, her presence a constant source of comfort.

 

Isaac was there every day, his unwavering support a steady anchor. Sara, Daniel, and Melly came a few days before I was discharged, bringing my three grandchildren along. Seeing them, despite the circumstances, felt like a blessing in disguise.

 

Now, as I sit on my balcony after almost three weeks of being discharged, I reflect on everything that has happened. The new rocking chair beneath me, a gift from Isaac, creaks gently as I lean back.

 

Chomel, ever faithful, curls up on my lap, her soft purring blending with the distant echoes of patriotic songs and the rhythmic melody of the waves. It's the eve of Independence Day, and the sounds of celebration remind me that I still need to fight for my own independence.

 

The medications on the table beside me are a stark reminder of my vulnerability. At my age, independence has a dual meaning. It could mean regaining my health, pursuing happiness with Clara, or it could mean the ultimate freedom—moving on to another plane of existence.

 

My contemplation, deep in the haze of drowsiness, is abruptly ended by Clara's voice calling me back to reality. "Em Jay, it's time to return to bed," she says gently. Isaac stands next to her, ready to assist if needed, his eyes filled with concern.

 

I smile at both of them, fighting the drowsiness that threatens to pull me under. Mustering all the strength I can, I stand and walk with a perfect straightness, not directly to my room but to the hall.

 

I make a playful dance of steps, laughing to show them I am still strong, still independent.

 

"I can be a burden to nobody," I declare, my voice filled with determination. "I won't allow it. I shall be an independent person."

 

Clara and Isaac laugh, their eyes filled with warmth and pride. But as I move back towards my room, I catch a glimpse of worry still etched on their faces. They care deeply, and that's what gives me the strength to keep fighting.

 

Just as I reach my room, I hear Clara's phone ring. She answers it, her face turning serious as she listens. After a moment, she hangs up and looks at me, a mixture of concern and urgency in her eyes.

 

"My family is in Penang," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

I pause, the gravity of her words sinking in. Clara's family being here could change everything. The path ahead is uncertain, and I can't help but wonder what challenges lie in wait.

 

As I lie down to rest, the questions swirl in my mind. What does this mean for Clara and me? How will her family's presence affect our fragile balance? The answers are unclear, but one thing is certain—I will face whatever comes with the same determination and hope that have carried me this far.