Part I : 24042011

Life is weird. I can't think of another opening line other than that. Sometimes it's a good kind of weird. Sometimes it's not.
Last Wednesday, I still have a dad. Although he was laying helpless in that bed in the ICU room, but he's still there. I can still see him, touch his hand and kiss his forehead.
This Wednesday, I came to visit his fresh grave for the first time.

Me, mom and my older brother, were prepared for this. Or at least we thought we were. Four weeks in the ICU with no significant change to the better, you really have no choice but to ... prepare for the worst.
But, I guess, you can never really be prepare for that.

I woke up last Sunday, Easter, at 04.45 am. My mom woke me up and she said,
" Dad's "gone" ".
I remember sitting on my bed for ... 5 minutes. I think I was waiting. I was kind of hoping that was just a part of a bad dream and if I just sit in silence long enough, I'd wake up.
But I didn't.
It wasn't.

So, I got up and showered. A little part of me was still hoping I'd wake up soon. But then I realise, it's not a dream and I should stop hoping to wake up. It's real. Dad's gone.
Family members and neighbors started coming to the house. Still no tears. I kept saying to myself, " We saw this coming. We're prepared for this. I'm prepared for this. This is for the best. He's been in too much pain. "

Around 10 am, a cousin of mine who spent the night at the hospital with my brother called my mom and said they're on their way with the ambulance that's carrying his body.
I keep repeating the same lines. This time, I feel like I'm shouting them. In my head.
Then I heard the ambulance. As it came closer to the house, for the first time, I know how it feels to not know what's going on in your own head.
Then I saw them carry his body out of the ambulance and in to the house.
In just a split second, my tears came out of nowhere. I feel like I'm drowning in my tears. And I can hear myself screaming, in my head, saying that dad is not dead. He can't be dead. Not now. NOT NOW!
Seeing him, like ... that, made me lose feel of my legs. I can't move. I just stood there, crying. Crying like I've never cried before.
Then I feel an aunt, hugging me from behind and whispered,
" He's in a better place now. He's not in pain anymore. He's okay. He's happy. "
That made me cry even harder. I wanted to scream out the sadness but couldn't. Because, a part of me knows, it's useless. And because I know she's right.

My dad will turn 72 this year. This July on the 15th. He spent 17 years of his life in the military. He retired a Lieutenant Colonel. He was a strict man. Sometimes his words can be harsh. He doesn't let people put words in his head. He doesn't kiss ass. Doesn't matter who those asses belongs to. Those things are the things that made quite a lot of people hate him.
But he's also a man of his words. He takes care of the people he loves. Sometimes more than he's suppose to be taking care of himself. He doesn't pick his friends based on their backgrounds, social status, or whatever. He protects the people that are close to him with all his heart. Those things made people love him. Made the numbers of the haters insignificant.

 I'm so proud of you, Dad. Not just because of the uniform you used to wear but because I know you deserve it. 

I'm sorry I never told you about how proud I am to be your daughter. 

But I am. I really am.

He wasn't perfect. As a person, a husband and a father.
And here's another funny side of life. Sometimes, it takes death to make us accept all the flaws. When the one with those flaws can't hear you say, " It's okay. I understand your flaws and accepts your mistakes. "

I don't have " us stories " to tell. About me and my dad. We never really spent time together like those father-daughter scenes you see in movies. Because that's just not him. We never really have that kind of talk or moments. Because he has always trusted me with and in everything I do. So he doesn't feel like he needs to tell me things. Unlike my mom who questions everything. Including about the people I hang out with. My dad always believed that I know how to take care of myself. The last talk we had was when I was going to Jakarta to cover Java Rocking Land 2010. He told me to be careful because it's a rock festival. Things might go bad. To always bring my ID. To call home if something bad happens. And to do my job with full responsibility.
The last time he was really angry at me was when he found out I was still smoking, a few months ago. Which is weird, because he, himself, is a heavy smoker. I remember him saying that he's disappointed at me. And I'm sorry for that, Dad. I will quit. I promise you.

When he was put in his coffin yesterday, I realised that I'll never see him again.
His flesh.
I'll never hear his laugh again. I'll never hear him say,
" Why are you still at home? Don't you have a job? " in the morning.
Or,
" Why are you home so late and not call? "
I'll never serve his breakfast again or make him coffee in the afternoons. Or watch a football match with him again. Or share the excitement we have every World Cup and enjoys annoying my mother because she hates football. We will never have conversations about politics again. And I will never going to get a hug from him on my birthday. Ever again.
He's ... gone. 

I have so many stories about my dad.
But for now, let's just leave it like this.
Consider this an opening to a series of more sad posts in the next few days.
Although I may seem okay with this reality now, but truth be told, it still feels kind of surreal.

" 26 years of my life, I have not yet feel like I've done something to make you feel proud of me, Dad. I'm sorry that you have to leave before I can do that. But, through out the 4 weeks of you being in the ICU and me whispering to your left ear about how I love you and how proud I am of you, I meant it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you that enough. I'm sorry for all those times I made you upset. Thank you for always believing in me. For knowing that I know what's right, what's good for me and what's not. You've taught me a lot of things without you even telling them. You showed me those things. Through your actions. I believe that you'll still keep an eye on me. It's goodbye for now, Dad. And again, thank you. " -- what I said when I was asked to give a few words about him.

-- end of part I --