halaman satu.

Sudah berapa kali kamu mengganti bukumu, lalu memulainya dengan lembar yang baru? Lima? Sepuluh? Dua puluh? Lima puluh? Bila kamu sudah mengganti bukumu lima puluh kali, pasti kamu sudah mahir menulis, ya? Atau, tidak juga? Atau malah kamu semakin sulit menulis dengan tanganmu yang renta itu?

Kalau kamu menulis buku baru, jangan buang buku-buku lamamu. Sama seperti seorang penulis yang tidak pernah membuang karya lamanya walaupun karya tersebut ia anggap buruk, atau hanya setengah selesai. Buku lamamu bukan sampah. Suatu hari nanti, kamu dapat mengambil satu di antara buku-buku lamamu dan membacanya. Kamu mungkin akan membaca sambil tertawa karena merasa konyol pernah menuliskannya, atau mungkin kamu akan menangis, atau menyesal, atau marah, atau kecewa. Apa pun yang kamu rasakan, jangan buang buku-bukumu. Mereka adalah pencerita yang baik perjalanan hidupmu. Kelak, mungkin kamu dapat membacakannya pada anak cucumu yang duduk di pangkuanmu.

Namun, yang paling penting di antara buku-buku yang pernah kamu tulis adalah bukumu yang sekarang. Buku yang baru saja dibuka dan masih penuh dengan halaman-halaman kosong yang menanti untuk diisi. Buatlah cerita yang mengesankan, hingga jika saatnya nanti kamu harus menggantinya dengan yang baru, kamu akan dengan bangga menutupnya dan menyimpannya baik-baik dalam lemari kacamu.

Selamat menulis halaman satu.

Happy New Year!

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laugh.

“A joyful heart is a good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” —Proverbs 17:22

My first patient on neurology department was a sixty-year-old man with tetanus. He was on his 21^st day of medication when I first saw him. I read his medical record, this man came with a general seizure and fever, has spent weeks at the ICU, went through an operation, having a tube placed on his trachea—we call it tracheostomy, and I held my breath as I turned the page after page, imagining what kind of days this man has been going through. Those were days of torture I bet.

This is the first patient I saw on neurology department. A dark-skinned-thin man lying on his bed, with both of his hands fixated to the bed. His eyes were shut. He barely can’t talk because of his jaw spasm and the tracheostomy tube placed on his throat. All I could hear was the sound of his heavy-uneven breath due to the thick sputum on his tube. He coughed a heavy cough occasionally—kind of cough that makes you feel sorry for him.

He was progressing when I was on my sixth days at the hospital. He started to talk though his voice was still unclear. He didn’t have seizures anymore and his medicine was tapered off. He began to take his food via nasogastric tube instead of I.V line. Everything was better, and I felt happy for him. Until one night.

A friend of mine was going to help me to do the sputum suction for this man. We did it regularly to clear his airway so he could breathe easily. But that night, my friend came to me with a terror on her face; she told me that my patient took his tracheostomy tube off by himself.

We freaked out. The tube was his only airway, without the tube it meant that nothing held his trachea and it got a direct exposure to the outer world. Both of us panicked, and suddenly it became a long and sleepless night. We have to observe his respiratory rate, temperature, and oxygen saturation every hour, plus took a good care of his opened wound, and do the suction whenever his sputum blocked the airway.

It supposed to be a quiet night, I kept telling myself. I am tired. And now I have to sacrifice my sleeping hours for this patient. I was mad. I want to blame the patient, I want to blame his family for not accompanying him and let him do this stupid thing. I was exhausted. But on that suffering and cruel night I was stunt.

My friend and I was taking care of this man, when he tried to speak to us. His voice was hoarse, it was mere a whisper and unclear. We couldn’t understand what he told us. He tried. Again and again. And we desperately want to understand him, until my friend said to him that we were sorry, but we couldn’t get it. Then the man gave up, but he laughed. He laughed at us for trying so hard to be able to understand. In the middle of his pain and heavy breath he laughed. He smiled a faint-smile. And for a second my exhaustion washed away. And I laughed.

We laughed.

In the middle of sufferings.

We still can laugh.

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the creed

I am here because there is no refuge,

finally from myself.

Until I confront myself in the eyes

and hearts of others, I am running.

Until I suffer them to know my secrets,

I have no safety from them.

Afraid to be known,

I can know neither myself nor any other,

I will be alone.

Where else but in our common ground,

can I find such a mirror?

Here, together, I can at last appear clearly to myself,

not as a giant of my dreams, nor the dwarf of my fears,

but as a person, part of the whole,

with my share in its purpose.

In this ground I can take root and grow,

not alone any more, as in death,

but alive to myself and to others

—Richard Beauvais

It was one day at a therapeutic community when I found this. They call it the creed and all of the patients—the alcoholic, the drug abusers, say it out loud everyday. Isn’t it remind us a little bit of ourselves? 

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marry a man who climbs

Don’t marry someone who goes on a movie date with you.

Don’t marry someone who treats you a fancy dinner.

Don’t marry someone who pays on your dress.

Instead…

Marry a man who can climb a mountain with you.

Marry a man who can build a tent and don’t whine to spend an entire night in the woods.

Marry a man who knows how to sail through the storm.

Because you can ask anyone to watch a movie with you on Saturday night. Anyone can give you a treat or buy you a brand new dress. But you won’t just choose any random guy to climb a mountain with you. It’s a big thing. You need a real man to do the job.  Because this kind of man knows how to survive. He knows how to outlast the hardships. He knows how to endure things. Because this kind of man won’t leave you in the middle of turmoil. Because this kind of man understands life beyond the superficial, he knows how to live. He knows how to hang on and he knows when to take a move.

Then, marry this kind of man.

picturetakenfrom:pinterest.com

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breathe.

You are a tiny existence.

With those tiny hands. And that tiny body. And those tiny feet. Holding on a tiny crack of soil.

And every drop of pouring rain is aching aching aching your whole body and you are gasping for air trying to breathe just breathe just breathe breathe that only word you keep remind your lungs not to forget. Breathe.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Breathe no matter what. Breathe though you are shivering cold. Breathe though you don’t know how to keep yourself together. Breathe though it hurts so much you want to shriek.

Breathe.

Stay alive.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Breathe through the agonizing pain.

Just breathe.

Hold on.

Hold on.

A little more. A little more. Hold on. Hold on. Just hold on. Just hold on a little more.

You can do it.

You can do it.

You can do it.

You can do it.

You can do it.

You can do it.

You can do it.

You can do it.

Yes.

You can do it.

You will do it.

Cause it is just another storm to go through. Another sleepless and awful night to stand.

And you’ll win it.

Restored and refreshed.

Stronger than before.

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