Cold sweat began soaking my back, forehead, and palms.
I often came to this mall, and the bookstore was naturally the place I visited most. Though small, it had a complete selection, from hobbies and politics to textbooks and music. Even better, there was seating set aside especially for customers who wanted to read a few sample books that had already been unwrapped. I spent nearly two hours looking for reading material about psychological disorders. As it happened, I had been living with bipolar disorder for the past several years.
After finding the book, I quickly walked to the register, paid for it, and then headed home. But after wandering around for almost half an hour, I still couldn't find the exit. Anxiety began creeping into my soul. Even my favorite drink and the cool air from the air conditioner couldn't calm it.
My feet were already tired, and my throat was beginning to dry out. Finally, I decided to go to the cafeteria and order a drink while trying to remember the route I usually took.
For some reason, lately I had often been experiencing memory problems. Suddenly forgetting the route home, being unable to express what I meant in words when trying to say something, getting confused about the difference between day and night when I was in an enclosed room with the lights on, and countless other trivial things that left me irritable.
It was terribly uncomfortable whenever it happened at a crucial moment. Worse, it had begun affecting my performance at work. Several times, I had been unable to give presentations in front of clients. The consequences were serious—I had no choice but to hand the problems over to other staff members.
“Maybe this is the right time to take a break, Len. Who knows? Maybe feeling burned out is making your performance suffer,” suggested Mr. Farhan, the head of my division.
My thoughts wandered through countless events, including memories of every corner of this mall, clear as day. The drink I had ordered was down to a third of a cup, but my brain couldn't tell me where the exit from the bookstore was. I shouldn't have had any trouble finding it. Who has trouble getting out of a mall they visit every week? Oh, God ... what's wrong with me?
I began to despair. I had been sitting there for almost an hour, but the panic still hadn't lessened. I decided to call Handy, my husband.
“Handy, can you pick me up at the mall I usually go to? I'm having trouble finding the way out,” I complained.
Handy laughed on the other end of the line. “Len, don't make things up. There's no way you can't get out of that place. You go there all the time—almost every week, even.”
I felt a little annoyed by his response. “I'm not kidding, Handy. I've been walking around for almost an hour. I'm too embarrassed to ask a security guard,” I dodged, forcing down my emotions as I held back tears.
That wasn't the real reason. I couldn't remember the way home. A week earlier, when I'd gone shopping at the market, I had gotten lost. Completely lost and headed in the wrong direction, until I asked a motorcycle taxi driver to guide me home. A few days later, I had also left my phone in the freezer and forced Handy to buy me a new one.
“Okay, where are you now?”
I looked around, searching for the cafeteria's sign, which was usually posted behind the register. Then my eyes shifted to the front of the counter, looking for any of the businesses located in front of the place. Although I could name them in detail, I had forgotten which floor I was on.
Fortunately, Handy could sense how anxious I was. He asked me to turn on my phone's GPS, which was connected to his device.
Half an hour later, he appeared in front of me. His face looked relieved. “Do you want to go home now?” he asked.
I only nodded, and then we headed to the parking lot.
“You rode your motorcycle here?”
I nodded again, trying to suppress my irritation at having inconvenienced him. Maybe he felt the same way, since he had still been at the office when I called.
“Let's take my car,” he said. I had no other choice but to do as he said.
We were both silent throughout the drive. All kinds of anxieties began haunting my thoughts.
I remembered my last counseling session with a psychiatrist. I had described all the memory problems and headaches I'd been experiencing lately. The psychiatrist recommended Dr. Wira, a neurologist he knew, to examine my physical condition further.
Driven by curiosity about the cause of those problems, I visited the clinic where Dr. Wira practiced. He listened to all my complaints and wrote them down in his journal. After evaluating everything, he advised me to get a brain MRI as soon as possible to determine the cause.
Of course, I hadn't told Handy yet. I was terrified and couldn't bring myself to explain it to him. Dr. Wira said I might be experiencing symptoms of a minor stroke or perhaps seizures caused by a malfunctioning nerve. It could also be a tumor pressing on my brain.
How could he say things like that? I was still young. I had no history of hypertension, and I lived a healthy lifestyle. My mind rejected every possibility he'd given me.
Unfortunately, that only made my headaches come more often. The groundless anxiety was always accompanied by panic. Then my breathing would grow tight, cold sweat would pour down my body, my vision would blur, and my heart would pound. All of it left me unable to think clearly.
“Len, what's really going on? I've noticed so many strange things happening lately. What did Dr. Dharma say during your last counseling session?” Handy's question jolted me out of my reverie and brought me back to the bitter reality waiting at the end of the road.
For a moment, I said nothing. I only squeezed my palms, feeling emptiness closing in around every corner of my heart.
“Len!” he repeated.
“Um ... can we talk about this at home, Handy?” I gently refused. To be honest, I couldn't bring myself to tell him the truth.
Handy nodded and seemed to refocus on driving.
When we got home, I immediately put down the books I'd bought and went to the bathroom. For some reason, I felt the urge to turn on the shower and stand beneath the rushing water fully clothed. My thoughts wandered everywhere, and my anxiety quickly took the form of tears flowing together with the water pouring over my head.
“Len, don't keep it all to yourself. Tell me whenever you're ready. I'll wait!” Handy's voice rang out as he followed me to the room without entering the bathroom.
My sobs broke loose when Handy came in and held out a towel. He turned off the faucet, then pulled me into his arms, letting the front of his clothes get soaked too.
“Change your clothes first. You don't want to get sick. Think of the kids,” he coaxed while drying my hair with the towel I was holding.
At last, I told Handy everything. Because of that, he decided to go to the hospital and accompany me for the MRI.
The MRI showed no signs of a stroke, cyst, or tumor, and there was no indication of seizures. However, there were many black spots attached to several areas of the brain tissue. Dr. Wira referred me to a major hospital for a PET (Positron Emission Tomography) scan. He explained my condition plainly.
Tears streamed down my cheeks throughout the drive home from the hospital. If Dr. Wira's suspicions were correct, what would happen to my children? They were still so young and needed a mother's guidance.
I also wouldn't be able to function outside the house. I might even have to give up the career I'd dreamed of since I was in school. There was only one reason: if his prediction was right, I might lose the ability to concentrate and understand myself.
Who would take care of my husband's physical and biological needs? He was still young and clearly still needed a partner capable of fulfilling those duties. I might become a different person. Even though Handy promised to stay by my side, who knew what tomorrow would bring?
The world around me suddenly looked dark, as if not a single ray of light remained to guide me toward happiness.
Handy's grip on my hand could no longer calm the turmoil ruling my body and soul. At that moment, everything felt unbearably heavy.
After weighing everything, we tried to hold on to hope. Perhaps the doctor had simply misread the MRI results. Handy and I agreed to undergo a PET scan to make sure everything was all right. We also prepared ourselves mentally for the worst-case scenario, including putting aside the diploma I had spent nearly seventeen years pursuing.
In Indonesia, PET scans were available at only three hospitals in Jakarta. But one of Handy's business associates suggested that we have it done in Malaka, Malaysia, or at Glen Eagles Hospital in Singapore.
Considering that medical treatment in Singapore was much more expensive, we chose Mahkota Medical Center in Malaka. It wasn't that we doubted the abilities of our country's medical professionals or technology. It was the experience of my husband's associate's family that made us decide. They had gone there for cancer treatment.
We made all kinds of preparations before leaving for Mahkota Medical Center, even though I felt torn between excitement and anxiety. While waiting to leave, I continued seeing my psychiatrist regularly and undergoing various therapies. I also continued consulting with a neurologist.
The nerve-racking day arrived. When we reached the hospital, the doctor didn't proceed with the test right away. I had to undergo another MRI and be admitted to the hospital so I could rest and monitor my food intake. Yes, I had to eat food high in protein and low in carbohydrates. For twenty-four hours, I wasn't allowed to exercise or do any other strenuous activities, including chewing gum or drinking coffee and tea. I also had to drink enough water to stay hydrated. The paramedics checked my blood sugar six hours before the procedure.
Throughout that time, Handy never left my side. I didn't know how he felt, but he never stopped encouraging me with soothing words. He also promised that everything would be all right.
“Remember, you're gonna be okay. So you have to stay strong, and promise me you'll do everything the doctor says. You'll be happy and healthy again.”
I couldn't say a word. It felt as though a huge ball of sandpaper were lodged in my throat. Handy's palm, which never stopped holding my hand, felt cold, whether from the hospital air conditioning or something else.
At 1:00 p.m., I was taken to the Radiology Room. The nurse asked me to remove my jewelry and change into the clothes provided in the room. Once everything was ready, the doctor injected a radioactive liquid commonly called a radiotracer into a blood vessel in my hand, then told me to lie down on the prepared bed before entering the scanner tunnel.
“Ma'am, this process will take two hours. The first hour is for the radiotracer to move through your blood. During the remaining time, you'll be scanned in this tunnel,” the nurse explained, pointing to the scanning machine in front of us, which did indeed resemble a tunnel. “So while you're being scanned, try not to move at all. Otherwise, the images will come out blurry.”
I nodded to show that I understood. It was uncomfortable lying beneath the scanning machine. My head throbbed faintly, and my ears began ringing too. Afterward, we had to wait until the next day to learn the results.
At 8:00 a.m., Dr. Chong Kwang Jeat, who spoke fluent Indonesian, visited my room accompanied by several nurses. After a little small talk, he immediately began explaining things while reading through my medical history.
“All right. Our PET scan results show no tumor or blood clot in the brain tissue. But after reviewing Mrs. Lena Likumahua's medical history”—Dr. Chong looked up at me after reading my name in his journal—“we found signs of early-onset Alzheimer's dementia.”
It was exactly what Dr. Wira had suspected. My heart sank. It felt as if everything were about to end. I could no longer hear the doctor's explanation. Instead, I busied myself persuading my heart that everything would be all right as I continued to cry.
“So from now on, in addition to taking your medication regularly, try to do light exercise every day, eat a balanced diet, and write down your routines in a journal that you can easily see and remember. As for Mr. Handy ...” Dr. Wira shifted his gaze to my husband. “At this stage, Madam Lena's condition will continue to decline over time, and that will have a major effect on her behavior. Try to remain her main support system.”
The rest of the explanation drifted past me and was recorded only faintly in my mind.
When we returned home to Indonesia, the world no longer seemed to have any meaning for me. God, what did I do wrong? Why me? What would happen to my children if one day I no longer recognized myself or them?
In secret, I was angry with Him. Wasn't the mental illness You had given me all these years enough? And now I had to become senile while still young? What would come next, God? Why not just take my life while You're at it?
I was furious at my own condition. Even so, my children and husband always tried their hardest to care for and comfort me. They worked hard to make me strong. That was when I began to realize that making peace with my circumstances would make it easier to get through my days.
“Handy, I've been thinking about resigning from the office. I don't want to become a burden or have people pity me,” I told Handy one morning while we were having breakfast.
It wasn't easy to let go of my job, but I had to do it for the sake of my family and myself. Of course I had to go through with it. For them, I had to keep the light in my life from going out.
Handy's reaction was completely unexpected. He fell silent, not moving or saying a word for several moments. His face reddened. I saw tears welling in both his eyes. His attempt to hide his feelings failed. He cried as he hugged me.
“Everything is gonna be okay. Whatever makes you happy and comfortable, I'll support it.”
We cried in each other's arms as the children watched. In the end, all of us hugged together.
A month after I submitted my resignation, my coworkers took the initiative to hold a farewell party. Everything went smoothly and created an overwhelming tenderness that might be etched beautifully in their memories—and mine.
As I cleared out my desk, the employees hugged me one by one and offered words of encouragement. Before I left, Mr. Farhan handed me a package.
“Lena, this is a gift from all of us. Don't worry about how much it's worth. You deserve it. To be honest, your presence always brought warmth and energy. I hope that from now on, we can improve our productivity and performance the way we did when you were still with us,” he said.
The atmosphere changed again. An overwhelming emotion filled the room, impossible for any of us to resist. They were like a second family. My time there hadn't always been smooth. Small conflicts had colored our days because of differences of opinion. But we all knew that, underneath it all, we supported one another. It was hard to believe I was no longer part of that office.
On my first day after deciding to stop working, everything felt completely different. There was no greeting from the office boy, no sound of the printer or photocopier, no shouting from Mr. Farhan telling us to hurry and prepare the presentation that was about to begin, no more preparing the purchasing report every week—and so many other things that were no longer there. Before I resigned, Handy and I had agreed to use a catering service for our meals. The housekeeper was only responsible for doing the laundry, cleaning the house, and taking the children to and from school.
Rather than have nothing to do at all, I decided to cook our meals myself. Of course, we still needed the housekeeper to take the children to and from school and do the shopping. To be honest, I was afraid I'd get lost if I left the house without supervision. As much as possible, I stayed busy to exercise my memory, which was growing weaker by the day. But I didn't regret it. Other than ending my routine at the office, nothing had changed—not even Handy's attention or that of my three children.
Life had to go on, even if one day everything would be forgotten. At the very least, I would keep trying to carve memories into the light.