I used to avoid hospitals like the plague—pun fully intended. That was always the case until today. Many years ago, I spent months in Singapore accompanying my mother through her 16-cycle radiation therapy. The doctors said it was cancer, in her parotid gland. They operated, removed the lump, and also had to take a layer of tissue from her face and neck. “Like peeling off the top layer of a sandwich,” the doctor explained. I remember nodding like I understood, but I didn’t. I was in my first year of university, too scared to process anything. Every day waiting at the hospital felt like a slow-motion nightmare—too close to something I didn’t want to name.
Today, I’m in a waiting room with her again, but for a completely different reason. She decided to get a face and neck lift. “It’s time,” she said, as if she were finally crossing something off a to-do list. And honestly? I love that for her. Meanwhile, I’m just here enjoying a bowl of mie pangsit while she prepares to get snatched.
Mum has always been extra. Why buy a Barbie doll when you can import the entire Barbie Dreamhouse? Why settle for selling bedsheets when you can pitch Scandinavian paint for oil refineries? Growing up, I saw it all—her driving around in our old Jimny packed with duvets, picking me up from school before heading to fabric stores and tailors. And, of course, every errand came with a chocolate ice cream bribe. In my world, the economy ran on chocolate ice cream transactions. Tag along to the store? One scoop. Sit quietly while she closed a deal? Double scoop with sprinkles.
She worked hard. She built things. She sent me and my brother to Canada by sheer force of will and business acumen. One moment she was cooking with her sisters, making sure my brother and I had the best meals, and the next, she was discussing coal mines and palm oil plantations with her brothers. (Ahem, let’s park the unsustainability discussion for later.) To me, she was a hero. But during those radiation months, I saw a version of her I had never seen before—vulnerable, brittle, like cigarette ash that holds its shape until you touch it and it disappears. That was the lowest point of my life too.
Over the years, our relationship has evolved. Back then, I was just a kid clinging onto her, terrified of what might happen. Now, we’re like two women in a boarding house, chatting about life, sometimes deeply, sometimes over something as trivial as skincare. I love that she’s reached a point where she can do something just for herself. It’s rare to see this, especially in Indonesia, where parents tend to hold onto their "parent" identity forever. The idea that they could want something outside of their children isn’t always seen as normal. But I love that my mom can now be candid, unfiltered, and say exactly what she wants without guilt.
And maybe, this is the side note to that chapter I never thought I’d get. For years, I carried the scar of those months—the fear, the hospital smells, the way the waiting room chairs felt specifically designed to make you question your life choices. But now, that scar feels different. It’s no longer just about pain—it’s proof that things can shift, that time doesn’t erase but reshapes. That sometimes, even after the hardest chapters, life hands you something unexpectedly beautiful.
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