Diary of a Sister

I did not intend to engage myself in any deep thoughts that day. I had spent day after day thinking about tomorrow, what would happen, how it would happen, and if we were still there with our integrity unscathed once this was ended. COVID swept the world and watching it from Jakarta, the city we lived in, we once thought it was a thing for the faraway places. Today, Indonesia had one of the worst statistics of COVID. Over two years, COVID had cost my Brother his business, the pillar of our family economy. Our horizon of a bright future shrunk into a point before it diminished.

Dark clouds formed and dashed towards us, standing up close at our face forming a big wall, blocking any future views. From looking forward to riches, we were constricted to sightseeing into tomorrow. From thinking about where to vacation, we wondered what to eat tomorrow. Not that our life quality had been reduced to that of the destitute's, but if we had to live for another two years weathering COVID and all its variants without any income, then we had to consume our savings prudently. So prudent that sometimes we felt like the destitute.

My mind was always engaged, to survive. But today, I wanted to give myself time off from thinking. I wanted to read a book of my choice, from its front to back covers, three hundred pages in one day, to be interrupted only by the essentials. I wanted to be taken to a world that was not mine, within which my dream of a bright future might resume, or my worries replaced with the thrills of a spy trying to overturn the politics in a third-world country.

My name is Dessara and my morning started well. I had had a good night's sleep and breakfast was peaceful. It was a Sunday, my eleven-year-old son Bo did not have his zoom class, he was helping his seven-year-old sister Bea make her breakfast cereal. Most of the time they fought over small things like who should pour the milk first. Children. But not today. Jude, my six-foot-tall husband, promised to take care of lunch and dinner, most likely he planned home delivery for lunch and instant noodles for dinner. Pathetic, but I was determined to have this day for me to unwind.

"Mama, can we have McDonald's chicken for lunch?" Bo asked with hopeful eyes. Fast food in the good old days was considered when we didn't want to spend much on food. Today, it was a treat. Something that must be planned a week prior. Fast food would cost two times more than home-prepared or other comparable restaurant meals.

"Yes Mama, yes Mama, pleeease," now Bea chimed in. I wasn't sure she really wanted McDonald's chicken, but I was sure she chose to align her wish with her brother's because today they were soul mates. You could tempt me with many things, and I was rather sure I would stand tall against them. But the two pairs of my pleading children's eyes in harmony was too much. I crumbled at their feet and declared my surrender,

"Alright, alright." Then they shackled and took me prisoner to their kingdom of charm.

Having their wish granted, they let me go. I picked the thickest book from my library shelves, one that I had read many times over. I devoured page after page. I was absorbed in a different world.

"Mama! Mama! Somebody is ringing our bell. It must be our McDonald's!" Bo shrieked excitedly, running out of the playroom to where I was lounging with my book, followed by his sister who had been following him all morning. He tugged at my sleeve impatiently, yanking me out of my fantasy.

At lunchtime, my planned me-time ended. I book-marked my book at page one hundred and ninety-eight and put it down. Jude took the delivered food inside. The smell was strong and tempting. As Jude opened the boxes, Bo and Bea were trying to get a look at what was inside. They knew it was chicken, but they still scrutinized it with the curiosity of ... children. All of this was not to be missed, nothing beats the show of my two "monkeys" who got excited over a few pieces of chicken and a bag of French fries.

For us, Jude ordered some fried noodles from a nearby canteen. But the now-rare sight of my two children enjoying their McDonald's fried chicken stopped me from doing anything. I couldn't eat lunch and missed the feeding time.

Bo munched on his McDonald's chicken wings oblivious to anything else but the tasty, salty sensation of American fast-food culture. Bea picked on her French fries one by one while busily blabbering about her Roblox game to whoever was patient enough to listen to her long description. It was Sunday discount day from the delivery company, I got the 30% off package deal on McDonald's, making a rare-treat possible today, and I instantly became the hero mother to my two children, who had been secretly wanting American fast-food treat for weeks.

I thought I was not to be involved with deep thoughts today. But witnessing the happiness of my children inevitably brought about an unpleasant fact.

I was the youngest of three siblings. Dallo was the eldest and I referred to him fondly as my Brother, and Dungi was the middle son whom I would never call a brother anymore. We used to be tight as siblings but drifted apart as we each started a family of our own, especially after I married lastly to Jude. My Brother and I remained tight on one camp, Dungi on another of his own. When our mother died, the breakup with Dungi finally materialized.

Bo was now into his second chicken and Bea was still talking about her Roblox game. It was so merry and so long, my mind drifted. I contemplated what Dungi and his family were currently doing based on the rumor I heard. They were vacationing on one of the paradise Gilis (islands) in Lombok on that same day. Staying at a five-star hotel, dining on steak, lobster and whatnot, pampered by the luxury that just a couple of years back was not a stranger to us when our whole family was still intact, when my mother was still alive and amongst us, and my Brother Dallo still commanding a mighty income, financing all the fun and togetherness this family once enjoyed.

"Birthdays are celebrations over nothing but being born. While gratefulness is a right response, lavish celebration over achievement of nothing is irresponsible." That was a line my Brother always repeated to show his disdain over lavish birthday celebrations. Probably he was an old school who believed that celebrations must always be over some achievement. While I agreed with him intellectually, not so emotionally. I always held merry birthday celebrations for my Bo and Bea, but nowhere near the style of Dungi's, showering his wife Pilos with luxury, shedding money like he was some investor of Facebook.

Money that belonged to us.

Then my mind switched to my Brother Dallo. What's he doing right now in his eighty-square-meter apartment? Is he, too, having lunch like us? Is he watching a movie? I felt a rush of warm emotion and the feeling of being safe whenever I thought of him. If Dungi was the South Pole, then my Brother was the North Pole, if Dungi was a matter of any kind, then my Brother was its anti-matter. And so were my feelings, if one created the feeling of animosity and fear, the other of calmness and joy.

The thought of him calmed me down, for a few moments, then I was back to witnessing Bo who kept on munching on his now bony McDonald's chicken, stripped of all meat, juxtaposed with the image of Dungi and Pilos drinking wine, feasting on overpriced meals and acting the wannabes. I was drowned in tears of anger, shuddered with disgust, for that was our money they were spending.

Our money.

There was once a poet named Sutardji Calzoum Bachri whose idea was to free words from their meaning. So the words themselves are the meaning. Cryptic probably, but that's how you may describe my father's love for cars. He loved cars no matter what, even when the car was so old that it didn't deliver its function anymore. Even when the car brought more discomfort than comfort. The car itself mattered, not its function or the social status it brought about. A pure love against structured metal.

"Vroom, vroom!" the engine of the suspiciously old car that my father just acquired revved up, then "Rrrr ... rrrr", it spluttered almost immediately. For him, it was time for fun.

Akin to his father, my Brother Dallo believed that the meaning of a thing is in the thing itself, not on its name or brand. A good car is a good car no matter what the make is. The difference to his father was, to him, cars should be loved for their functions and the comfort they brought about. Used cars, of whatever make, that required extra maintenance, would be a no-no to him, never mind broken cars. He would prefer a brand new low-end mini car such as the Toyota Agya than a second-hand BMW that required a lot of maintenance.

Back when he and Gal lived in the States, he purchased cars, and that was the only time he committed to owning cars. First, he needed a car to get around there since public transportation in the US was not as convenient as in any other developed country. Secondly, the cars he acquired were brand new, and every time something wrong happened to the car, or if the car required maintenance, all he had to do was to drive it to one of the many designated service stations. He would leave it there, get a replacement car, and come back a couple of days later when the car was made ready. He loved it. The comfort.

These were the two views on cars in our family, my father the purist, and my Brother the functionalist. Of course, I subscribed to my Brother's view, a pragmatic view on material things and their function. My father was a hobbyist, so nothing wrong with that. But then there was a third view, subscribed only by my other brother, Dungi. To him, a car was useful as a means to convey social status. It mattered a whole lot less if the car was functioning as it should be, as long as it made him look cool and rich.

"Well, look at those successful people, the rich. They care about the car's design. They care about the makers. Because the maker represents the quality of the car," Dungi would argue.

"They are rich, they can even afford to be silly if they wanted to after being smart most of the time –assuming the money was honest and earned. You just started your first week on your first job. Driving around in Dad's BMW doesn't communicate success, it communicates that you are a spoiled son. A wannabe," my Brother Dallo would say unreservedly to Dungi, a brother whose views on materialism he always wanted to fix.

Then my mother would chime in, "Successful people communicate their successes through the cars they own, but the reversed sequence doesn't work, Dungi. You shall not lead your friends to believe that you are earning a lot by driving your Dad's BMW. You are still a front desk customer service agent. Don't be a fake!"

In the good old days when both of my parents were still alive, good values prevailed. Dungi was always willing to listen to his parents and big brother and obey them. Or so it seemed. His typical defense would only go as far as,

"But it's just for this time Mom. Let me borrow the car to work."

"You've been driving the BMW since the day you started your job. Why won't you drive the other car? It'll bring you there," my mother would ask, with a smile forming on her face, ready to tease Dungi further.

The other car was an old make of Datsun, a Japanese car that my dad maintained so well it looked new, but old. Very old. There was no way that car could be used to show off in a hang-out with buddies. Funnily however, Dallo would have no qualms driving around in that car, although at that time he already commanded a handsome income. He was the one who bought the BMW for my father, so he could enjoy his retirement with a functioning and nice-looking car.

"But today is Friday." Dungi's hang-out day.

"Exactly why you shouldn't be driving the BMW. You should not be a poseur. Eventually, you will be forced to do many wrong things to keep up appearances and prevent your truths from being revealed." That was the continual preach my Brother gave to Dungi back when he was still an aspiring young man up until he was a father raising his son and a family.

The birthplace of this story.

My mother loved the comfort. She was a big spender on comfort, especially if it was for her children. But the damage was limited to spending on food. While sometimes she would spend beyond her means when it came to food, she never spent more than she could afford on branded things or jewelry. My father? He would not spend. Period. Not even on his hobby, cars. Only when the cars were desperately cheap would he buy them. That was why, over time, we had experienced many crappy cars parked in our tiny house. The experience of the smells of car oils, rusty metal and old tires ... ugh! Made me sick just to remember it.

But later on, as we had the chance at a better life when my father was posted to Australia as a government employee, I saw what my father was truly willing to spend on.

He and my mother were so willing, wait, no, so eager to spend on our chance at our future. They spent on Dallo's expensive tertiary education, textbooks, and equipment. Every need related to that went uncontested. A stark contrast to anything else involved taking money out of a wallet for my father. Later on, they would continue funding Dungi's Australian education even though at that time the family was already back in Jakarta and my father was nearing his retirement, earning back his meager government employee salary.

Both my parents would never try to justify even the slightest thought of owning luxurious things beyond their means to lift their social status. They were both authentic people, they didn't have the stamina to be pretentious, they enjoyed too much being who they were, and the only thing they liked to show off if they could, was the achievement of their children.

These were parents made in heaven!

My mother was a strong mother and a brave woman. But she was no longer a mother, she was a granny and therefore there was no need to be strong. As she got older, she saw less and less reason to be strong, so she started being weak. Her feelings were easily hurt. It became harder to please and make her happy. She became a glass-half-empty person. She could not come to terms that she was no longer needed as a mother to depend on, but as a mother to be loved, to be made happy, and to be a granny.

She could not take her hat off as a responsible parent and start her transition to being a spoiled mother and a grandchildren-spoiling grandma. Her strong personality prevented her to accept this fact of life. Nevertheless, my mother remained a brave woman, to her last day. In the face of adversity, she grew stronger. This spirit permeated every one of her children.

She was so good at taking care of us that we feared nothing, and whenever she was around, we felt invincible. We even felt that being sick was more enjoyable than being healthy since when we were sick, she would quadruple her attention to us. That much attention from her? Well, it surpassed any good feeling coming from being healthy. Her dedication to her children-oriented her entire adult life to taking care of us, in every detail. So much so that she got no chance to develop any hobby of her own. All hell broke loose when we became independent adults. With no hobby and lack of own personal interest, she was left with nothing to do in her old age.

Physically, she was so frail and easily affected by the notion of being sick, a hypochondriac. This only got worse as she grew older. Many times she used illnesses as a way to get her children's attention who she believed didn't listen to her anymore. She had asthma, vertigo, upset stomach, indigestion, diverticulitis, and insomnia. Many of those were thought-induced, or at least exacerbated by her excessive worries, concerns and feeling of insecurity.

She loved her eldest son, my Brother, very much. She adored his love towards her, his fresh thoughts and guidance, yet often failed to understand and follow. She always sought his approval to validate her feelings. And this was where the same problem always started, most of the time she got invalidated, and that stirred turmoil in her emotions. This turmoil in turn, caused her to seek even more of my Brother's validation, and when she still didn't get it, the turmoil inside her mind grew wilder, thus the vicious cycle formed.

And my Brother loved my mother very much. Ever since he was born. He once said, half-jokingly half-serious, that anybody who wanted to defeat him mentally must first kill his mother, for therein lay his true power, his second life. You could call him a mommy's boy. He said to me that he feared nothing of this world as long as his mother was by his side. And I could see why he felt that way. My mother thrived and even grew stronger under fire, especially when it touched her children. She proved that quality again even as she moved towards her death. She knew the tremendous financial difficulty my Brother had since COVID hit the earth, and therefore could not continue supporting her daily life, let alone pay for her serious illness. She knew that her son was very troubled by this, and so that became her one and only focus. She painted a rosy possibility of rising back up to my Brother, and remembered how we had gone through similar things in the past and we always pulled through. She said not to worry about paying her bills for she had always saved a portion of the monthly money that she got from my Brother. Behind him however, she was trembling, for the money problem was serious. She was thinking less of her illness and more about her two grandchildren, Bo and Bea, if my Brother could not continue supporting all of our lives.

But no matter how much my Brother loved and depended on our mother, he loved more rationality. He was a highly rational person, so rational that sometimes he appeared as if he had no emotion. But don't get it wrong, he was a highly emotional person, flammable in fact. He was aware of this and didn't like it. To him, succumbing to emotion was weak, and an emotional person was a weak person. A weak person is the root of all trouble.

Digressing a little to my other brother, Dungi, I would draw a contrast. Dungi was a weak person. He liked to cry in front of an audience. He always craved a pat on the back and sympathy. He succumbed to his emotion after years of failing, or unwillingness, to develop his prefrontal cortex. As he grew older he became greedy, delusional, an acute liar and a hypocrite. But that is a whole other chapter on its own, so for now, let's not talk about him.

So, let's go back to my Brother. My Mom often made him choose between his love for rationality and her. Never failing, my Brother always chose rationality. But that didn't mean he left my Mom in the dust, he always tried to make her understand and be rational. Intellectually, my mother would agree with him, but not emotionally. So she would be with him on one solved problem, but back to being emotional on the next similar problem. Over time, my Brother realized that he could only treat the symptoms, but not the real problem. My mother would be with my Brother on a case-by-case basis but she would never be a person as rational as my Brother would like her to be. This wore him out. He quit trying to transform my Mom. But as he quit trying, he also quit listening to her problems. And so the downfall of my mom started.

In retrospect, I probably would have warned my Brother about our Mom's incessant emotional problems with Pilos. That there was more than meets the eye about Pilos. As a woman I could sense something off about Pilos, then probably my mother, as both a woman and a mother could sense something more. Something that she could not articulate to my Brother. My Brother should not have written her off too quickly when she persisted in telling on Pilos. Sometimes I thought that my Brother stood on Pilos' side a bit too much when she went against my mother. I was wrong then but after finding Pilos' true color, I was damn right today.

As for me personally, I looked up to her when I was a little girl and growing up. She hand-held me throughout my childhood, teenage and adult years. Especially when marital relationships rocked me. She was the pillar of my strength, and she would smile with pride whenever I let her know it. She was always there for me, and her strength became my strength. Our relationship soured when my life took another detour to the trouble zone and she felt she was unable to help. But we made amends in the five months before she died. Beautifully so.

I felt every fiber of her being in me. I loved my children as she did hers. I was strong, and I hoped to stay strong. This strength, like my Mom's, came from the immense love that I had towards my children. I was brave too. Like my mom, I had suffered many times because I chose not to sacrifice my principles. Like my Mom who loved her eldest son very much, my Brother, I also loved him wonderfully.

I was my mother.