I returned to Indonesia on the 1st of June.  A phone call brought me back. No, a text message with prayer hands and sad face emoji. I’ll copy and paste it here.

Bu’ kalau boleh jujur, untuk sa’at ini ibu yuli lagi memerlukan semua keluarga 😔🙏

(oh the inadequacy of translation, but I shall do my best)  

Ma’am if I can be honest, at this time mrs yuli needs all her family.

At the end of May, my mother had a medical emergency at her home in Bali. I flew back to be with her. It’s been a month now and I am so very grateful that she is recovering.  

But things have changed. 

I realized this waking up day after day in the unchanging twilight of the hospital room where my mother struggled to recover. Watching the iv that dripped in pain killers and antibiotics. Listening to the gurgling vacuum that sucked out the pooling blood from her lungs. 

My mother is, and always has been, a formidable woman. But, as I watched her shallow, labored breathing, I knew that even she is no match for time.  

This is the opening of a longer essay – part of an ongoing series about what it means to come home. It’s a bit of a departure for me. After so many years writing as a journalist observing events, it feels jarring to write about my personal experience at home with a capital “I”. You can read it here