The analogue watch on my left wrist read 9:45 a.m. My cell phone in my pants pocket vibrated. I paused the presentation I was giving to the training participants.
As I switched to the next slide, I checked my phone. It wasn’t a message from my wife. Just a promotional notification.
“Damn ads,” I muttered to myself.
I took a slow breath.
“Okay, let’s continue.”
I smiled and resumed the presentation I’d put on hold.
The night before, my daughter Ina, who’s only 5 years old, wasn’t acting like herself. She’s usually chatty, but now she wasn’t saying much. For three days, Ina hadn’t stopped coughing, and her nose kept running.
Ina lay listlessly in her room. She had a fever.
“Let’s take her to the hospital, honey!” my wife suggested.
The on-call doctor who examined my daughter in the ER had just finished consulting with her pediatrician.
“She needs to be admitted to the hospital, sir.”
“First, let’s run some lab tests and a chest X-ray, sir,” he continued.
“Honey, don’t go to work tomorrow,” my wife said in a half-whisper.
“What if something happens tomorrow? There’ll be no one to stay with me and take care of Ina.”
That morning, it was still a bit dark outside. Ina was still fast asleep. The IV drip was flowing slowly. My wife’s face looked tired. Her hair was a mess. I was already getting ready.
After breakfast, I said goodbye to my wife.
“Honey, I’m leaving now.”
She just nodded. No smile, no hug, and no kiss.
I glanced back once more toward the bed. Ina was still fast asleep. The IV tube swayed as she shifted her sleeping position. I closed the door gently, afraid of waking her.
My body was on its way to the training venue where I was scheduled to present that day. But my mind was still lingering in that small room.
Here I am now. Standing before dozens of participants attending this training session. I delivered the material according to the agenda. Again and again, I glanced at the watch on my wrist.
I tried to stay calm. I tried to be as professional as possible.
I crack a joke here and there between the material I’m presenting—a joke meant more for myself, to help me relax. The participants laugh, and I laugh along with them. But my mind won’t be fooled. My thoughts are still back at the hospital where my daughter is being treated.
I don’t know how many times I’ve glanced at my phone, hoping for a message from my wife. All that popped up were those damn promotional notifications.
The first session has ended. It’s time for a break and lunch. The participants are lining up to get food. I’m standing in line, holding my plate. Those little thoughts pop into my head again.
“Has my wife eaten yet?”
I’m not really interested in the food on offer.
“Who’s watching over Ina while my wife goes out to get food?”
These questions are ruining my appetite for lunch.
Finally, the afternoon arrived. The first day’s sessions were over. A few participants struck up a conversation with me. I wanted to head straight to the hospital. It would be rude to just leave right away, leaving behind those who had greeted me.
The sky was starting to darken. I was stuck in a traffic jam in Kuta that afternoon, surrounded by workers also eager to go home after a long day’s work. Tired faces, some of whom were already getting frustrated by the slow-moving traffic. They wanted to be with their families at home as soon as possible. Same with me.
My cell phone in my pants pocket lay silent, in stark contrast to the noise of vehicles and honking horns around me. I checked my phone several times. No message from my wife. No news about Ina.
The traffic light turned red. The vehicles came to a stop. Next to me was a father riding with his daughter and wife on the back of his motorcycle. They were joking around. Maybe they’d just come back from Kuta Beach. I could see there was still white sand on their feet and in their sandals.
I thought of Ina again. My chest felt even tighter.
After battling traffic for 30 minutes—which felt like hours—the road finally cleared a bit and traffic began to flow smoothly. I revved up my motorcycle and sped down the Ngurah Rai Bypass toward the hospital.
The closer I got to the hospital, the heavier my heart felt.
In my heart, I was already preparing to apologize.
35 minutes later.
I arrived at the door to my daughter’s hospital room. My hands trembled as I opened the door; my chest felt tight.
I opened the door; my wife glanced briefly in my direction before turning her gaze back to our daughter.
She remained silent. She didn’t greet me. She didn’t ask any questions. She wasn’t angry.
Silence.
Ina was already asleep.
I set my phone down on the table. For the first time that day, I wasn’t thinking about the notifications on my phone.
Slowly, I walked over and sat down next to her. I took her hand.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered softly. My voice trembled.
Tears began to fall from both my eyes; my shoulders shook. I cried silently, clutching her hand tighter at the edge of the bed.
She began to cry beside me.
Ina was still fast asleep. Her breathing had improved. Every now and then, I could still hear her cough. The IV drip was still flowing into her wrist.
Since that day, I’ve learned that guilt doesn’t always come from making a mistake. Sometimes it comes from trying to fulfill two responsibilities at once, only to fail to feel whole in either one.
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