Newspaper Author

Describe a risk you took that you do not regret.

The risk I took and never regretted was writing about the Newspaper Author. The story is about my father, described as vividly as possible—like the authors in the newspaper he admired.

I never understood why my father loved cutting out newspaper articles written by journalists he believed were honest in their opinions. He would read them, cut them out, and carefully place them in plastic bags labeled with the names of the journalists. Over time, he collected so many clippings that the entire house felt like it couldn’t breathe anymore.

I, for one, slipped into a depressive state, unable to grasp how my father could gather so many newspaper cuttings and organize them into scrap files. He already had numerous files and plastic boxes stacked high, filling up his room.

Eventually, the rest of the family and I began falling sick. One by one, we took turns ending up in the hospital, not understanding the root cause of our illnesses. I remember the first time in 2017 when my sister and brother cleared out all his paper clippings and sold them to the recycling man. It weighed over 350 kg. Back then, I didn’t realize the deeper meaning behind his behavior—that my father might have been showing early signs of dementia.

The floor in his room was sticky, and my sister cleaned it six times, over and over again. My father, the Newspaper Author, was furious with her. He started slurring his words but still enjoyed listening to family conversations, often chiming in with stories of his own. We listened earnestly, appreciating his tales.

His dementia worsened over time. I remember a day when his car broke down, and he couldn’t explain where he was over the phone. My sister and I took our car and went searching for him. We found him sitting silently inside his vehicle, frightened and lost. I couldn’t understand how he could feel so lost when I could find him. I called a tow truck to bring his car to a nearby mechanic.

I still don’t understand the point of having a handphone if he couldn’t use it to call the mechanic or the tow man. Again, I failed to notice the signs of dementia.

Another incident occurred years later. His car got stuck at a petrol station, and he panicked, not knowing where he was. Thankfully, some kind strangers helped push the car. He phoned me, but once again, he couldn’t explain his location. His phone battery was draining fast, which only made him more anxious. A kind Grab driver noticed he looked like a lost old man and helped him. I asked her to send me his location so I could pick him up.

I drove out and prayed hard to find him—because at that moment, I realized how much I valued him, despite all the resentment I had carried from my childhood. Even though he had often been harsh with me growing up, I found him, brought him home safely, and held onto the moment.