Bila Tiada Apa-Apa Rasa Seperti Segalanya

 Bila Tiada Apa-Apa Rasa Seperti Segalanya

Oleh Fong Muntoh

Ada hari yang datang tanpa bunyi.
Tiada emosi besar. Tiada keputusan penting. Hanya… udara. Namun, ada satu beban halus yang menekan dada, seperti selimut yang tidak diminta.

Hari ini, hari itu.

Tiada apa yang salah, tapi tiada apa juga yang terasa betul. Saya jalani rutin seperti biasa—balas emel, senyum pada wajah-wajah yang dikenali, berjalan di koridor pusat jagaan seperti selalu. Tapi dalam hati, ada satu kesunyian yang berdengung.

Dan saya sedar—hari-hari begini bukan kosong.

Inilah detik-detik di antara. Jeda di antara satu ribut dan yang berikutnya. Mata badai emosi. Bila segala-galanya di dalam diam, tapi berjaga. Rasa segalanya, tapi digelar “tiada apa-apa.”

Dalam dunia penjagaan, kepimpinan, dan kehidupan sendiri—ada hari-hari di mana kita memikul perkara yang tidak kelihatan. Kita serap keresahan orang lain, soalan mereka, kekecewaan kecil yang tak pernah disebut. Kita tahan perasaan sendiri, tunggu masa yang lebih sesuai untuk meluahkannya. Dan dalam proses itu, kita hilang jejak pada apa yang kita benar-benar rasa. Sehingga kesunyian itu menyapa, dan kita terpaksa menghadapinya.

Dan tidak mengapa.
Kadang-kadang, diam itu adalah cara jiwa menarik nafas.

Jadi hari ini, saya izinkan sunyi itu wujud.
Saya biarkan ‘tiada apa-apa’ itu hidup.
Kerana mungkin, dalam detik paling sunyi, kita paling dekat dengan kebenaran.
Kerana mungkin, bila tiada apa-apa rasa seperti segalanya—itulah hakikatnya.

When Nothing Feels Like Everything

 When Nothing Feels Like Everything

By Fong Muntoh

Some days arrive without noise.
No big emotions. No decisions to make. Just... air. And yet, the weight of it presses softly on the chest, like a blanket you didn’t ask for.

Today is one of those days.

Nothing is wrong, and yet nothing feels quite right. I move through the motions—respond to emails, smile at familiar faces, walk the corridors of the care centre like I always do. But inside, there’s a strange silence. Not numb, not sad. Just a stillness that hums.

And I’ve come to understand—these are not empty days.

These are the in-between moments. The pauses between one storm and the next. The eye of the emotional cyclone. When everything inside you is quiet, but watching. Feeling everything but calling it “nothing.”

In caregiving, in leadership, in simply being human—there are days where we carry invisible things. We absorb others’ worries, questions, small disappointments. We hold back our own, waiting for a better time to speak them. And in that process, we lose track of what we’re actually feeling. Until the stillness catches up to us, and we’re forced to notice it.

And it’s okay.
Sometimes stillness is just a soul’s way of breathing.

So today, I allow the quiet.
I let the nothingness be.
Because maybe, in the quietest moments, we are closest to truth.
Because maybe, when nothing feels like everything—it actually is.

The Calm Between Storms

 

The Calm Between Storms

By Fong Muntoh

Some days in aged care, the corridors feel quieter than usual—not because there’s peace, but because something is waiting to happen. Not a crisis. Not yet. Just the weight of questions hanging in the air.

I’ve come to learn that not every problem needs solving immediately. Some things just need time. Some people just need space. And sometimes, the best thing a leader can do… is to wait without anger.

Lately, I’ve been trying not to react. Not because I don’t feel—but because I’m learning that most problems are not problems. They’re questions in disguise.

“Why is she withdrawn today?”
“Why did the staff make that choice?”
“Why does this family seem so unhappy, no matter how much we try?”

It’s easy to be frustrated. To raise a voice. To fix. To control.
But more often now, I choose to breathe. To step back. To trust that the answers will come—not always in the form I expect, and not always from me.

Aged care is full of noise—alarms, footsteps, voices calling “nurse.” But there is also silence.
Between complaints and compliments. Between death and discharge.
Between being strong for everyone… and sitting alone with your thoughts.

And in this silence, I’ve found something unexpected:
Clarity.
Grace.
Even strength.

The calm between storms isn’t emptiness.
It’s reflection.
It’s restraint.
It’s the quiet work of mending what cannot be rushed.

We often talk about action—about doing, moving, fixing.
But there’s an art to not doing.
To waiting with awareness.
To letting something unfold without pushing it forward.

So today, as nothing much happens, I remind myself:
Storms always pass. But it is in the calm that we build the strength to weather the next one.

Rahmat yang Tersembunyi — Seni Melihat dari Sudut Berbeza

Tajuk: Rahmat yang Tersembunyi — Seni Melihat dari Sudut Berbeza

Oleh Fong Muntoh

Dalam dunia penjagaan warga emas, saya belajar satu perkara: segala sesuatu — walaupun aduan, kekecohan atau keletihan — boleh membawa rahmat yang tersembunyi. Kalau kita belajar untuk melihat sekali lagi, dengan hati yang baru dan perspektif yang lebih luas, bahkan perkara yang menyakitkan hati pun boleh menjadi tanda kehidupan, hubungan dan tujuan.

Pernah ada yang berkata kepada saya, “Residen tu banyak sangat merungut.”
Saya hanya senyum dan jawab, “Itu tandanya dia masih tahu apa yang dia mahu.”
Dia masih boleh menyuarakan ketidakselesaan, masih ada kehendak, dan masih ada semangat. Itu bukan beban — itu satu anugerah. Yang membimbangkan adalah bila mereka sudah tak mahu bercakap langsung.

Ayah saya pula, dia suka bermain mahjong. Kadang-kadang, duit yang saya beri padanya, habis kalah.
Adik perempuan saya pernah tanya, “Kenapa masih bagi duit kalau dia asyik kalah?”
Saya jawab, “Kalau ayah masih boleh kalah duit, itu tandanya dia masih hidup, masih aktif, masih menikmati kehidupan. Dan kalau saya masih mampu beri duit untuk dia kalah — itu pun satu rezeki.”

Semuanya soal perspektif.

Ada juga satu masa, seorang residen datang mengadu.
“Residen sebelah tu jalan pakai walker, bising betul! Setiap kali lalu, bunyi berdecit satu koridor!”
Saya dengar, kemudian jawab, “Sebenarnya, itu berita baik. Itu tandanya dia masih boleh berjalan. Dan awak pula masih ada pendengaran yang sangat baik. Dari sudut saya, kita ada dua residen yang sihat. Alhamdulillah.”

Masa bilik mula kosong kerana ramai residen balik kampung atau melancong, pasukan pengurusan saya mula panik.
“Kita kena cepat-cepat isi kekosongan ni,” kata mereka.
Tapi saya diam sekejap dan fikir — mungkin ini adalah rehat dari Tuhan.
Musim tenang yang sepatutnya kita nikmati. Kalau Tuhan beri ruang untuk tarik nafas, kenapa perlu kelam kabut? Kadang-kadang musim sunyi pun adalah jawapan doa.

Dan yang paling mencabar — adalah harapan daripada ahli keluarga.
Kadang-kadang mereka cerewet, emosional, atau terlalu menuntut. Tapi saya ingatkan diri dan staf saya: bila ada harapan, itu tandanya masih ada kasih sayang.
Cinta tu kadang datang dalam bentuk bising, marah, atau kawalan — tapi ia tetap cinta. Selagi ada yang ambil berat, residen itu masih dikelilingi oleh orang yang peduli. Bukankah itu yang kita harapkan?

Staf saya pun kadang-kadang rasa letih dengan kerenah residen dan keluarga mereka.
Tapi saya kata, “Kalau orang masih minta pertolongan kamu, itu tandanya kamu masih penting. Masih berguna. Masih ada peranan dalam masyarakat. Dan kamu masih membawa rezeki balik untuk keluarga kamu.”

Bagi saya sendiri, setiap aduan, masalah, isu — semuanya adalah peluang.
Peluang untuk jadi lebih baik.
Peluang untuk mengajar.
Peluang untuk membina hubungan.

Kesempurnaan bukan matlamat saya. Yang penting ialah kehadiran. Perubahan. Rahmat.

Saya belajar bahawa hidup tidak perlu sempurna untuk menjadi bermakna. Kadang-kadang bunyi bising di lorong, rasa serabut dalam mesyuarat, atau kerusi kosong di bilik — itu semua adalah bukti kita masih berjalan. Masih bernyawa. Masih sedang menjadi.

Jadi saya pilih untuk melihat dari sudut yang berbeza.
Walker yang bising? Itu tanda seseorang masih bergerak.
Anak yang bising? Itu hati yang masih menyayangi.
Penjaga yang penat? Itu jiwa yang masih memberi.
Bilik yang kosong? Itu rehat, bukan kegagalan.

Rahmat tak hanya datang dalam hari yang baik. Ia datang dalam bunyi, dalam kekeliruan, dalam aduan, dalam diam.
Kita cuma perlu lihat sekali lagi.

Grace in Disguise — The Art of Seeing Differently

Title: Grace in Disguise — The Art of Seeing Differently

By Fong Muntoh

In aged care, I’ve come to believe that everything — even complaints, even chaos — carries hidden grace. If we learn to look again, to listen with new ears, even frustration can become a reminder of life, connection, and purpose.

Someone once told me, “That resident complains about everything.”

I smiled and said, “That means they still know what they want.”

They can still express preferences, discomfort, and even entitlement. That’s not a burden — that’s a blessing. Silence and apathy are far more worrying.

Then there’s my dad. He’s a regular at the mahjong table and often ends up losing the money I give him. My sister once asked, “Why give him money if he just loses it?”

My reply? “If Dad can lose money, it means he’s still alive, still enjoying his days. And if I can afford to give him money to lose — that too is something to be grateful for.”

Perspective, you see, makes all the difference.

Another time, one resident came to me, frustrated. “That man’s walker is too noisy! Every time he walks past my door, it’s screech screech screech!”

I replied, “That’s actually good news. It means the man with the walker is still walking. And you, my friend, still have very good hearing.”

Two blessings in one hallway — who would’ve thought?

Even in bigger things, like when several residents checked out or travelled abroad and our numbers dropped — my management team panicked. “We need to fill those rooms fast,” they said.

But I paused and thought — what if this is God’s sabbath for us? A little window to breathe, reflect, reset. If God gives us a break, why rush to fill it? Some quiet seasons are heaven-sent.

And then, there’s the hardest to manage — family members’ expectations.

Sometimes they’re demanding, emotional, even unreasonable. But I remind myself and my team: expectations exist because they care. They love their parent or spouse enough to speak up. That love might show up as worry, anger, or even control — but it’s still love. And that love remains part of the resident’s life. Isn’t that what we want?

My team often struggles under the weight of these demands.

They feel tired, stretched, underappreciated.

But I tell them — if people are asking for your help, it means you still matter. You still have something to give. You have a job, a purpose, and a role in society. You are putting food on the table for your family, and that in itself is a quiet miracle.

As for me, I welcome complaints. I really do. Problems and issues are opportunities to teach, to grow, to serve better.

Each conflict is a doorway to connection.

Each misunderstanding, a chance to clarify and improve.

Perfection isn’t the goal. Presence is. Progress is. Grace is.

I’ve learned that life doesn’t have to be smooth to be meaningful. Sometimes, the bumps on the road are the very proof that we’re still on a journey. We’re still alive. Still becoming.

So I choose to see differently.

A noisy walker? That’s a man still moving.

A worried daughter? That’s a heart still loving.

A tired caregiver? That’s a soul still giving.

An empty bed? That’s a rest, not a crisis.

Grace isn’t just in the good days — it’s in the grind, the noise, the misunderstanding, the mess.

We just have to look again.

A Caring Nation with Neighbours from Hell

Malaysia loves calling itself a “caring nation.” We've got campaigns. Theme songs. Banners flapping by the roadside. In every WhatsApp group, someone will forward a message saying, “Remember to take care of your ageing parents.” But when it comes time to actually open a care centre to help families do just that — guess who kicks up the biggest fuss?

Neighbours.
But not even the ones next door. Usually it’s someone two lanes away with "principles."

Not a Hospital, a Home

A good care centre should not feel like a hospital. No strong smell of disinfectant. No sterile, whitewashed walls. No constant beeping machines. That’s not where you want someone’s mum to spend her golden years. What we need are homes — real homes. A place with a little garden, a proper kitchen, the smell of rice cooking at noon.

So we go looking for landed homes in quiet neighbourhoods, places with trees, birds in the morning, and uncles who still wash their cars shirtless. Places that feel like, well, home. But to turn that house into a care centre, we need a license. And to get a license, we need neighbour approval.

That’s when things go from paperwork… to passive aggression.

Excuses, Fear, and Misunderstanding

They show up at community meetings all friendly.
“We support elderly care,” they say.
But when the application reaches the local council, the objections start flowing.

🚗 “It’s going to cause traffic! So many families visiting!”

💸 “It’ll bring down property prices!”

🗣️ “Old folks will be screaming at night!”

And the most baffling one —
🤯 “It could bring diseases.”

I’m sorry — which part of aunty playing carrom while waiting for her grandchildren sounds contagious?

The Painful Truth

We could pretend this is all a misunderstanding. But deep down, some people still see aged care centres as dumping grounds — not support centres. They assume if you send your parents to a care home, you’ve failed them. You’ve abandoned them.

The truth? Many children put their parents in care because they love them. They want them looked after by trained professionals, fed properly, given their meds on time, and surrounded by friends. They want their mum to have someone to talk to during the day — even when they themselves are stuck in meetings and traffic jams.

But try opening that kind of place in a “nice” neighbourhood, and suddenly you’re ruining the peace.

What's really ruining things? The sound of seniors laughing in the activity room? The smell of nasi lemak at breakfast? Or just the discomfort of seeing the ageing process up close — a reminder of what’s waiting for all of us?

Double Standards, Everywhere

Here's the irony: kindergartens open all the time with little resistance. Loud toddlers. Crying. Parents dropping off and picking up all day.

But when you want to open a care home where people sleep early, eat on time, and don’t make a peep past 8pm — it’s a problem. If it's not the ambulance noise, it's the trash bins. And when those arguments don’t stick, they resort to vague things like “bad energy.”

Bad energy? This isn’t a haunted house. We’re just trying to care for people’s parents — the way we hope someone will care for ours one day.

Who’s Really From Hell?

People love to rage online when they see videos of seniors being neglected. They forward news about children “dumping” their parents and say “So sad, how can anyone do this?”

But the moment someone tries to open a well-run, dignified, home-like care centre — who's first to sign the petition?

When you ask them why they object, they say:
“Oh, it’s not that I don’t care… but this area’s not suitable.”
“Maybe they can open somewhere else…”

Which really means:
“I support elderly care… just not next to my house.”

That’s not a caring citizen.
That’s a neighbour from hell.

There Is a Middle Ground — If We’re Willing

Look, not all neighbours are like that. Some drop by on opening day with kuih. Some say, “If my mum ever needs care, I’d send her here.”

But if we want more care centres — good ones, not warehouses for the forgotten — we need a mindset shift. We need to see these centres as part of the neighbourhood. As a service. As a symbol of love, not neglect.

Because eventually, we all age. And if it’s not us, it’ll be someone we love who needs a place like this.

And when that day comes, let’s hope the neighbours around us aren’t from hell — but from the caring nation we love to sing about.

Rakyat Penyayang, Jiran Dari Neraka

Malaysia suka berbangga dengan gelaran "rakyat penyayang." Ada kempen besar-besaran. Lagu tema. Bunting tergantung di jalan. Dalam WhatsApp grup, semua sepakat kata “kena jaga mak ayah kita.” Tapi bila tiba masa nak buka pusat jagaan warga emas — tempat yang betul-betul boleh membantu keluarga menjaga ibu ayah mereka — siapa yang paling kuat membantah?

Jiran.
Tapi bukan jiran sebelah. Selalunya, jiran yang duduk satu lorong pun bukan. Jiran yang "bantah atas prinsip."

Kononnya.

Rumah, Bukan Hospital

Pusat jagaan yang baik bukan sepatutnya berasa macam hospital. Bau ubat kuat, dinding putih pucat, dan bunyi mesin berdengung — itu semua tak sesuai untuk warga emas yang perlukan ketenangan. Yang sesuai adalah rumah dengan taman kecil, ruang tamu yang selesa, dan dapur berbau sup panas.

Kami cari rumah dua tingkat, atau bungalow lama, di kawasan kejiranan yang ada pokok dan burung pagi-pagi. Tempat yang bila ibu awak duduk di situ, dia rasa macam balik kampung. Tapi untuk buka pusat macam ni, kita perlukan lesen — dan untuk dapat lesen, kita perlukan sokongan jiran.

Dan di sinilah mimpi jadi mimpi ngeri.

Antara Alasan dan Ketakutan

Mula-mula mereka datang ke mesyuarat JMB dengan senyuman palsu.
“Kami tak ada masalah bantu pusat jagaan,” kata mereka.
Tapi bila surat permohonan sampai ke meja PBT, kita dengar perkara lain pula.

🚗 “Akan jadi sesak, kereta keluarga datang melawat!”

💸 “Nanti harga rumah jatuh!”

🗣️ “Orang tua selalu jerit malam-malam!”

Dan yang paling mengelirukan —
🤯 “Nanti kawasan ni jadi kawasan penyakit.”

Macam mana warga emas yang baru saja habis main carrom dan tengah tunggu cucu datang boleh jadi punca penyakit?

Hakikat Yang Menyakitkan

Kita boleh senyum dan anggap ini semua salah faham. Tapi hakikatnya, ada kelompok dalam masyarakat kita yang masih melihat pusat jagaan sebagai tempat buangan, bukan sebagai tempat penjagaan. Mereka sangka tempat macam ni penuh dengan orang yang ‘tak mahu jaga mak sendiri’ — sedangkan banyak anak yang letak ibu bapa mereka di pusat jagaan kerana mereka sayang, bukan sebab mereka lari tanggungjawab.

Mereka mahu ibu mereka dijaga dengan baik — diberi makan ikut masa, ubat ikut dos, dan ada orang bercakap dengan mereka bila anak tak boleh balik tengah minggu.

Tapi cuba kita buka pusat jagaan dalam kawasan perumahan yang cantik sikit — terus dikatakan "tak sesuai, ganggu keharmonian kejiranan."

Apa yang mengganggu sebenarnya? Bunyi ketawa dari bilik aktiviti warga emas? Bau nasi lemak waktu sarapan? Atau cuma rasa tidak selesa melihat orang tua — kerana itu cermin masa depan yang kita belum bersedia hadapi?

Double Standard: Tadika OK, Rumah Orang Tua Tak OK

Yang pelik — tadika boleh buka tanpa banyak masalah. Nak buka tempat untuk anak-anak menjerit, berlari, menangis — jiran tak kisah sangat.

Tapi bila nak buka pusat warga emas yang duduk diam-diam, makan ikut jadual, tidur awal — tiba-tiba jadi masalah besar. Kalau tak bunyi ambulans, mereka bising pasal tempat buang sampah. Bila semua tak jadi, mereka mula tuduh tempat itu ada "vibe tak baik."

Vibe? Kita bukan buka pusat pemujaan. Kita cuma nak jaga mak ayah orang lain — dengan cara yang kita harap orang lain akan jaga mak ayah kita nanti.

Siapa Sebenarnya Dari Neraka?

Kita marah bila anak buang ibu di tepi jalan. Kita kutuk dalam Facebook bila nampak video warga emas diabaikan.

Tapi bila ada orang nak buka tempat jagaan yang betul — selesa, bersih, penuh kasih sayang — siapa yang letak bantahan pertama?

Bila tanya jiran mengapa bantah, mereka jawab:
“Bukan saya tak simpati, tapi bukan kat kawasan ni lah…”
"Kat tempat lain pun boleh..."

Bukankah itu sama macam berkata:
“Saya sokong kebajikan… tapi jangan dekat saya.”
“Saya penyayang… tapi jangan ganggu rumah saya.”

Dan itu, rasa,nya, bukan rakyat penyayang.
Itu jiran dari neraka.

Penutup: Jalan Tengah Yang Wujud Tapi Tidak Diambil

Muntoh tahu tak semua jiran macam ni. Ada juga yang sokong. Yang beri kuih masa pembukaan. Yang kata, “Kalau mak saya uzur nanti, saya nak hantar ke sini.”

Tapi untuk menjadikan pusat jagaan lebih banyak, lebih berkualiti dan mesra komuniti, kita perlukan perubahan sikap. Kita perlu lihat pusat jagaan sebagai sebahagian dari ekosistem kejiranan — bukan sebagai gangguan, tapi sebagai penyambung kasih sayang.

Akhirnya, semua orang akan tua. Dan kalau bukan kita, orang yang kita sayang pasti perlukan tempat macam ni.

Kita harap bila masa tu tiba, jiran kita bukan lagi dari neraka. Tapi jiran yang faham, bahawa menjaga warga emas bukan tanggungjawab seseorang — tapi tanggungjawab rakyat penyayang yang sebenar.