Goodbye, Dad

My father died two days ago. He had been sick and had been in the hospital for over forty days. On Friday, he was brought home, and on Saturday he passed away peacefully. When one sees a loved one suffer, sometimes the best thing one can do is to pray for death. Not that I don't believe in God's capacity to heal, but at some point one realizes that the only way a suffering person can rest is when he or she rests in the arms of our Creator.

My father suffered for forty-plus days, the kind of suffering one would never wish on one's worst enemy. He was admitted to the hospital because of a persistent cough. Next thing we knew, he was having a pulmonary embolism. He was intubated because he could not breathe on his own. They stuck an NGT down his throat and prepped him for ICU. This was a man, who, only a month before had played 18 holes of golf. He was dying and we had had no clue he was even sick.

It was November 15. I was at home taking my sweet time. I was at the kitchen table having breakfast. It was the last day of Poetics class and the last day of graduate school for me. I was excited to see my classmates and my professor and celebrate with them the end of what had been a fruitful semester. I had just defended my thesis the day before and was still floating on cloud nine. The head of UST Publishing had expressed interest in publishing my thesis, a memoir about my life with my ex-husband.

Suddenly, I got a text message from my mom saying I better hurry to the hospital. My dad was dying. That was one of the saddest days of my life. My mom and my sister started discussing practical matters. "Where will the wake be?" asked my sister. It was decided that it would be at St. Peter's on Quezon Avenue. He would be cremated right away. There would be no need for a coffin. My dad was a practical man.

But he didn't die that day. It goes to show how God is a god of surprises. He still spent a month with us. He still gave us a lot of material for future anecdotes that we will surely be telling people - both friends and acquaintances. In sickness and in health, my dad made us laugh. He gave me the gift of sarcasm. He made me realize that one needs a certain level of untouchability to be able to speak one's mind. He said things we would be too shy to even think. Tact was not my father's strongest suit. And this is how I wish to remember him.

He wasn't perfect but no one needs to be. We loved him in our own imperfect way and we made sure that he knew that before he died.

We love you to the moon and back. Rest easy now that you're united with our Heavenly Father. Swing away. Sing away. Sing karaoke with Sinatra. Yes, you did it your way.

What happened today

Today I found a newspaper article about my stepson being found dead in Oslo in February 2008. After all these years, I still feel so sad whenever I think about it. With him died his dreams of becoming a professional football player. He was a very fun young man to have around; he was playful, and he treated everyone equally. He was born of Filipino parents in 1986 and was adopted when he was six months old by my ex-husband and his first wife. I guess having been raised in Norway made him really see people as people, and not in terms of their social standing. Here's to you, Jon. Hope you're having the grandest time there in heaven!

Death and Decay

 

I took this picture with my phone on our way to go shopping. It made me sad a little.

Yesterday

 Photo by www.bestforbeauty.eu

Yesterday, I wore the perfume you gave me.

The whole day was spent polishing my thesis proposal, sorting out journal articles, making sure I had filled out the evaluation form correctly. I also read more journal articles about cyber relationships, the effects of cyber cheating on offline relationships, writing a memoir, the actual truth and the truth as one remembers it.

And then it was almost five pm. In an hour I was to go to Church to hear Mass and to pray for you. Everyday, for the whole month of July, our parish will be praying for you.

So at about five-thirty, I decided to take another shower. It had been a long, hot, humid day. The humidity made me wish for rain and typhoon. But guilt came soon after my mind had already released my wish out into the universe. Good thing the universe had not been listening.

After a quick shower, I opened a small cabinet in the bathroom where I keep all my perfumes. And there it was, the perfume you gave me some years ago, when you didn't really have to give me anything. I have always loved that perfume, using it sparingly since its scent calls for a specific mood or occasion. But every time I wear it, I love it. And it reminds me of you.

Yesterday, my husband created videos of this simulation game that he likes. Armed with a one-dollar microphone he had bought from CDR King, he recorded them while commentating. He told me to like the video, which I did, of course. I even told my friends about it.

When he turned on his tablet to check YouTube, he was so surprised to find out that he had opened your account instead. The last time he had opened YouTube using his tablet was when we were in the States a few months ago. And somehow, he had logged into your account. We looked at each other in disbelief. And then we felt sad.

Yesterday, I wore the perfume you gave me.

You can rest now, Tito Edward

My uncle died today. He was the youngest among my father's siblings. He was a proud Thomasian, and a very talented one, too. He studied Fine Arts in college,  and I can still remember his drawing pads filled with portraits of different Hollywood stars.

I am deeply saddened by his death, although I know that now he doesn't have to suffer anymore. He was in so much pain, since the cancer had already spread to his bones. But he bore his pain with so much grace and dignity.

When I saw him last March, he was always in high spirits. He never uttered anything negative about his illness, or about anyone. He was happy in the company of his favorite teleserye characters, the ones that he would watch on ABS-CBN's The Filipino Channel.

On Sundays we would drive to church, as he still insisted on going, even though he knew God would understand his absence. Every week, a deacon from St. Christopher's Church, his parish, would go to his house to give him communion. God bless that deacon; his rewards are waiting for him in heaven.

I consider myself lucky, having had the chance to spend three weeks with him just this summer. I am sure he had a smile on his lips when he found out for certain that he was finally going to meet his Maker.

I remember sitting at the dining table with him when he said to me, "Who doesn't want to live? I still want to live. But if I die now, I would consider death the greatest blessing from God."

What She Found in His Wallet

It was an ordinary day. I was sitting in front of my laptop, tweaking my manuscript, making it publish-worthy. There was very little writing being done, more self-critiquing and deleting of words, a hundred at a time.

It was after lunch when my phone rang. My friend's frantic voice told me her father had been found on the couch, unconscious. He had been rushed to the hospital in an ambulance, and that she was headed there with her younger brother.

Less than an hour later, we were all gathered in the hospital's emergency room. My friend was crying. Her father had died of a heart attack. His third. Her elder brother had rushed to go home to retrieve their father's wallet. It contained his senior citizen's card, which entitled him to a 20% discount at the hospital.

My friend's brother arrived moments later, eyes bloodshot, hair disheveled. He handed her  a tan leather wallet, the very same one my friend had bought in Florence the year before. She cried, as she held the wallet close to her. Her father loved her, and she knew it.

The wallet contained some paper bills and plastic cards. A typical wallet, if you ask me. My friend immediately looked for the senior citizen's card. She found more than what she was looking for.

My friend found herself staring back at her. Tucked in one of the wallet's compartments were pictures of her and her siblings.  Her father loved them, and they knew it. She cried again, this time comforted by her father's love. I cried with her, because I had been witness to that love.

Death

From time to time I am compelled to write about death. I don't know, but there are times when I just feel that I have to discuss it at length, either with myself or with friends. There are things that happen in our lives that jolt us, making us think of our inevitable demise. In two weeks I went to three wakes and two funerals. In March my friends (sisters) lost their father to cancer. And in between the deaths of the people connected to me, there were also deaths of people I didn't know.
As a Facebook shout out, I posted about a week ago, that I realized how immaterial material possessions were; that people remember a dead loved one's big heart, rather than his big bank account; that we touch people through kindness, and not by showering them with gifts. It wasn't much of a eureka type of realization. It was something I had known all along. But like everyone else, I forget such things in the comfort of stillness; when the calm waters of life make us forget that at anytime strong currents could come and topple us. This blog entry will be short, as life is short. I pray that I never take for granted that I still wake up in the morning and breathe a deep and satisfying breath.