Papa (5.8.1958-10.1.2016)

It was a Friday. It was supposed to be like my everydays of sitting at the couch, playing mobile games, watching series on tv. But before I was even home I received a call from the hospital where my father works. It wasn't really a distress call so my sisters and I weren't too alarmed. Being the irresponsible eldest I don't really know how to commute there because our Father always brought me there. My sisters and I planned to wait for each other at the condo but the next call was so alarming that I immediately thrown stuff things at my bag of what I might need and went out as fast as I can, tears already rolling down my face in stress. I was muttering to myself that everything will be alright. And as if the universe have carefully timed that Friday, my sisters and I all converged at MoA almost at the same time, fetched by his co workers with our Papa's car.

I don't have much experience in hospitals since we rarely have anything to do there anyway, but my worry wasn't too great that time. Yes he was at the ICU but although I can't understand what the numbers at the monitor means, anything but zero looks fine by me. Also, the staff looked like they’re in control. Later on, we met the doctor who have relayed to us some bad news.

We were told how our father's heart stopped beating for full 15 minutes causing his brain to shutdown. We were given 48 hours and he should recover within that time period before it was called off. My head was already swimming in different possibilities and I cried in despair, all graces of not doing it in front of a stranger or my sisters thrown out of the window.  Spreading the sorrow wasn't my intention but this I have to let out. It wasn't fair to be told to be the strong one, we are all equally his daughters, we all need our father. And how can you stay strong at this situation?

It wasn't the last of our cries. We were called so many times at the ICU only to see him be revived again, much harder than the next. There was a time when we were told he woke up only to be sedated as he has become restless. He must have heard we were there and knowing him he wouldn't let us know that he is not alright. Looking back it might have helped if he saw us, he might have fought harder knowing that his daughters are there hoping for their Papa to wake up. He was always hiding his ailments and later on I overheard that this was too late of a call. His only chance would have been the first blackout he never told a peep to anyone of us.

Over time his once warm body started to grow cold. I can see a bit of gray on his fingers creeping up towards the rest of his hands which my sister put in his green rosary to hold. He was able to survive ordeals with his rosary and this act gave me such hope. Immediate family members came by one by one, equally hurt in seeing our Papa in that state. He was really close with our cousins who live around the Metro, his closest connection back home in their province.

In one of our ICU visits I wailed a little when my hands touched his socked feet, it was harder than usual, colder than usual. All three of us were muttering his name, calling him in hopes that he might hear. We told him of our sorrys, our iloveyous, our missed plans, travels, food trips, weddings, grand kids. I was glad that a priest was able to pray over him as the day went on, closing in on his last minutes. Only him and God knows if he heard anything, but I would like to believe that he did.

At his last moments I was still hoping for a miracle that he would eventually find his heart and beat at a pace that we could all go back to before. But his ailing kidneys started to add to his burden, those years of smoke and liquor just can't handle the meds that was supposed to help his heart. I kept on looking at the monitor hoping the numbers would improve until it was called at last, his chest failed to raise on its own. My family isn't exactly your TV version of one, we never hug, we never say our I love yous out loud. But at that moment it was necessary, maybe this act would aid us in sharing the pain, the grief, most especially the loss. And as we broke our embrace and moved away from our papa I can see his friends crying along with us. It was surreal, knowing that he was loved, and that it "was".

Going out of the room we were hugged by people we don't know; we were told of the stories that never reached home. All were beautiful, and painted him in a light that explained why their grief is beyond friendship. I am humbled on how he boasted off our achievements, on how he used us a good example of kids that went right. I am guilty of not being as perfect as he might have described but he still told them nonetheless. He told them how his daughters would take him places, treat him wherever we could. But it was far from spoiling him believe me and that I most certainly regret. I have yet to take him off of the country and let him see what's out there. Make him taste different types of noodles he have not yet tasted. I have yet to give him new shoes. I have yet to make him walk me down the aisle...

But alas, life is a bitch. My father was a perfect candidate for internal organ failure that any doctor would raise their brows if anyone bought the idea that he was at the pink of health. His lifestyle has consumed his body early. There were so many what ifs, none of them mattered now.

After my moment of looking at his hospital gown staring at it in case he breathes on his own, I was shocked that a death in a civilized manner involved obligations on what to do with the body. I caught myself calling my father a corpse when I was explaining something to my mother and I had to pause of the guilt on calling him such. But being a fool as I am I shrugged it off, hoping to be given a pause button. Because every step, every signed paper is an acknowledgment that he is really dead. I even shed tears over buying a barong when asked for what occasion. Saying it out loud to someone else was too real that I've made a complete stranger complement what I was feeling. It was a bittersweet moment that I would never forget, and a symbol that maybe, like her, I can smile over my tragedy and still hold that feeling of loss without grief.

On that same day I chose to post a photo of my father giggly over something that has amazed him. If that much small has given him that big of a smile I hope we were able to give him some. We were’nt too close on his last days, maybe because I don’t live at Cavite anymore and the last thing I told him was ingat when he dropped me off at MoA after our youngest treat us to a buffet. It was my sister’s first treat from her job that was postponed a few times just because all four of us weren’t complete. It is nice that she was given that chance. I am, after all, the weakest of us three that seeing our youngest cry is another pain on it's own. They have been each other's company these past few years, her regular checkups to the hospital where he works entailing to be with each other mostly.

I was able to look a bit at our Papa in his casket but I didn’t lingered there for too long, and only up to the last day. I recalled forcing myself not to overthink it or I might lose it again, the tears that about to come out. Till now, my brain filters that image and retains the ones where he was alive, our photos as good reminders. I don’t want see him in makeup and I don’t want to pretend that he was just sleeping. Even now in the columbary, in my head I still have the tiniest of hopes that he would show up anytime I whisper his name in places we’ve been and otherwise. 

Papa was 2 years short of reaching pensioner status. I was actually thinking of getting him a post at the wet and dry market near our house where he could sell vegetables we import from Divi. It would be a good distraction for him I thought since there would be nothing to do every day anyway. I also thought that maybe at that time I have saved enough for us to get a farm for him to spend his days without the hassle of city life. Maybe I would have had kids by then. So many maybes...

During those final weeks the three of us sisters were planning for a trip to Mt. Purro Reserve. I was really close in booking one for the next holiday hoping that Papa would be available that time. What a grim joke for the future me with the knowledge that in a few days he would be but ash in an urn.

It gives me much comfort in knowing that there are a lot of people who loves our Papa who were able to aid us in going through all of this. The support we got is overwhelming and I am happy to learn that he was able to touch a lot of lives even in that short time. The cries and pain we all endure were from the loss of someone who we have all loved here on earth and sharing this experience is therapeutic in a way. I know that I can’t even recall when was the last time I told him that I loved him but I hope that he was able to know that I do even if I failed to say it out loud. His love language to us was replacing our Mama who is currently overseas. He cooked for us, washed our clothes and drove us when need be. I hope that he was able to read ours which was to take him places any chance we can. We weren't raised on a model family who said their endearments out loud, we don't even hug! But I hope that now that his soul could watch over us, I hope he knows that our love for him is real and was shown in ways that weren't so typical.

Maybe he's already reached our grandparents up in heaven. I want to believe it to be true. And for that I would not say goodbye. I would be looking forward to the day that I would meet all of those we have lost, including our Papa.

Till we meet again Pa!