MY FATHER CALLED me up from the province in the morning of his 70th birthday, the thirty-first of October in 2003. I heard his deep low “hoooy,” his distinctive version of “hoy,” followed by a hearty laugh. My father had a habit of calling me up at any time of day, or night – whenever he felt he missed his eldest and only son, me. Our conversations would always be about anything and everything – from how I was doing with my work, how his grandchildren were, to how I intend to lose weight or when I was planning to go home for the holidays.
I felt bad talking to my father that day for I knew my apologies for not going home for his birthday were not enough. But he understood – as he always did – that I had work to do, and whatever plans he might have always took the back seat over everything else, including his simple joys of seeing his grandchildren and our family coming home for this rare occasion.
We said our goodbyes with the usual endearments; he called my sister and me his “mga padangat ko,” or his loved ones in the Bikol dialect, and he had a way of saying it that it always made us feel that no matter how old we become, in his eyes, my sister and I will always be his little children.
That morning of my father’s birthday would be the last time I would ever hear his voice. That night, my father suffered a massive stroke. The call made by my sister at dawn the following day, her sobs at the other end of the line told me that this was a serious matter. I was wrong. This was to be the greatest tragedy that our family would go through.
This story about my father is not unique in that many other people succumb to strokes and even much more painful ailments. The tragedy that has befallen the lives of people who love them and care for them is no different from ours. What makes this story different is that this was how God fully manifested his love for our family at a time when our hearts were being forced to be angry at the world and at ourselves.
In that dark moment of tragedy, God never left us. Not a single moment passed when we did not feel His presence as we went through the daily routines of taking care of my father. And while there were rough times that came, they only made us cling more to Him who knew what to do.
He was there in our throng of friends – mostly former co-teachers and students of my parents, and fellow members of the Couples for Christ – who visited us and consoled us in our sadness. This was particularly helpful for my mother who bore the burden of the tragedy. As she slept on a bed next to my father’s, a person made of lesser stuff would not have the strength of seeing life slowly leave the man whom she loved so much for more than forty years.
The miracles continued that to this day we have yet to accept that we deserved so much to be so gifted with them. My sister who kept tab of the expenses – among the many other responsibilities she had as overall monitor of my father’s care – could not even believe how we were able to move on with the meager resources we had. But we knew that God lifted us from our financial sorrows and made us strong against the waves.
Bedridden as he was, my father never suffered from bedsores, much to the surprise of his doctor who visited him every month. It looked as if the love we and others gave our father was increased a hundredfold by a God who never abandoned us, not even for a single second. We never lacked of good and efficient caregivers who doted on my father like he was their own. Truly, they can only be but angels sent by God.
Even if my father never regained his faculties, he was easy to take care. He never made it difficult for us, especially his caregivers, because he was never irritable. He simply stared at us with loving eyes, and allowed us to caress his forehead. Occasionally, we saw a glint of tear from the side of his eyes, perhaps in a brief moment of remembering, he pitied us whom he loved so much.
The greatest sadness I felt on what happened to my father was seeing a man who was so independent in everything that he did suddenly becoming incapable of doing anything at all. My mother always told us how blessed she was to have a husband who spoiled her so much because my father did almost everything around the house, including the payment of bills and other transactions outside of it. Even as I was already grown up, he never imposed upon me a job he could not do himself. Every time that he would ask me to help him with the handyman’s work around the house like putting up a new room, he usually did it himself, with me his assistant, handing him the tools or holding the boards as he nailed them down.
My father’s passing, as I said, came as we celebrated Palm Sunday in 2005. God scheduled his journey home quite well.
My sister got through my cell phone as I was attending the afternoon Sunday mass with my family; my father was slowly getting weaker and his breathing more labored. This was the moment, I sensed, and my sister told me to talk to my father as she put her phone to my father’s ears so that he could hear my voice.
Tearfully, I told him what I thought I would never get to say to a man whom I have loved so much and whom I was about to lose.
“Papa,” I said, “if you wish to go, we’re letting you go. Much as it pains us, you have suffered much just so your presence could still give us strength as a family. Now that you have taught us well to take care of ourselves and to move on, please have your much deserved rest. And thank you, Papa, for loving Mama, Nini and me so much. Padangat mi ikang pirmi! (You will always be loved). Thank you for everything."
Less than a minute after I ended my sister’s call, she called back. My father decided it was indeed time to leave.
