The thing about passing is you just wake up one day and the person’s gone. My dad was diagnosed with colon cancer in 2013. Every since then, I knew that we were running on borrowed time. But in 2014 he had the operation and he was okay. 2015 passed and he was okay, And the next year passed and he was okay. And the next year, and the next year… In those okay years, I started to believe that my dad was okay, even if fundamentally he wasn’t. He was able to retire gracefully, travel to the U.S. (one of his lifelong dreams), and even watch me graduate law school in all Google Chrome resolution.
Until 2020. When the pandemic hit, my dad had his own internal pandemic. In between news of quarantine, we were grappling reports of an array of doctors, telling us my dad was fine —just that he wasn’t. At first, it was the usual three-day stay in the hospital. Then the three days turned into a week. And the one week turned into a month. My dad, in all his glory, was being slowly whittled down by his own body, finally. The progress was excruciating slow.
But despite this, he still constantly paid the bills (against all efforts to let us do it), still coordinated work done around the house, still advised me about my work, still asked for merienda whenever we would order Grab Food, still waited for us to come together and eat dinner every night.
My dad never complained. He never said that he was tired, despite fatigue being the most common side effect of chemotherapy. He never said that he had a hard time breathing, despite being diagnosed with COPD after developing metastatic lung cancer. He never said he hated life, despite requiring 24/7 attention. When they say that your dad is your hero, there is a little bit of truth to that. I will never know the depth of his hardship, but I will always remember the breadth of his bravery.
Daddy, I will miss the way you called me “Ching,” to get my attention. I will miss the way you only drank water in VOSS bottles, the way you would sleep in the lazy boy with Twitter or Solitaire turned on the iPad on your lap, the way you snored, the way you would wait outside the gate to watch my Grab disappear down the road bend, the way you sneezed, the way you would end your text messages with a period short of an ellipse, the way you hated bangus (‘cause you could smell the mud when I couldn’t), the way you would wave your hand to me across the room whenever our eyes would meet — the way no matter what we were doing, you just watched us, contentedly.
How is it that the 27 years we spent together would end with the last stone pat down your fresh grave? With your picture hung in the room where your laughter once rang?
The thing with life is its impermanence. We spend the day always expecting that it would end with the same people. Until it doesn’t. I hope wherever you are daddy, you are blissfully walking with your favorite shoes and cap and exploring the world with Lolo Julian and Lola Caring.