I Miss You, Dad

It had, and still has (at least for me), been a rollercoaster of emotions for me and my dad ever since he was diagnosed with End Stage Renal Failure during the second quarter of 2008.

Let me say this now so at this early stage I can already get rid of the bitterness mixed in how I am or have been feeling: While people are entitled to their own opinions, right or wrong, and while I can't please everybody, nobody, ever, has the right to say to my face that I left my then very sick dad, just like that, to live the "good" life in the US.

Dad, seated, in black, between me and Isa, Sergs's niece, when he went,

all by himself, to my surprise, to my in-laws' house in Quezon City
on the day of our flight to the US to accompany in sending us
to the airport. He had just come out of an ICU confinement

at the Philippine Heart Center two months prior. He would soon have

another chance in 2011 to send me to the airport and bid me farewell,
one last time, when I finally received my immigration visa.

Yes. I still reel over these words blatantly left late last year by a female cousin who I never saw visit my dad when he was sick and hospitalized from 2008 until his death just a couple of weeks ago. If it were also true that during my dad's second day of wake she spoke of being relieved to have paid her respects on that day rather than on the day I was supposed to arrive from the US, shame on her and her added insult to injury.

A older sister of my mom told me: "No one but you (and your dad), alone, know (or knew) how the relationship was between the two of you."

And I concur as this is perhaps one of the few most soothing balms I have heard during this period of grieving for me.

Two things that still hurt me: Missing him, so bad, and recalling how his illness slowly and painfully took the life out of each body part he had in spite of all of our material, physical, spiritual and emotional efforts in trying to prevent such from happening.

I would have wanted to be with him until the very end, just like how I was with my mom when she breathed her last. I don't know why I am trying to convince people about championing my case but I feel like I need to say it over and over just to ease the pain: My situation had not only been a matter of choice but of chance as well. I was living a life I could not fully control as there were people and circumstances in it that were beyond what I could handle.

Careless and insensitive remarks like I should be the one who should be taking care of my dad in the Philippines play in my mind over and over again as though I should just completely forget that I'm married to a US-based man who had never been selfish to my father even before he became my husband; that nevermind the fact that this husband of mine also has his siblings and mom, and his hard-earned properties and job to take care of, I should have convinced him to move back with me to the Philippines (even if this could subsequently cause my dad to sink further into depression over guilt of what people think I was supposed to have done).

I'll be damned if I say that what I said or wrote above does not have a hint of anger  -  I am already damned for still harboring however big or small anger I still have.

I was never the perfect daughter to my parents. I had my disobedient, disrespectful moments. And I am not washing my hands clean of them but maybe people didn't know that I while crying over learning my father's kidney failure, I was getting in touch with my company health and medical insurance provider to find out the extent of their medical coverage. Prior to getting married and while still working, I would make the hospital my second home whenever dad's confined, going in rotations with an uncle or our househelp, sleeping there at night, taking a shower there in the morning, going to work and coming back right away to be with him. During my out-of-the-country trips, I never left the Philippines without making sure dad would be okay and covered for for the next few weeks or months. There was never a day I never thought of him. There was never a week I asked about him or called and tried to get in touch with him if I had the chance. There was never a month, for three years since I got married in 2010, that I never sent whatever amount of monetary or material help I could to cover his needs. There was never a time I never fought with a friend or a relative, humbled myself or compromised my principles just so I could do what I thought of was best for dad.

But this blog is not just or fully about the bitter emotions that I feel. It's also about me missing him.

Dad's the sweetest, most malambing (it sounds better in Filipino; "affectionate" in English) person I have (or had) ever known. You know how normally awkward it feels for a child to declare or hear such things about or from a parent? Dad made it awkward but sweet enough to be forgivable. He would kiss my cheek, my forehead or my hand. Whether because of fear or something else, he would hold my hand. On days he was a proud dad, he would roughly put his arm on my shoulder and tell people of my achievements. He was not one to be shy around people in telling me he loved or missed me. Oh how I still recall his voice calling my name or calling me "anak" (child)!

I was lucky for having experienced  thow he was as a father. On nights or ungodly hours that I needed to go to work or came out of the office to go home, he made sure he was always there to take me to the bus stop or meet me halfway to pick me up and take me home. On the way, we'd pick up food or stop by a restaurant to eat. This was him being extremely caring even if he had already been undergoing twice weekly dialysis at that time.

Whenever I had business trips or vacations, from August of 2008 to July of 2011, he was always at the airport bidding me farewell or welcoming me back. Imagine how painful it was for the both of us when, during a vacation in the middle of 2012, he couldn't be among those picking up my husband and me and afterwards sending us to the airport because of his already rapidly deteriorating condition.

His minor heart attack and confinement in the ICU of the Philippine Heart Center more than a month before I got married came on my final day at work. I knew, but just refused to acknowledge, that it would be the start of his seemingly neverending physically, mentally and emotionally painful ordeal that came with his diabetes and kidney failure. He got better and was discharged from the hospital more than a week before Christmas. He even vetoed relatives' suggestion that he be accompanied by an aunt while walking me down the aisle  -  he bravely walked me down, himself. He even obliged for an impromptu (I might have forgotten to tell him) father-daughter dance during the reception.

But then how was I supposed to know that it'd be the last time that he'd have full use of both of his legs or see all of his digits intact? When I came back to the Philippines in July of 2010 to process my immigration papers six months later, he had just come out of another serious confinement and I burst into tears upon immediately seeing him partially blind with his right index finger severely screwed and distorted c/o a nurse during the mentioned confinement. In an effort to prevent further bodily damage by his diabetes and to fulfill a promise I made to him, the following month, we immediately had him undergo cataract surgery. How was I supposed to know that after that surgery, he'd then be hospitalized twice for lung fluid extraction and subsequently be diagnosed with extreme clinical depression?

How was I supposed to know that after months of weekly painful trips to different foot doctors, in an effort to save his left foot, his whole left calf would eventually require amputation after I left to officially move to the US?

How was I supposed to know that his right middle finger would also require a partial amputation?

How was I supposed to know that several days before his death, his remaining right foot (with its big toe already gone) would get dragged and scraped while he was being transported to the hospital?

How was I supposed to know that even during his final hours, I would be barred by the "ancient" Revised Penal Code of the Philippines (what irony  -  this was the subject I flunked in law school) from fulfilling dad's wish of removing his respirator tubes just so he could speak to me and my sister (I believed he could see me while I was on Skype video chat; I knew he wanted so much to speak) and at least be comfortable?

Dad, a blog or a dozen wouldn't be enough to pay tribute to how great you were as a father even during your most difficult and challenging times. No amount of words would suffice to say how much I grieve over remembering how you suffered or how much I miss you. As my cold fingers fly over the keys of my laptop, I somehow long for and are warmed by any manifestations of you while you're "still here" and the thought that you're already free from any kind of mortal pain.

I miss you dad. I love you.