Today is your Birthday, Dearest One

Christmas songs are being played everywhere again. This time, they do nothing for me. How can I feel anything when all they do is call to mind of last year’s December…the Christmas season when you started slipping away from me…that Christmas when The Inevitable finally laid its claim and pulled you away from this world of the living. My own world has turned over since then.

———-

Dearest one, there could be no truer and purer love than the one you gave me. I realize that now. Because you are my father and I am your daughter. Yet I failed you. Just like all your other children failed you. You knew it as much as I did. Even though none of them loved you as much I loved you – like them – I ended up turning my back on you. We were in denial of the most unbearable truths that haunt all our existence. But unlike your other children, I did feel your pain. What with your condition and the predicament that dragged on for more than twenty years. My own pathetic circumstances served as my excuse for my inability to attend to you. Then your resignation and downward spiral in your final stages had become too much for me to face. How could I have dealt with your eventual defeat after your valiant long-time battle with this thing called death? You had been so strong…yet time marched forward. I chose to render myself passive. I thought maybe it was time to let you go. Now I remain afflicted by this past. Still in agony of something I couldn’t have undone.

I remember you, my dearest one. How could I not feel this much hurt on losing you? All my life I have craved for your approval and, even more, your affections. I had wondered how a child could do alright growing up feeling she wasn’t important enough to the person who mattered most to her. The nights I cried myself to sleep; the nights my young heart took a whip every time you castigated me heavily for not bending to my elder sister unconditionally; for simply talking back to her during our petty sibling fights. Perhaps you took sides. Your indifference was something my fragile identity couldn’t grasp – when all I was pining for was the gentleness of your love. Those times when I had secretly wanted you to choose me as your dearest child; as the one most precious to your heart. Because you had never ceased being the center of my world. I adored you…even though you seemed oblivious of my presence. I was not beautiful, outgoing, smart, and talented enough. I couldn’t make you proud. Yet I basked in people’s perception that I mirror your physical image – plus your discipline and sturdy character. But those weren’t the things you needed to hear. What you delighted in was the pride you gained only my sister princess could provide. Still, my loyalty and devotion belonged to you. Your being around was the comfort I needed to get through life. You must have failed to take notice of the several nights whenever you came home; whenever you sat in front of the TV to watch your favourite series; when I’d sit anywhere in the back so I could see you and somehow be near you.

Through the years, a few more resentments slipped in. For the same prominent reason: how you never managed to place me closest to your heart. The thing I’d expected to happen in a someday that never came. My sister beat me to it – and later, your favourite granddaughter. I couldn’t bring myself to fully understand. They didn’t cherish you as much as I did. Again, my jealous heart was at work, blinding me to the reality I should have been grateful for. That you did love me the best you could, in your own way; just not in the manner I wanted. I had been unreasonably selfish.

Although we had said our I-love-yous, I should have asked for your forgiveness and expressed my deepest regret for not spending enough time with you on the last few months of your life. I was not even there on your last birthday on earth. How it slipped my mind was beyond me. It was unforgivable, I know. It’s too late now to say how sorry I am… Your departure, along with my failings, nabbed a massive part of me which has vanished into eternity. There are days when all I want is to sleep my heartache away. This sorrow currently breathing into my being I completely deserve; I have only myself to blame.

I could have done more for you as a dutiful daughter and out of my devotion to you. Yet I didn’t do that. Compared to what you had given me and done for me, I did very little for you- nearly nothing in fact. But you spared me of any accusations in the end and even commended me – for the tiniest deeds that deep down I knew didn’t deserve merit. Maybe I got the love I had wished for after all.

Dearest one, not too long ago you asked me to visit you on your gravesite from time to time after your demise, and I said I would. Since you were laid to rest, I’ve been there a mere couple of times. I broke down helplessly each time. Perhaps I had not been ready. You have been in my life and in my heart for so long; it’s still tormenting to see your name on a tombstone, imagining you lifeless six feet under while I am up here breathing the air we both used to share when you were still alive. I asked that you give me more time in learning to accept you are truly gone.

Today though, I am to visit your resting ground again. In reverence of the bravest man I have ever laid eyes on; in honor of the man whom I owe my life to.

———

There will be a place in my heart and in my mind where I will always find you. A most special place harbouring the memory of you and me, as father and daughter…with the kind of love ever present between us that I hope will sustain me until the end of my days.

Happy Birthday, my dearest father.

 

My Version of Brother Sun, Sister Moon

I want so much to believe my sense of humour has been elevated a notch or two by my long-time association with the official comedian of our family; my brother – who is a couple of years younger than me. However, there’s a bigger probability I am deluding myself. You see, he’s got this I’ll-make-you-laugh-until-you-pee-in-your-underwear brand of wit. It’s a talent I could kill for. Glib and gregarious, my brother can easily become the darling of any party. People enjoy having him around. A natural comic that he is, he can deliver a barrage of punch lines, sometimes with an accompanying pantomime that can turn a mundane matter into something hysterical. All I have to do is giggle endlessly. Or laugh out real hard until my jaw literally hurts, or I start getting tears in my eyes.

Most men are humorous, quite true. That is the principal reason I like hanging around with them. They almost always make me laugh and I get happier in the aftermath. Not to mention, they are lighter to deal with; in contrast to the heaviness I feel due to pettiness I sometimes encounter in my dealings with women. I have met several men who could be way out zany. Still, the number one funny guy on my list turns out to be this dear brother of mine – who’s got the engaging ability to come up swiftly with hilarious similes and crazy analogies about anything or anyone.

He’d insist, every so often, that our sister’s Chinese-looking young son is secretly the last Emperor of China. He’d lovingly remind us to be careful everywhere, and be even more and more extra careful; or else, we might fall into the swimming pfool (yeah it rhymes. Still, it’s plain silly, right? :-)). He will animatedly narrate to anyone who’s willing to listen, how he witnessed our mother jumped down a mere two steps from the top of an 18-flight stairs right after she convinced herself she’d seen a ghost in her bedroom. He tends to exaggerate, I’m sure, but that’s how he invariably becomes wackier.

This could be my brother’s soul mate

There was this phase, during our juvenile era, when he got crazy over pigeons and doves. Yes, you got that right – pigeons plus doves. I honestly couldn’t tell which is which. They are lovely, delightful birds all the same. Unlike girls, most adolescent boys don’t go gaga over the opposite gender yet at that age. They get busy with other more – I suppose – worthwhile (?) concerns. Even if we’re talking about, you know, pigeons. Or doves. All breeds of them – of sundry colours – I could have already laid eyes on in my teen-age years – thanks to my dear brother who collected and nurtured them aggregately in average-sized bird houses he built on the roof of our house. If Tarzan had his famous shout while up on a tree, my brother had his crazy loud clap, while up on the roof, to attract the attention of his flying pets. I also remember how he and his pals would bike their way twice a week to the nearest province and, upon destination, release the pigeons or doves they were carrying – mainly for the thrill of betting which one would find their way back home first. Incredible. In the early evening, he’d take some time to count them all and make sure his “babies” were safe and sound. My brother, needless to say, smelled of (pungent) dove 24/7 in all those years.

I simply want to home in on the positive, wonderful recollections I still preserve regarding my brother as I look back on my life these days. Things have been different. In the decades that went by, squabbles and complexities got in the way; partisanship divided us all family members. We don’t see each other often anymore the way we used to. Yet I still cherish my memories of the little brother I once had…from a long time ago when we were still little children. The little brother who looked up to me as his big sister. The one who constantly played and ran with me, and followed me everywhere I went. My baby brother, with whom I shared a P2.00 tall glass of delicious pineapple juice from our favorite community store to drink – after every afternoon that we finished biking around the neighborhood. My partner in crime (according to my parents) to boot, in picking up and taking home baby kittens that had been mercilessly thrown or left on the streets. The same little brother who’d come to me, during our grade school days, crying like a baby after his classmates had bullied him – which would incite me to hunt for and bully his culpable classmates in return (They shouldn’t have messed with my brother, ok? :-)).

Never the bookish, soulful type, my brother shares little in common with me. He and I are actually worlds apart in character. I’d like to believe my brother’s personality gleams with incandescence like the sun…while mine glows softly like the moon. Yet we’ve always had fun whenever we get together. Because when we do; he kids around, cracks jokes and executes his innate device for comedy – to show off perhaps or to benefit everyone in need of a laugh. I, together with the other members of our family, chuckle hard and get highly entertained. Every time. That has basically been the pleasurable equation of our blood alliance as of late – which suits both of us just fine. Just endearingly fine.

I Am My Father’s Daughter

A higher power must have discerned I have been sheltered from an inescapable reality for so long. It has decided it’s about time.

January 1, 2013; 5:48 am: a few hours after my son and I watched the fireworks from the glass windows of Philippine Heart Center,  the nurse alerted me that my father’s heartbeat had gone flat.

And I used to think I already have an idea what unspeakable sorrow feels like..

Everything started to turn more surreal.
The despair has started its task in crucifying me.

I have deeply cherished only two people in my life. One of them is gone for good. Now I keep on asking myself, “What am I without my father around?” I have gotten so used to having his presence in my life. His being there, even when he is just lying on his bed.

Will this immense pain ever let up? And is there even someone in my family who is grieving as much as I do?
But I already know the answer to that.

No one is ever at ease in dealing with the lamentable realities of life. Who wants to talk about dying? Nobody really wants to have anything to do with suffering and death. Our realm of temporal existence is exclusively for the strong, the young, the religious, and the well-resourced – none of which my father belongs to. Let’s face it. Most people are happy to connect with you only for so long as you can give them something to smile about. And I completely get it. Because I am one of those people.

All these years, I have been absorbed in my own pathetic little world that has provided me with excuses to put some distance from it all. Coping with the challenges of being a single parent, my child’s health concerns – not to mention mine (mostly imagined), even my struggle with sleeping difficulties, plus the several “distractions” – have all prevented me from doing more for the person who has done and given me the most. Besides, the fact that my father had entrusted my elder sister with the authority to make every decision for the whole family, and a caretaker gets to attend to his needs, had given me reasons to surmise my presence wasn’t that necessary. My absence wouldn’t make a huge difference anyway – especially knowing that my elder sister and his favorite granddaughter had always been foremost in his mind and heart. I guess I came up with certain alibis that I held on to so I could get on with my life, and without having to face the dysfunctional relationships, resentments, and complications within the family.

I know, too, that he loves me. My father and I simply love each other. Throughout our good and bad times, the affection has always been there. My loyalty to him remains unquestionable.  In the last years of his life, he had acknowledged me as the best among his children. I know he meant it, though I am not sure it was fitting. Hearing that never failed to make me happy. That was enough for me.

It has been a long goodbye. When he started reaching his late 80s, I began to think maybe I’d be able to accept his departure when the time comes. Such a fool of me to have thought that way. How come I am dying inside now?

I tried to reassure myself that I’d be able to deal with it when the inevitable happens. Or perhaps he could hold on a bit longer.. just like he had been able to do for the past 25 years. My father is that strong. We are the invincible type anyway. My father and I. There’s always been this noble regard for our surname akin to a most priceless jewel that must be passed on through generations. Strong, disciplined, incorruptible, always true to our words. *Oh dear father, I can never have your indomitable will and strength.*

Neither of us is willing to accept the frightening concept of death. That’s why he fought so hard not to give in to it, while I did my best to shoo it away from my mind.
Until he started getting tired of fighting. And he began drowning himself with tiny shots of alcohol – which had been excruciating for me to watch. He had started to give up and was ready to go down. For reasons I myself never understood, my visits became fewer, too.

Never having had to deal with this kind of thing before, I chose to postpone facing up to the truth that the end is getting nearer. If I dwelt on what’s happening to the person I love dearly, I’d be crawling in desperation day and night. And so I begged fate to let me stay in my pleasant state for a while longer, no matter how superficial or mythical it is. Why does this have to happen just when life seems to be getting better for me? I want to be spared still from the misery of finally letting my father go. Please don’t let me drown in sorrow yet. Let me handle the dreadful side of life a little later – when I am more prepared. I have waited so long for this much serenity to nestle beside my being. Why does it have to leave so soon?
Besides, I am darned busy.

For the main reason that I found it so hard to sort out and deal with my circumstances, I could barely spend time with my father during the last months of his life.

Yes, I’ve been a selfish bastard..

***

Lying in his hospital bed, I look at my father and realize how very handsome he is. And just how much I love him so.

My father’s condition is deteriorating fast. It’s clearer than ever. Nobody could save him anymore. There’s nothing else that could prolong his earthly existence. In recent years, he had been repeatedly expressing his exhaustion for holding on. I honestly wasn’t sure if I would agree with him or not. All I know is that the man I have always adored has been fading away fast. Time has ceased to be on our side. The cold fact there’s nothing I could do to soothe his fears and ease his suffering is devastating.

December 20, 2012: It was morning at work when I received a text message from my brother informing me my father had had his 2nd heart attack in one week. He never regained consciousness – until the time of his clinical death on the dawn of New Year’s Day.

The evening before, he smiled at me as we said “I love you” to each other. He also mumbled something like I am the child he loves the most. Then he looked at me in a somber way. I nodded at him and it was my turn to give him a smile. Little did I know it was the moment of our final goodbye.
I did my best to be with him each day in the hospital while he was still breathing – though unconscious. And I was present during the wake and burial. Two facts have resurfaced in my awareness once again. I detest hospitals and funerals. Hospitals make me uncomfortable. Funerals still scare me.

He was brought to his final resting place at Loyola Memorial Park on Monday, January 7, 2013.

***

He’s on my mind all the time these days. Certain memories pop up suddenly and they consume my thoughts and emotions from the moment I open my eyes in the morning until I close them to sleep at night. You can say I am taking it hard. No matter what I do, I am left with the misery of not having him around anymore; not to mention the guilt of not having done much for the person I owe my life to. How can I beg for his forgiveness now?

I try to go through the motions of my everyday routine, but my very essence has been sobbing in anguish. I never thought grief could become this unbearable. That guilt could be this capable of overwhelming  me so. In an emotional place where no one could reach, I am clearly deserving of every pain that’s now slaying my soul.

I am my father’s daughter. He will live on inside me and I vow to love him with everything in my heart, until the moment I, too, get to breathe my last.

September Babe Musings – Photographs and Memories

A rush of relief took over me after my doctor validated the clear outcomes of my lab tests. He took out his stationery and started writing down the drinks I have to stay away from for the meantime. To my dismay, he penned out Coke, fruit juice, green tea, milk tea. Then he ended with the reminder ‘No vinegar with any dish. And refrain from consuming spicy foods.’ (Oh No!)

“You are not saving me, Doc. You are killing me.”

“It’ll only be for a while. You can do it.” He handed me the prescriptions, smiling. He seemed to be taking delight in the torture I’m about to undergo from the crucifying prohibitions.

I pouted. He continued smiling. Nope, we weren’t flirting. My beloved doctor is gay (though married with kids). I am quite fond of him nevertheless because he’s the doctor I get along with best and one of the finest in his field. “Be a good patient, Marj.” He nudged me.

“Okay, when will I come back?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you. Your hyperacidity is the one causing the problem. Simply follow doctor’s orders and come back only when something else starts troubling you.”

Wonderful doctor. I wanted to hop hop hop with joy going home. When your doctor gives you a clean bill of health, all the other pleasant contents of your life pale in comparison.

He also advised me to take things easier. Peak season in our academy ended last week of August, so I decided to take a two-week vacation. My bosses understood and gave the go signal. Woo hoo, things are really going well. My plan: Stay home and get down to the long-awaited project of spring cleaning my tiny apartment. Ruthless purging of stuff definitely included. It’s about time.

The day after, I went up to the small mezzanine upstairs where I’ve been storing most of my remaining accumulated possessions. CDs, cassette tapes, books, cut-out magazine articles, gifts of schmaltzy significance, a small number of knick knacks too cute to lose… Yup, most of these things I have already outgrown yet the impudence to toss them away evaded me for the longest time.

Rolling up my sleeves, I braced for the relentless task. I do this at least once a year. But does it ever get easy for the hopeless sentimental fool that I am? Me who gets attached to anything or anyone that impinges upon my heart?

So I got down to work. For a few days, I looked over at my belongings, unearthing things carrying bastion of memories which proceeded to seize my mind of days gone by. ‘Must I get rid of this once and for all?’ was the prevailing question I struggled with in an effort to downsize my stuff. The process wasn’t easy but I managed to finally say goodbye to a few things that don’t hold meaning for me anymore.

“Our memories dust our belongings with a sheen of importance they could never achieve by themselves.”  -Anonymous

And then, I got to the photos.. Heartwarming and poignant were the images of me and my son together at random periods in our lives. Some made me smile. Some made me want to cry. Things were certainly a lot different when a child was still someone their mother could carry in her arms.

Belonging to that era were instances when I got consumed by the saddling responsibility of bringing up a child alone. My son’s father who seemed to be slipping in and out of our lives intermittently induced emotional ups and downs in me which resulted to my not having the perfect frame of mind to always appreciate every bit of precious moments I had with my baby boy. I was young. I didn’t realize time would slip away so soon.

Certain episodes in our lives our younger minds then wouldn’t allow to realize their weight in gold.

Now I can go along for a freefall into the dreams of my yesterdays.. And if I lose my sense of bearings every now and then, I’ll simply indulge on these images that illuminate the greatest love my whole existence has ever known.

Without forgetting to take a handful of joy to bring to my future when I’m old and gray.

Photographs and memories

All the love you gave to me

Somehow it just can’t be true

That’s all I’ve left of you..

Memories that come at night

Take me to another time

Back to a happier day

 When I called you mine.    – Jim Croce

A Letter To My Son (This Life’s Sweetest Gift)

 

In all honesty, I thought I was going to die while laboring in that maternity hospital twenty years ago. Braving pain has never been one of my virtues. I was told in my younger years that giving birth would have me screaming for mercy to all the saints up in heaven. Well, how right they were. Nothing could be further from the truth. But then, during those fateful moments when I was on the verge of bringing you out into this world, Life was also about to bestow upon me its sweetest gift.

I am certainly not a paragon of an outstanding mother. One of the chief purposes of this blog is for me to come clean about being just another average living soul who goes through life with no immunity to life mishaps and who keeps on committing monumental mistakes along the way. A broken soul with deep flaws who conceals emotional scars in order to move on gracefully. A single mother who’s got perpetual misgivings over her parental skills. Someone who has had shortcomings too disconcerting to disclose here.

I never had much chance to narrate my life stories to you. But I’m sure you already know me very well. We’ve been through a lot. There are no more indispensable secrets left to be told. You’re the only person I’ve allowed to see me crumble when confounded by job intricacies or business problems that threaten to annihilate our livelihood. There’s been more than a few occasions when you find me with nary an ounce of emotional strength to cut the Gordian Knot on pressing matters. Not to mention the agonizing affairs of the heart that has had your mother trudging in the dark. Oh how I wish there remain certain things I let unknown to my son.

Surprisingly, you’ve turned out to be a magnanimous person. Your unassuming manners, your ingenuous way in dealing with life, the way you handle crisis with better equanimity have all rendered me proud and in awe of you. People have told me they just couldn’t find a mean bone in your body. Time and again I get concerned by your innocent grasp of this literally mischievous world we live in, fearing you might get taken for a ride. With absolute certainty, I profess that you are a far better human being than I could ever be. What made me deserve this much felicity for having you as my child?

Your mother has not been the religious type for several years now yet you managed to find your way, cultivating and maintaining a healthier relationship with God far more than I have. You even told me half in jest long ago you had wanted to become a priest, which got me responding with apprehension “No no.. You’ve got to get married and give me grandchildren! I desperately look forward to seeing my grandchildren with you.”

A husband I can do without. You already discerned that about your mom. You also never had a real father figure as you were growing up. It has been only you and me all these years, without another male figure majorly factoring in our lives. I am happy you seem to have turned out fine. Very much fine in fact. You’ve also heard people keep on asking me ‘why not give marriage another chance?’ There had been times when I asked myself ‘why couldn’t things be just ideally right? Is it them or is it me really?’ The answer doesn’t matter anymore. A flagrant truth that took some time for me to face, I am not wife material after all. Taking into account my highly sensitive nature as well, tending to and loving a man who ends up not meeting the crucial touchstones just isn’t worth it. I find myself repeatedly on the losing side. Relationships entail hard work. It’s something I’d rather not devote my energy and heart to given the not so abundant time I have left. Please do not think though your mom has lost faith in the beauty of earnest love or relationships.

I guess you’d want to see me happy in love again. Through the years, you’ve witnessed my ups and downs in the name of romantic love. Romantic love is beautiful. Quite true. I want you to have that for good with the right girl someday. I’ve a feeling you’ll do far better in this department than I did because of your much more beautiful character. You simply deserve to garner the highest splendors of life.

You might not know this but I had wanted to give motherhood another chance long before reaching my 40^th birthday some years ago. I seriously considered the notion of having another child for the more important reason of giving you a brother or a sister. I worry that you’ll be alone when I’m gone. After serious consideration though, it dawned on me that that would mean complications to both our lives. You would have to help me look after your younger sibling who’s got a different father. Not a good idea. I couldn’t imagine putting you through such a circumstance. Besides, I wouldn’t want us to lose our prospects to take things a lot easier in our futures to come. No need to deny that. And you seem to be alright with the setup “it’s just you and me, kid’ I’m relieved.

Sometimes I wonder how we’ve reached this far and how things miraculously turned out okay for the two of us. We’ve made it through somehow. God has been really good.

Do you know the very best part of my day? Hearing your key unlock the door and seeing you quietly entering the house as I welcome you into my arms, thankful you’ve come home to me safe and sound.

Though our constant togetherness exasperates both of us at times, we’ve acted more like a team. On the whole, our simple life has engendered a certain kind of equilibrium that I hope has worked to your advantage too.

Our relationship is far from tumultuous although not without critical imperfections. I had wanted you to be different from your father and me. What a huge blunder on my part. Please let me explain.. Stuff that metaphorically crippled your parents for life is something I hadn’t wanted to pass on to you. The reason which could only be my desire to see you living a life a hundred times better than the one I have had. Conflicts ensued between us as a consequence. A weak cause and battle I must have lost even from the very start. It goes without saying there are things inherent in life that can never be altered.

The times when I felt your pain because I had hurt your feelings, I still remember. You shed tears you couldn’t hold back anymore. You love me that much I know. Let me ask for your forgiveness this time for all the anguish I had brought you. What you may not know is your pain caused me the harshest of heartaches too, for I’ve no desire whatsoever to lodge any disharmony between us. I wish I could go back in time to reverse my offenses and undo the hurt.

A long stretch of the future is still ahead for you. Many things are bound to happen in your tomorrows. One hard lesson we’ve got to carve in our minds and souls – there can be no sure thing on this planet. Everything is destined to evolve. Even our strong bond can be headed for a surprising transformation in years to come. Nothing is certain. It isn’t much different from the oversight of not choosing a better father for you. I honestly thought at that time ‘what could immensely go wrong?’

Such a fool was I then for not knowing any better.

But for now, I’m fully blessed to have you as the main person in my life. My emotional fulcrum.. and the truest love of my whole existence. Life without you is just unimaginable.

The stars will burn bright for up to millions of years, but no words can ever measure up to how much I want to hold you dear to my heart. And if there’s such a thing as forever, your presence is all I need to see me through.

Thank you for bearing with me.. Thank you for the joy of being your mom.

Thank you so much for the love you have given me.

 

Father Dear

I had put off writing this post for as long as I could. I had written a post in honor of my Dad in the earliest days of this blog which I erased a year after because I thought it was too revealing and sentimental. But my father has always played a huge part in my life so before this month that commemorates Father’s Day ends, I just have to pay tribute to the man who has given me a lot and has done so much for me. I kept on postponing penning this post for fear of the emotions that might get evoked in the process. Fearful of a few certain feelings that could flood the heart and afflict my soul, carrying me to places I’ve repeatedly walked away from in recent times. Writing about my Dad has always been difficult because it easily brings a profusion of unrestrained emotional upheaval that pegs me in various degrees of heartaches.

Getting away could be my escape from painful reality indeed. That is, burying myself in work, writing, reading and other activities to preoccupy my mind that I won’t have time to think about things I’ve no more control over. There’ll come a time when all you ever want is to try harder to focus on the good things that have remained in your life.

with my Dad when I was a young lady

This is the man who continues to hold tether to my heart. The man I have loved for as long as I could remember. No person has had as much influence in my life as my father. With an unstinting regard for his compelling temperament, I’ve been in awe of this once mighty man who held the reins of our household in the most authoritarian manner. Shrewd in business and always on the go, he enjoys being around people. I was aware too how others have always been in awe when around him. Strong, disciplined, intelligent, street smart, astute, extrovert, loquacious. No question remains unanswered. Even during his prolonged illness, he’d find ways to be productive. I watched him continuously keep his mind and his hands busy despite the handicaps brought about by the stroke. His strength of character has infused my spirit. The inspiration I’ve consistently drawn from his presence in my life has helped given me wholeness in my individuality throughout.

I was 7 years old when one night I started running a fever at 40 degrees and was certain I was going to die. My mother cried and called up my father in the middle of the night at his first family’s house and even talked to his legal wife. She then assured me my father was on his way. Soon after, I started to feel much better.

I was already a teenager when I had to be rushed to the hospital for severe endometrial pain. I was lying in the emergency bed surrounded by four worried hospital staff when my father arrived. Like magic the pain started to subside, something that consequently baffled even the attending doctors.

(from left) my brother, me, my Dad and my sis

Watching movies with him was our bonding time. So was removing his shoes and socks after a long hard day at work which had always felt like a privilege for me. It could have been the most I had done for him.

As with the majority of men, money has consistently played a colossal force in his existence and serenity. I have often wondered, what if my father had allowed more ethereal matters and wonderful intangibles to enter his heart and mind. He could have been a lovelier man for sure. A much much lovelier man.

His long, arduous downfall began when he suffered a stroke more than twenty years ago. He tried his best to defy death and did everything to hold on for as long as he could. I’ve never seen such a fighter in my whole life. But it’s also clear I’ve been losing him little by little as time wears by. It’s been a long goodbye indeed.

Now solely confined to his bed, helplessly frail and feeling very weak. “Are you in any kind of pain?” A question I’ve repeatedly ask every time I see him.

“No..” he’d mildly answer. I sometimes wonder if he says that just so I wouldn’t have to worry. He never would want to be a burden to anyone.

He has known of my undeniable reverence for him. I wonder if he ever somehow reveled in that. He loves me. I barely questioned his affection for me as one of his daughters. But I also know he loved his other children more. Our major fall out years ago was instigated by his outward display of preference for his favorite granddaughter. I thought that was unfair. I have already endured enough of his predilection for “favoritism” when I was a young girl. Why does my son have to suffer the same fate?

But as I’ve said before, he had been my rock in my budding years. No matter what, I love my father to the core and have never stopped being proud of him. On occasions I still catch myself saying to my son. “Oh, if you only knew what your grandfather was like in his heydey.” 

I still remember amusingly this one time when a certain guy was pondering about a business concern. I thought about how my father would have responded to the same circumstances which got me started with “Well, my father would..”

“There you go again about your Dad.” He quickly interrupted. “It’s always been your Dad is great, great, great..” I stopped cold. It really didn’t occur to me my devotion to my father had at times inadvertently gotten in the way of my relationships with men. But no, my father is not that great, great, great. While there’s so much to admire about him, he’s had his flaws and weaknesses. He’s only human after all. For one, I have never understood his infidelities. It’s just something people close to him have accepted as his way of life. I sadly witnessed how it rubbed off on my brother and how the women in his life suffered.

Surprisingly, I’m the daughter he talks highly of now. He says he still remembers the times when I would rush anywhere to make sure I’d be there for him during his illness and hard times. Yes we’ve had our rough patches. Though as time passed by, I let the pieces fall to where they belong. I’ve unceasingly hoped sunlight would always shine around some corner for both of us.

My father was never the sweet type who’d openly show his affections for the people he cares about. But I still clearly remember a particular instance recently when it was time for me to go home. I kissed him on the forehead and told him I love him. Something I usually do before leaving. He never says anything in reply and I’ve gotten used to that.

But just when I reached the door I heard him simply mutter, “I love you too..”

I have known of only a few solid truths in my life destined to stay in my heart forever. My love for my father will be one of them. For always.

my Dad and I when I was barely 13 years old

                                                                                     

My Transition from Accounting to Teaching My Favorite Language

One fateful afternoon, my father asked me point-blank, “What would you like to take up in college?”

I sat there pondering his question without any reply. At the tender age of 15, I still didn’t have a clear sense of who I was and what I wanted to be. I managed to come up with an answer though. “I can be a teacher perhaps?”

“NO!” my mother responded with alarm. “Do you want to end up a spinster hag who doesn’t even have time to shine her leather pumps because of all the stress she gets from teaching her students? Besides, teachers get very low pay. You know that.”

Father agreed with Mom.                                                             

“Ok then, I’m going to be a rockstar.” Hell no, I didn’t say that and I was glad I didn’t. No way would I dare tell them about that crazy teen-age dream of mine. Both my folks would have laughed themselves to tears.

“How about becoming a…secretary?” I suggested instead.

“No, no. Secretaries usually end up sitting on their bosses’ lap and become mistresses.” (Hey listen, that was my Mom’s perspective. Not mine. So please don’t hate me)

My Dad finally declared, “You are going to take up Accounting and that’s it. At least, you’ll be assured of a job as an accountant. They’re always in demand anyway.”

That had been the trajectory of my working life ever since, until I gave up the business field for good some eleven years ago. In hindsight, how I wish I could turn back the hands of time and had a different conversation with my parents that fateful afternoon.

my fist job in a leading newspaper publishing firm 20 years ago

I majored in BS Accounting in college but was never happy and did not prosper at all in that field. My scholastic grades were fine but I’m not brilliant with numbers and it was not among my passions. Anything that isn’t natural for me tends to drift away on its own. The debit and credit of a business transaction was easy to grasp but secretly I had wanted more to analyze the debits and credits of specific human conditions. I believe I could have become a good psychologist.

My parents didn’t finish college. Both non-academic and non-readers, they didn’t put much emphasis on the value of real learning. Sure they expected their three children to get good grades, even excel in school. But the true essence of education was never imprinted in our young minds and not considerably felt in our home. There was more weight given on exterior matters like money, looks, possessions and other people’s approval. Reading materials were also non-existent except for a few ho-hum magazines and comics in our domestic language. There was no role model for me to emulate. No inspiration. I wish there was someone who had properly evaluated my real strengths and weaknesses and subsequently led me to more meaningful career lanes.

as an ESL instructor today (photo taken a few days ago)

I’ve got a different day job now (as if I had a night job in the first place :-)). A pioneer teacher in an English academy that commenced some six years ago, I got taken on at an age that was way past the hiring age in our country – which is 35 years old. Right timing I guess. Being an ESL teacher, I get to teach students from other Asian countries who need a crash course in English out of their country’s dire need for some measure of fluency in that language.

Here’s the good part. Whenever I’d be given students who have more than rudimentary English skills, I get to teach TOEFL, Intermediate -> Advanced Grammar, Advanced Vocabulary, English Collocations etc. That’s the time when rousing myself up in the morning gets to be a breeze as I look forward to the day that will have me teaching and learning at the same time. I confess it’s Advanced Grammar that has been the most challenging of all because I myself am still a work in progress in this area. As you might have noticed, I slip in grammar here with uh, discomforting regularity.

More often, I am assigned in speaking classes because these neighboring Asians like the way I speak. Imitating native speakers’ enunciation has been painless for me as I’ve watched western movies, TV news/series all my life. The more effort I exert to accentuate my speech in American style the more impressed they become. The happier we all get as well. You see, I love English so much whether I get to read it, speak it, write it or simply hang around with it.    

So I guess things still worked out fine in the end. My job as an ESL instructor is more pleasurable than the ones I held in the field of business. It’s not that financially augmenting likewise but I get to work with words and for once in my life, I am surrounded by books (Yipee!) and could only wish for ample time and stamina to peruse them all.

My work now also facilitates a more sedate existence as I live by the axiom the simpler my life gets, the happier I become. Simplicity has always been good for my psyche I believe.

 

The Father of My Son

This one I’ve been meaning to write for a long time for the benefit of my son who never knew much about his father. It’s been more than 10 years since we last saw him. I believe I owe my son this post. He’s 20 now and perhaps, if he’d come across this piece in the near future, he’d already have acquired more awareness to discern some of life’s complexities and thus be able to understand more or less what happened in our past.

My son and I never talked much about the man who was once a huge part of our lives. Vague and hazy memories are all he’s got. We reckon we’ve got more important things to do than talk about the man who extricated himself and took the easy way out by totally disappearing in our lives. Nonetheless, I believe he deserves to know some things about his Dad, and our history together as a couple.         

There have been more than fine memories I still keep of the one I married and loved for ten years. We met at work when I was still hacking it out in the accounting field of the international firm Data General Philippines. Quiet and reserved like me. Practical minded. Unassuming. Passionate and sweet. That’s my ex-husband, whose personality isn’t different from the shrinking violet that I am. And somewhere between our 20s and silly eccentricities, we fell in love. Once upon a time.

Apart from him, I’ve never been loved as much by any other man or received as much romantic ardor and affection. I remember the heady days when he’d call to ask me to meet him up so we could simply take a stroll around the neighborhood hand in hand.

He could cook and was the one who whipped up various dishes for our meals (I never liked cooking by the way), and he took care of me at certain times when I got sick.

I also remember during a particular lean time in our finances when we met out of the blue one morning outside my parent’s house. I told him I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet so I was feeling hungry. He proceeded to search for the last remaining coins inside his pockets to buy me pieces of bread that I could munch on from a nearby store. I believe the bread got tastier then because of that particular display of caring he had shown me.

We’d also hang around inside the mall until late at night when the movie clerks stationed outside would finally go home and we’d run and sneak inside the movie house, giggling all the way, to watch the movie for free.

Certainly a few memories I’ve treasured of our simple fun and sweetness as a twosome.

Every weekend, we would meet in his sister’s rest house located in a peaceful suburban village and spend the whole day basking in the glow of our love for each other.

Good times, good times..                  

Months of passionate trysts on end went by until one day I mysteriously got sick. It was aggregated by a high fever for a couple of days, some vomiting and just feeling terrible.

My sister asked me pointblank, “Are you pregnant?”

“Of course not!” was my quick and bewildered reply.  Honestly, that probability never entered my mind but I soon rushed to him and together we proceeded to the nearest maternity hospital for some test.

Result: Positive. OMG..

We had been careful and did our best to follow the calendar method. How could it have happened?  

We weren’t ready for anything like parenthood and responsibility yet. We weren’t even sure we were truly the Right Ones for each other.

In the end, we decided to have the baby and got married in a civil ceremony. The officer who performed the rites joked about my ex-husband’s cold hands after shaking hands with him. Only his brother and aunt had been present to serve as witnesses. Oh by the way, he belonged to another religion.

Looking back, difference in religion could have factored considerably in the demise of our marriage. I am a Catholic, though not a practicing one. His family had been generations-long members of the second most powerful religion in our country that has been considered quite clannish and tribal by many. They have repeatedly asked me to join their Church. All I managed to do was attend and sit out at some worship services and that was it. I guess you all know by now, I can’t possibly bring myself to do or join anything that doesn’t feel natural for me.

In the course of time, he managed to make one thing quite clear. His mother and siblings would always come first. My son and I could only come second. He reasoned they needed him more. I guess he inferred his immediate family was more of a sure thing in his twilight years than my son and I combined. He could have also realized I was capable of bringing up our child on my own after all. That fact apparently granted him the audacity to pursue his own goals that don’t include my son and me.

He worked in the Middle East intermittently as a contractual electrical engineer. But everything he earned went to his family, that is, his mom and siblings. I’ve always been capable of earning my own money so I didn’t ask for his share, though I got increasingly frustrated that he didn’t make any attempt to pitch in. How come there was no way for me to detect these ominous elements earlier in our relationship?

As time went by, our stark differences took a more profound shape as well. It’s like we each belonged to disparate worlds. Our dissimilarities in choice of leisure activities became more pronounced. He branded my tastes in TV programs, movies, reading and music as being uppity and was never able to relate much to the literary leanings I had had.

I guess he had wanted me to share in the glee with the things that gave him amusement. I tried but couldn’t be genuinely upbeat doing it. A huge stone of discontent had come to lodge in our relationship as it slowly dawned on both of us how different our preferences were in many ways.

There could have been recognition too on his part that I’m not that much of a wife material, the kind that he needed in his life. Perhaps I might have been the wife that made sense only on paper but not from day to day in its domestic essence.

To his credit, he had been faithful in the years we were together as husband and wife. I never had to confront with the perils of infidelity or grappled with a skirt-chasing husband during our union.

Before our marriage completely came unglued, we got to see less and less of him until he drifted away for good. There was not even a final farewell from him.

That was a little more than ten years ago, when my son was barely 10 years old.

My son’s idiosyncrasies and occasional flash of outburst now is sometimes reminiscent of the man I once loved. Whenever that happens, I can’t help but go “Oh, it’s his father alright” in my mind. A father’s blood will run eternally in his child’s veins.

This is my side of the story. My ex-husband’s side will never come to light because I have a feeling we’ll never see him again. Whatever reasons he might have had for his unconscionable deed of turning his back on his son carry no weight upon me anymore. Besides, we’ve fared just fine.

 Maybe he’s in a very far away land now or, for all I know, he may already be in another dimension… There’s a chance I will never get to know for sure and frankly, I’m fine with that.

And so is my son it seems.

 

Learning From A Community Of Formidable Broken Souls

We are observing Holy Week and today is Holy Thursday here. No work. Yay. It’s customary for people to head to the beach during this period. But I’ve no intention of doing so as I’ve longed for this luxury to just stay home for a few days, do some spring cleaning and hopefully catch up on my writing. Yes I haven’t written anything here for several weeks now because of my busy schedule and because of certain personal reasons.

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve had the privilege though of browsing through a few of the most interesting blog sites I’ve ever seen at WordPress. It’s mainly due to a highly popular female blogger who keeps a blog that might be the center of this community of intellectuals. Composed of mostly astute thinkers who write penetrating, brilliant posts about their lives and other interesting stuff, it shelters amazing writers with fragmented souls who inspire me because I’m a broken soul myself (although I ain’t an intellectual like any of them :-)). How I love to read their stories and what it takes for them to soldier on despite their torments and handicaps in life. Such a relief to find authenticity from their writings that somehow validate my own feelings of inadequacy and disintegration.

One of them is this lady blogger in her fifties who first caught my attention when she wrote her reasons for blogging in her neighbor’s blog. She definitely writes from the heart, and she holds nothing back. Backed by her more than excellent writing competence, she captivated me enough to become an instant fan of her blog. There can be only admiration for this woman who tells her stories in raw honesty. Her courage to express the agonies she’s been locking in her soul is formidable. Once her story and her words have held my attention, it’ll grip me to the very end.  A week ago, her piece as to the deep agony she has been experiencing from the cold treatment she has gotten from one of her sons came out. Her inspiration to write that story came from another equally talented young male blogger whose blog by the way enthralled me likewise (but that would deserve another post here). Anyway, her story resonated with me as I am a mother to a young man too and have felt I made quite a few mistakes being his single parent. (I never abandoned my son though as I couldn’t possibly live without him. My misdeeds were a lot more inconsequential but nevertheless faulty that an exemplary parent should not do.)  As this lady blogger peeled each layer of her story, it pierced deeper and deeper into my marrow until I couldn’t take it any more I had to stop and get away from my computer to try to free myself from her pain that was wrenching my heart.

A few days after, she had a follow-up post where one of the commenters blew us all by saying we have no right to expect anything from our children. That we should not mistake their distance as gross misconduct and it’s their absolute right to choose to expel us parents from their lives. We do not own them at all and we simply have to respect whatever decisions they make in their lives, even if it kills us in the aftermath. Period. Tough but so true. The lady blogger took the advice with grace and humility I’m bowled over by it all.

How blessed I feel for taking a part merely as a reader in all those exchanges and gaining such wisdom as a prize.

And how fortunate I feel that my son is still with me. No lady has taken him away from me yet. Sometimes, when I watch my son from a distance whether he’s busy doing something or simply sleeping, my heart gets overwhelmed by the realization of just how lucky I am for having him in my life. It’s crystal clear I am still everything to my child. But only for now. Things will change in the near future I’ve no doubt about that. I just pray I’ll never have to experience what my favorite lady blogger has been going through these days.

The Middle Child and the Intricacies of Favoritism in Family Bonds

Bristling with naked truths and honesty, my previous posts would have me flinching in embarrassment at times. Part memoir of sorts, this is supposed to be an anonymous blog coming from a lady in near mid-life with a few tales to tell. For she’s been around, been there, done this and that; possessing a faint hope that the few readers who’ll manage to visit here can learn a thing or two from her life stories.

I belonged to an average-class family and was the middle child, having an elder sister and a younger brother for my siblings. My family has been my wellspring of joy, hope and love. But it hasn’t been all peaches and cream for us. Like the majority of families in our society, I belong to a dysfunctional one. I have no problem admitting that. And don’t we all have some things in our past that fall under the categories of unresolved issues and painful recollections specifically when it comes to our relationship with our parents?

My father had eight children with his first wife. Three sons and five daughters, two of whom had been crowned with prestigious beauty titles. Now why did I include that tiny bit of information? Because that could substantiate the magnitude my Dad placed on beauty as the ultimate mark of a woman’s worth. This philosophy has lorded over our household for as long as I can remember. It so happens too that I’ve got a sister with nothing less than stunning physical features to grow up side by side with. Yes, I was your quintessential plain-looking damsel with the gorgeous sister. My sister, who gradually metamorphosed into a truly lovely swan as we were growing up, was endowed likewise with a radiant personality and feminine ways that easily earned people’s attention wherever we went. And she was not just your typical pretty dumb gal. Always an active participant in innumerable school activities, she’s also got a lot more to her than meets the eye. Sure enough, she has gone on to become successful in her field as a broadcaster in the years that followed after she completed college.

Meanwhile, I suffered in comparison during those tender years. Shorter in height, bashful and afflicted with insecurity issues about my physical appearance that paralleled with an all-time awareness of my mediocre intelligence and abilities, I had begun skating the edges of poor self-esteem.  In contrast to my sister’s highly demure ways, I was a bit of a tomboy. More comfortable in jeans and t-shirt, I’d engage in certain male sports and climb trees with nary a halt. Neither was I an angel sister or daughter to my family in its strictest sense.

Clan gatherings would find me sitting in a corner, getting hold of a newspaper or any material on sight so I could pretend to be reading or busily engrossed in something. I’d fail to draw attention from anyone if I did just that I figured. Unfortunately, somebody would end up noticing me including my cousins who would take turns teasing me and joking about how I’d someday end up as a convent nun or a spinster anarchist. 🙂

People have said one inevitable part of family ties is when parents find themselves feeling more strongly about one child than the others. The parents then must make sure not to cross the line by making it obvious to the other children. I think they’re dead wrong in assuming it could be that simple. At least not in our case.

This is one of the most difficult posts I had to write from a long-buried memory I’ve been reluctant to dig once again. I knew I’d be coming face to face with my emotions as I start opening the wounds which explored the complexities that bind my present kinship with my family to the past.

A painful portion of my life that had me occasionally and seriously questioning my father’s parental skills.

Starting from childhood up to my teenage years, I feared for my father’s wrath whenever he’d come home as my sister would run to him to tell him about our squabbles. Oftentimes for the simple reason that I had talked back to my sister during our petty fights, my penalty would include a severe scolding and at times a slap or a hitting of some kind. I accepted every punishment without question. But secretly my hard feelings had begun to accumulate I contemplated running away from home. Completely sheltered throughout my fledgling years though, I knew it was impossible. There was nowhere to go.

My father repeatedly told us he was old school who had strictly insisted on the value of respect for elders. But sometimes I could sense another reason. Something else that must have been plaguing our relationship with one another from the very start. And that was Favoritism, or to put it more simply, “playing favorites.”

I also remember the shopping episodes that had me tagging along with my family, only to find at the end of the day when we arrived home that my sister had 10 new items or more in her wardrobe and me having only two. I admit to getting hurt I’d end up locking myself in a room crying. Everytime. Both my parents would somehow feel guilty and start consoling me by saying they simply got used to the tradition of hand-me-downs among siblings practiced in their generation. Ergo, they assured me that my sister and I could share things and she could definitely pass them on to me when she has outgrown them.

In all honesty, I was never jealous or envious of my sister being the blessed one because I do like what I have become as a person. For what it’s worth, those painful segments provided me the strength, discipline, self-love and insight I had needed to last this long. These are my kind of gems I won’t trade for anything else in this world.

We just all have our issues with our parents I believe. We’re all flawed as human beings. We can only make mistakes. And my parents unintentionally committed this particular mistake which put a considerable dent on my good memories with them. 

It didn’t take too long for both of them to become finally vocal in their admission to “playing favorites” as soon as they had seen the potentials of my budding sister and what she could clearly bring to the whole family at that time.

Although Dad surely had inadvertent ways of making me feel non-existent, I’ve got to admit I’m not the one he had given the least attention to. It’s my brother. My younger brother who I’m sure has his own story to tell. Dad made no secret of the fact that he prefers daughters. In turn, my brother has become the dearest child to my Mom’s heart.

In spite of everything, my strong connection to my father couldn’t be denied. I have no doubt of his love for me as one of his daughters.  He’d claim I’m the child who resembled him the most both in character and looks.  Pronouncements as such never failed to make me jubilant and proud. Indeed he was my rock and had been the center of my universe.

Although Dad was never a good husband to my Mom, he’d always been responsible and a good provider to us. I recall him coming home at night, only to leave as early as 4:00 a.m. to go jogging in the park and thereafter proceeding to work on his two jobs. Sometimes we’d see him only once a week or once in two weeks. We’ve always been aware of his first family so this was no puzzle to us at all.

I can categorically claim that both my parents didn’t put much effort in hiding their preferences and partiality in dealing with their kids. It’s as if they didn’t put considerable thought on whatever repercussions it could bring to their affected youngsters then.

Do I resent my parents for this? It’s hypocritical to deny it as I still got a few emotional scars from the ramifications brought about by their open display of partiality. I felt it had somehow robbed me of a better sense of my fragile teen-age self.

My fate had provided me with only one child. There’s no way I can ever test myself with the same challenge of having more than one kid without giving in to the appalling temptation of favoritism.

Even if my son has continuously shown me unmitigated love, I’m aware he’s got issues with me and harbors some resentments with regards to my shortcomings as his only parent. It breaks my heart knowing I could have been the very best mom my son could ever have when he only has me in his life and yet I failed. What’s more, I’ve committed some grave mistakes as a parent I’ll be too mortified to confess here. My only salvation I guess can only come from my never-ending petition for my son’s forgiveness.

A kind of apology I know neither of my parents would be willing to ask from me.