Goodbye Dad
In May 18, 1993, dad celebrated his 63rd birthday in St. Louis Hospital in the company of my brother and his family. Because he was in the company of his grandchildren (on my brother’s side), dad had a resurgence of spirit. All was well, my brother thought, and he and his family left the following day for the US with a light feeling. But that was dad’s last upsurge of life. He died three days later, May 21, with only an aunt by his bedside.
Dad had a fatal stroke in 1990, before the devastating earthquake that hit in July 16. This also came at the heels of the death of my mom in 1987. It was triggered when he was informed that he must soon retire from being the Manager of the Strike and Spare Lanes. It had hurt him; it crushed his ego. Aside from family, being manager was his life; it sustained him and us.
But despite being dead to his career, he survived for three years more. I suppose he was sustained by another lifeline – his family. He wanted to ensure that family – my brother and I - was secure before he moved on. I wasn’t around when he died. I had my own carreer to sustain; I was in Tagum, Davao del Norte for the Cooperative Congress of the region.
When dad was buried, I was there, also burying with him all my hurt, in the quiet of the Baguio cemetery. I learned later through my sister-in-law that dad celebrated his last birthday with one question: “Did I fail my youngest son?”
Had I been in his deathbed, sharing his birthday, I could have said: “No dad, you did not fail. You gave your best. Whatever happened to me was the outcome of my choice. It could have been better. But I chose to live my life the way I saw fit. And yes! Thank you dad for all the loving and caring you and mom had shared with us.”
In May 18, 1993, dad celebrated his 63rd birthday in St. Louis Hospital in the company of my brother and his family. Because he was in the company of his grandchildren (on my brother’s side), dad had a resurgence of spirit. All was well, my brother thought, and he and his family left the following day for the US with a light feeling. But that was dad’s last upsurge of life. He died three days later, May 21, with only an aunt by his bedside.
Dad had a fatal stroke in 1990, before the devastating earthquake that hit in July 16. This also came at the heels of the death of my mom in 1987. It was triggered when he was informed that he must soon retire from being the Manager of the Strike and Spare Lanes. It had hurt him; it crushed his ego. Aside from family, being manager was his life; it sustained him and us.
But despite being dead to his career, he survived for three years more. I suppose he was sustained by another lifeline – his family. He wanted to ensure that family – my brother and I - was secure before he moved on. I wasn’t around when he died. I had my own carreer to sustain; I was in Tagum, Davao del Norte for the Cooperative Congress of the region.
When dad was buried, I was there, also burying with him all my hurt, in the quiet of the Baguio cemetery. I learned later through my sister-in-law that dad celebrated his last birthday with one question: “Did I fail my youngest son?”
Had I been in his deathbed, sharing his birthday, I could have said: “No dad, you did not fail. You gave your best. Whatever happened to me was the outcome of my choice. It could have been better. But I chose to live my life the way I saw fit. And yes! Thank you dad for all the loving and caring you and mom had shared with us.”
Dad’s Story
Dioscoro, dad, was a “Waray” from Tunga in Leyte Province. In contrast to my mom who left to seek greener pastures, my dad left because of disagreements in the home.
Dad had interesting anecdotes about our ancestry. We belonged to a family of activists and non-conformists. My great-great grandfather was part of the rebellion against Spain (a "Katipunero"). My grandfather was a teacher, with revolutionary ideas. During the war, a great uncle literally ate pages of the Bible to survive in the mountains (I suppose this took care of both biological and spiritual needs). There was a time when my grandmother had to change dad’s (and his two siblings’) family name to her maiden name, to ensure safe conduct from the law. To cap it all, my dad took great pride that a street in Carigaraya was named after my grandfather.
Dad was the second of three children (of a girl and two boys from my grandmother’s first marriage), from which my brother and me owe our family name. My grandfather died when my father was pre-teen. His troubles started when my grandmother married again and had seven other children.
Dad claimed that he was a bright student and was in third year Commerce when his stepfather asked him to stop schooling in favor of his favorite son. That triggered the war between dad and my grandmother. From dad’s viewpoint, his dad, my grandfather, left him enough fortune to sustain his education. Because of what dad felt unfair, in 1949, he left for Manila. Although dad loved grandma, the bitterness was unresolved till the day she died in the 1980s. But because he left home, he was to become my dad.
Unfulfilled Dreams
When dad decided to come up to Baguio in 1952 and at 22 years old, he wanted a simple life for himself and his family. He also wanted his own house. Once, when I brought him to my place, he was in reverie. He expressed his regret in passing off an opportunity to own his house and lot along Fil-Am compound. Then the place was still forested with no house standing. Now the place was buzzing with houses and people. Nonetheless, he felt contentment that his two sons have their own respective abodes.
Dad did not fulfill his dream of finishing college. But he saw his dream fulfilled in his two boys. By inculcating in us the value of education and investing in our schooling, he set us to the path of self-reliance. Kuya Rudy finished his degree in Economics and his wife was sustained through her Masters in Public Administration (aside from her finishing her nursing degree with her parent’s support). My brother and his family migrated to the US armed with the necessary skills and knowledge to live a life of prosperity. After my undergraduate course, I went on to sustain my own Masters degree and many other special courses. I reached the height of my career because dad started me off.
Dad did not fail. He succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. It was just that he anchored his dreams on his kids. Unfortunately for him, I responded with numbness, being caught in a whirlpool of hurts and struggles in my own life. Fortunately for him, he saw the prospects for the good life of his grandchildren. Dad died a pauper, but he had left a legacy for prosperity for the generations after him.
On Dying
A fact of life is the inevitability of death. There is a time for every living thing – a birth, a growing up, a letting go and a death.
Everyday, one also hears and knows of people who had passed away. It is read in the papers or watched on TV. But, like the death of flowers, it is not a bother if that someone who died is personally not known.
When the Twin Towers in New York collapsed due to the plane crashes maneuvered by terrorists, most felt grief and sympathized with America. But, except for those who have relatives among those who died, the heightened emotions of people were fleeting. They may have sworn to high heavens. But that is all. One would not feel as much the loss from a catastrophe that happened to someone else somewhere. Soon, people will also forget what happened on September 11, 2001. Soon, the next generations will just read about the incident in history books, like this generation remembered the World Wars because they had to be memorized for the school exams.
It would be different when someone dear had died. Because one had given meaning to and shared his or her being with that departed person, a great loss is felt, like a part connected to the beloved had been estranged. When one becomes attached to something or someone to the point that one becomes dependent, the death would be more devastating. One’s world would cave in; at times, wishing death itself.
It would also be different when one must confront fears about death and dying. This is especially true when one feels the need to complete a mission in this world. One would cling to dear life; praying and cursing at the same time. But ready or not ready, each one will die anyway. One might as well be prepared to die anytime.
A Celebration of Life
The message of death for those who were left behind is to “move on.” That is part of the cycle of life. The fact is that all those born during the late 1800s had already died or were preparing to die. A sizable number died during the two world wars. A sizable number from our generation also died of diseases, like AIDS. Their time was up and they are now somewhere else, except in our three dimensional world.
On a broader perspective, death may mean not only physical death. It may be a release from something worn out and an opened door for something new.
Intuitively, the living flows with the seasons. One feels wonderful when the flowers bloom in May and December, then just simply coast along when the flowers wilt (to bloom again during the next flowering season). Everyday, one wakes up to the sunrise and withdraws in sleep after the sunset, to dream the dreams, either under the moonlight or not. The following day, one again wakes up to another sunrise, closing the doors of the past. Nothing is ever quiet the same, except when one clings to it.
But it cannot be denied that Kuya and I were following the footsteps of our parents. I suppose, the human values of parents (not necessarily the cultural habits) are passed on until the next generation. This is evolution in progress, humanity in the process of becoming.
Dioscoro, dad, was a “Waray” from Tunga in Leyte Province. In contrast to my mom who left to seek greener pastures, my dad left because of disagreements in the home.
Dad had interesting anecdotes about our ancestry. We belonged to a family of activists and non-conformists. My great-great grandfather was part of the rebellion against Spain (a "Katipunero"). My grandfather was a teacher, with revolutionary ideas. During the war, a great uncle literally ate pages of the Bible to survive in the mountains (I suppose this took care of both biological and spiritual needs). There was a time when my grandmother had to change dad’s (and his two siblings’) family name to her maiden name, to ensure safe conduct from the law. To cap it all, my dad took great pride that a street in Carigaraya was named after my grandfather.
Dad was the second of three children (of a girl and two boys from my grandmother’s first marriage), from which my brother and me owe our family name. My grandfather died when my father was pre-teen. His troubles started when my grandmother married again and had seven other children.
Dad claimed that he was a bright student and was in third year Commerce when his stepfather asked him to stop schooling in favor of his favorite son. That triggered the war between dad and my grandmother. From dad’s viewpoint, his dad, my grandfather, left him enough fortune to sustain his education. Because of what dad felt unfair, in 1949, he left for Manila. Although dad loved grandma, the bitterness was unresolved till the day she died in the 1980s. But because he left home, he was to become my dad.
Unfulfilled Dreams
When dad decided to come up to Baguio in 1952 and at 22 years old, he wanted a simple life for himself and his family. He also wanted his own house. Once, when I brought him to my place, he was in reverie. He expressed his regret in passing off an opportunity to own his house and lot along Fil-Am compound. Then the place was still forested with no house standing. Now the place was buzzing with houses and people. Nonetheless, he felt contentment that his two sons have their own respective abodes.
Dad did not fulfill his dream of finishing college. But he saw his dream fulfilled in his two boys. By inculcating in us the value of education and investing in our schooling, he set us to the path of self-reliance. Kuya Rudy finished his degree in Economics and his wife was sustained through her Masters in Public Administration (aside from her finishing her nursing degree with her parent’s support). My brother and his family migrated to the US armed with the necessary skills and knowledge to live a life of prosperity. After my undergraduate course, I went on to sustain my own Masters degree and many other special courses. I reached the height of my career because dad started me off.
Dad did not fail. He succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. It was just that he anchored his dreams on his kids. Unfortunately for him, I responded with numbness, being caught in a whirlpool of hurts and struggles in my own life. Fortunately for him, he saw the prospects for the good life of his grandchildren. Dad died a pauper, but he had left a legacy for prosperity for the generations after him.
On Dying
A fact of life is the inevitability of death. There is a time for every living thing – a birth, a growing up, a letting go and a death.
Everyday, one also hears and knows of people who had passed away. It is read in the papers or watched on TV. But, like the death of flowers, it is not a bother if that someone who died is personally not known.
When the Twin Towers in New York collapsed due to the plane crashes maneuvered by terrorists, most felt grief and sympathized with America. But, except for those who have relatives among those who died, the heightened emotions of people were fleeting. They may have sworn to high heavens. But that is all. One would not feel as much the loss from a catastrophe that happened to someone else somewhere. Soon, people will also forget what happened on September 11, 2001. Soon, the next generations will just read about the incident in history books, like this generation remembered the World Wars because they had to be memorized for the school exams.
It would be different when someone dear had died. Because one had given meaning to and shared his or her being with that departed person, a great loss is felt, like a part connected to the beloved had been estranged. When one becomes attached to something or someone to the point that one becomes dependent, the death would be more devastating. One’s world would cave in; at times, wishing death itself.
It would also be different when one must confront fears about death and dying. This is especially true when one feels the need to complete a mission in this world. One would cling to dear life; praying and cursing at the same time. But ready or not ready, each one will die anyway. One might as well be prepared to die anytime.
A Celebration of Life
The message of death for those who were left behind is to “move on.” That is part of the cycle of life. The fact is that all those born during the late 1800s had already died or were preparing to die. A sizable number died during the two world wars. A sizable number from our generation also died of diseases, like AIDS. Their time was up and they are now somewhere else, except in our three dimensional world.
On a broader perspective, death may mean not only physical death. It may be a release from something worn out and an opened door for something new.
Intuitively, the living flows with the seasons. One feels wonderful when the flowers bloom in May and December, then just simply coast along when the flowers wilt (to bloom again during the next flowering season). Everyday, one wakes up to the sunrise and withdraws in sleep after the sunset, to dream the dreams, either under the moonlight or not. The following day, one again wakes up to another sunrise, closing the doors of the past. Nothing is ever quiet the same, except when one clings to it.
But it cannot be denied that Kuya and I were following the footsteps of our parents. I suppose, the human values of parents (not necessarily the cultural habits) are passed on until the next generation. This is evolution in progress, humanity in the process of becoming.
Rudy Liporada: Great, Ces. My exact feelings.
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