I needed to go back.
To grieve. I needed to let myself grieve. I had been like a zombie when I left my mother a month ago after my father's burial. Work, needed to go back to work. But I needed to go back home too. Everything had been so medical and technical for me. Everything went smooth. Funeral arrangements, the likes. Except my heart.
Not a night went by without me crying myself to sleep. I have seen it coming. He is without a doubt in a better place now. But it is still unbelievable that he is actually gone. I can never see his face or touch him ever again. That was the last dance.
It was different going back home. All expectations not met. I didnt see him sitting on his favorite chair. Laying down on his side of the bed. He wasn't there reading anymore. Three unopened... unread Time magazines on the coffee table. No more markers on important pages on the Reader's Digest...
And yet, he was definitely there. It didnt take a second for me to realize he was there. I had to smile at every memory running through my heart.
Memories.
Every old photo seemed to move and speak.
The memories of March 31, Thursday, around 4 in the afternoon. For some reason I decided the kids and I will play and talk with papa in his room. He had asked for his granddaughters. Calling their names one at a time, hugging them each. That morning he had given me his favorite watch. He was clearly tired. He laid down. We were talking. He stuttered.
I could still see his eyes, suddenly not responding. I see myself unbelieving as I saw his pupils dilate. Heard myself shouting out his name thru my tears as I realized my father was having a heart attach. My voice was a shrill scream for help. Saw his skin smoothen right before my very eyes. I could still see me running, grabbing my celphone to call my mother to hurry home, and my friend to ask for a car. The scene of Thursday afternoon was still there. Me watching my mother running from the gate. Me, finally panicking. In the midst of tears, sweat and my deafening heartbeat I had managed to call Joel in Cebu, pack the kids' snacks, put our jackets over our pajamas, grab my bag and watched as my friend's drivers carried my unresponsive father off his bed and into the car. I still remember myself pausing that very moment, everything else was a blur due to the tears, except my father's face. It was more than bad, I knew. He had not opposed to him being carried. Otherwise he wouldn't have allowed anybody else to be inconvenienced in his behalf. It was a dark realization in my heart and mind. I believe I died there.
I think I have shouted directions to the household help, drivers and even to my mother. Next thing I know I see myself looking at my father at the ER being resuscitated. With 3 years of para medical studies behind me, I understood quickly. Not too sure if knowing was the best state for me.
Somehow, my memory stops there. And goes back to 4.30pm.
Even now, the doctor's voice is still clear, papa is pronounced brain dead.
Nothing else could be done. Should be done. He should go in peace.
April 4, 10.25 a.m.
It is not easy being told, 'mam, we could no longer appreciate his vital signs.'
I do not remember anything during the ride to the funeral home. I have spent a quiet moment in the hospital room with papa before the funeral people came. Now all the streets are a blur. it was a hot morning but I was still in my jacket and sneakers. Even with the wind from the open car window lashing at my face my tears never dried up.
'This is an unfamiliar road' was all I could tell myself. Indeed it was. It is. Always will be.
(my girls during our visit to the cemetery for my father's 40th day of novena mass)
Boss, bless my papa.
Receive him.
Thank You, Boss.
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