Tribute to Papa

I have always wondered what my reaction would be when confronted by the news of the death of a close relative. Would I break down and cry, or be shamelessly indifferent? Or worse, relieved that there’s one less human I would compete against for oxygen? I told myself that it would probably depend on which relative passed away.

Papa was diagnosed with diabetes more than two years ago. But being the pasaway that he was, he wasn’t very careful with his health so it got worse. He’s been partially blind since last year because of cataracts (an effect of his diabetes), so he’s unable to move around much. His bed, the dining table and the bathroom are basically the only places he went to.

Papa isn’t my father. He’s my uncle, the husband of my father’s eldest sister. But I grew up in their house so I adopted their children’s way of calling them, Mama and Papa, instead of Tita and Tito.

Anyway, a few days ago, Papa’s eldest daughter called to tell us that his legs were turning black (presumably because of gangrene, another effect of his diabetes and the fact that he’s semi-sedentary) so they had to rush him to the hospital. While confined in the Ospital ng Makati, he was always disoriented and was throwing up the whole night. These were signs of complications from his diabetes. And then earlier tonight, Papa’s son called, crying and telling us that Papa was already brain dead (I have to breathe deeply to get my bearings as I write this. Those two words just seem so obscene.).

I was shocked when I heard the news. I knew that Papa was very very sick, but I was expecting that they’ll just have to amputate his legs then they’ll send him home. I didn’t cry just yet. But a few minutes later, when Nanay, and my other aunt and uncle were discussing this latest development, I felt tears pricking my eyes. Especially when my uncle asked, “Brain dead pa lang naman, hindi pa ano…?” He couldn’t continue and I couldn’t stay in the sala anymore. I rushed to my room and had a good cry.

I never expected myself to cry for Papa. He was far from the perfect uncle or surrogate father. He wasn’t the ideal husband or role model for his kids, either. I had always thought that Mama was a martyr for putting up with him and their children (me included) became dysfunctional because of him. He drank and gambled and was magulang (it’s a Tagalog slang which means a person who employs all means to get more out of somebody, especially when that somebody is generous or weak. A cross among greedy, cunning and conning.). But later in his life he found God and actually became a lay minister. And no matter what can be said of him, he was our Papa and I know he loved us very much.

I know that he’s still breathing and they’re trying to revive him, but he’s half gone already. Right now, all we can do is be strong and pray for him.

I am deeply regretting that I never showed him how much I cared for him when I still had the chance. And I’m angry at myself for thinking of him as a pesky relative who deserves to be sick. In a way, he brought this upon himself, like mixing Ovaltine with his oatmeal despite his diabetes. But why didn’t I show more compassion and sympathy? I remember thinking that if it weren’t for Mama, I wouldn’t have tolerated him. I should have been more grateful, considering that he agreed to take me in when I was still an infant even if they already have five young children.

There’s one memory of him that I’ll never forget. It was last year, during the end of the first semester. He was asking me if I was graduating already and I said I would in March. He then held my hand, stared at a point past my shoulders (he was already partially blind), and said, “I’m not sure of I could last until then. You know that I’ve always thought of you as a daughter, and I would very much like to see your graduation day. I keep asking God to let me live longer.”

During those times, I dismissed that as another one of his ploys to get my sympathy (and perhaps more money), and I regret that now. Sure, maybe that’s true – Papa loves to use paawa-effect – but that’s not all of it. I should have seen through my cynicism and realized how vulnerable he was feeling. I should have gone past my prejudice and relished the fact that for him, I was their sixth child, their beloved bunso, and that he wanted nothing more than to see me graduate. I should never have placed Mama and Papa at the bottom of my priorities while I was still in college, and instead have been the dutiful daughter and took care of them on weekends. I should have held his hand tighter and talked with him longer. But now it’s too late.

***

I wrote this Monday night. Papa passed away last Tuesday, October 25, around three in the afternoon. Yesterday, a black butterfly flew in our house. I’d like to think that it’s the spirit of Papa coming for a visit. And reminding me of my obligation as his “bunso.” That butterfly is still here.

Tomorrow we will fly to Manila to attend his funeral. Interment will be on Sunday.

Papa, wherever you are, I hope you are finally in peace.