Photo: me and my dad
Old age is a thief. With its accomplice, cancer, they threaten to eclipse the memories I have of my dad when he was younger and in better health.
Dad’s 77 now. He spends most of his day in bed, his legs raised on a block to avoid blood clots. His mind is alert, but just getting from upstairs to downstairs two little flights of steps, he collapses into a chair and his pulse takes several minutes to settle. For breathing, he is tethered to an oxygen tube that snakes around his house.
It was Sunday and we brought dinner over. Dad had requested adobo, a Philippine stewed chicken dish whose savory flavors come from a marinade of soy sauce, vinegar, peppercorn, garlic, and bay leaves. I had fixed that and pansit canton (Filipino chow mein) while my sweet hubby made beef nilaga using a good fatty cut of chuck roast. We also brought rolls, the buttery soft kind Dad likes. Dad got out of bed to enjoy dinner with us. Thankfully, he wasn't nauseous like other days.
Mom tirelessly serves him, dishing up his food, inquiring after his comfort. She is a marvel in herself, a subject worthy of an essay another day.
It’s hard to remember when the last time Dad was healthy. Probably at least ten years, and we have almost lost him several times. There was that time at intensive care when he lay hooked up to a breathing tube. I stood there holding his cold, stiff hand, to say goodbye. He fought back and lived to see another day.
And boy is he a fighter.
On that Sunday, I glimpsed again the father to whom I owe my love of music and the written word. Who raised me to exercise creativity and independent thinking.
He has a gadget named Alexa, a little black cylinder which follows his commands for music or information as long as there is wi-fi. He’s asked Alexa to pull up a Neil Diamond song and he bobs his head and sings along to it. He may be an older man in his body, but his vigor is evident once again. He thrills over a YouTube video that my youngest shared with him, an extended cut of Pomp & Circumstance (the graduation march song).
He still has an insatiable thirst for learning. When I was young, he would take me and my siblings to the British Embassy, along old stone mansions and tree-lined avenues, so we could read and imagine in its air-conditioned library. I trace back my love of books to those magical Saturdays. Now, he no longer has the stamina to read long books, but his mind is still sharp, discussing things that he’s gathered from the news or the Internet.
Old age and cancer might attempt to eclipse all that, but the sun is still there, in all its glory. So I’m putting these villains on notice, defying them as my father's daughter--
With every book that I put out, every poem I write, every work of art I create, my dad will shine on.
Old age is a thief. With its accomplice, cancer, they threaten to eclipse the memories I have of my dad when he was younger and in better health.
Dad’s 77 now. He spends most of his day in bed, his legs raised on a block to avoid blood clots. His mind is alert, but just getting from upstairs to downstairs two little flights of steps, he collapses into a chair and his pulse takes several minutes to settle. For breathing, he is tethered to an oxygen tube that snakes around his house.
It was Sunday and we brought dinner over. Dad had requested adobo, a Philippine stewed chicken dish whose savory flavors come from a marinade of soy sauce, vinegar, peppercorn, garlic, and bay leaves. I had fixed that and pansit canton (Filipino chow mein) while my sweet hubby made beef nilaga using a good fatty cut of chuck roast. We also brought rolls, the buttery soft kind Dad likes. Dad got out of bed to enjoy dinner with us. Thankfully, he wasn't nauseous like other days.
Mom tirelessly serves him, dishing up his food, inquiring after his comfort. She is a marvel in herself, a subject worthy of an essay another day.
It’s hard to remember when the last time Dad was healthy. Probably at least ten years, and we have almost lost him several times. There was that time at intensive care when he lay hooked up to a breathing tube. I stood there holding his cold, stiff hand, to say goodbye. He fought back and lived to see another day.
And boy is he a fighter.
On that Sunday, I glimpsed again the father to whom I owe my love of music and the written word. Who raised me to exercise creativity and independent thinking.
He has a gadget named Alexa, a little black cylinder which follows his commands for music or information as long as there is wi-fi. He’s asked Alexa to pull up a Neil Diamond song and he bobs his head and sings along to it. He may be an older man in his body, but his vigor is evident once again. He thrills over a YouTube video that my youngest shared with him, an extended cut of Pomp & Circumstance (the graduation march song).
He still has an insatiable thirst for learning. When I was young, he would take me and my siblings to the British Embassy, along old stone mansions and tree-lined avenues, so we could read and imagine in its air-conditioned library. I trace back my love of books to those magical Saturdays. Now, he no longer has the stamina to read long books, but his mind is still sharp, discussing things that he’s gathered from the news or the Internet.
Old age and cancer might attempt to eclipse all that, but the sun is still there, in all its glory. So I’m putting these villains on notice, defying them as my father's daughter--
With every book that I put out, every poem I write, every work of art I create, my dad will shine on.
Bless your heart. It is so hard to watch as our parents decline. My dad passed away 3 years ago this week. His mind was as sharp as a tack, but his body gave out.
ReplyDeleteMay you always remember his love and the gifts he gave you.