From Martin Masadao: Tanging Ama

I came down in April this year with the resolve to finally put my life in some semblance of order, purpose, etc. leaving hurt feelings behind in Baguio. I first heard the news about Daddy's cancer from Felina via text message. I was alone at the apartment at that time, it must've been dusk, as I remember the light on my mobile being the only source of illumination as I wept over the sad news. I sent Daddy a text message that read "Dad, just heard the news from Felina. I'm sure you'll be able to overcome this. Always remember that we love you." A few seconds later Dad replied with: "Thank you very much but pardon my asking, who is this please?" Ha! You see I had then just recently changed my mobile number and had somehow failed to give Dad my new number. I told him it was me, and he texted back, "Finally, I hear from you!". We exchanged a few more text messages between us -- the usual candor and repartee we would occassionaly send to each other.

I remained in the dark apartment, with thoughts of Dad. Thoughts of how I was feeling at that moment. I was trying to dissect the core of my feelings and emotions then. Why was I bawling? Did I really miss the old man? A plethora of thoughts, feelings, words -- that i've long wanted to express to my Dad -- flooded my mind. I had to anaesthetize myself over bottles of beer just to calm me down and make me sleep.

I visited Dad for the first time since his diagnosis sometime in June. It was early evening. Dad had just finished his supper. I walked into his room and saw him in bed reading a magazine. I went beside him, took his right hand to my forehead. Gave him a hug. With affected aplomb I said "So, how've you been hanging on?!" Dad put on the same tone and said, "Oh, I'm okay! Had my first chemo today!" I looked into his eyes as he did mine, and I knew, we both knew -- I'd like to think we were thinking of the same thing -- that we were both struggling and not giving up on what fate had recently dealt on both of us. That is, my decision to leave Baguio and he, his medical condition. Two totally different situations but nonetheless requiring the same resolve to overcome the mental and emotional burden.

He told me then to go eat my dinner and ask the boys downstairs (who are part of a motley of what my Dad considered his household help) to buy me some beers. He also remarked that I had lost some weight since last he saw me. I joked, "It's in my modelling contract that I maintain a certain weight".

I visited dad a few more times after. Not as much as I wanted, but I had also to keep myself busy in Manila. Working on every project (no matter how small the pay or intellectually unchallenging they may be) that would come my way. It was in the middle of one project this November that I got a call from Mommy instructing me to rush to Malolos since Dad was being rushed to the hospital. The urgency in Ma's voice was enough for me to understand the gravity of the situation. I was literally going back and forth as I was pacing the exhibit area that I was setting up that day. Do I leave my assistants behind and let them finish the work for me and go to Malolos? Or do I stay and finish the job, then proceed to Malolos? I opted for the latter because my professional life was at stake. Also, my presence in Malolos, I deemed, would not make much of a difference regarding Daddy's condition. An hour later, Felina calls with the sad news. Apparently, he had not even made it to the hospital.

I arrived in Malolos the day after Daddy died. That was Sunday, November 13. I had sort of prepared myself for that moment. Rehearsing what to say to relatives, friends. I was joking my good friends Reji and Andi that I would put on a meryl-streep-out-of-africa act. Andi had forewarned me that no matter how I prepare myself, it would still be different once I see Dad in person. Or once he is finally laid to rest on the ground. That first night I spent in Malolos during the wake, I was terribly distracted by the crowd milling in and out and around my Dad's house. People I didn't know. To be honest, I didn't even care to know. All I desperately wanted was some peace and quiet and time alone to be beside his coffin. That moment I wished for had come only in the wee hours of the next morning, when most of the guests had gone to their homes.

I sneaked towards my Dad's coffin while no one was looking. I looked straight into his face. Tears welling in my eyes, I was trying not to shake violently lest the few remaining "watchers" think that I was about to have a seizure. All throughout I was whispering to Dad, "I love you, Dad, we love you. You know that don't you?" Over and over again I kept repeating those words to him as I looked at his face. During that time I had also felt a certain lightness. I must say I also felt his spirit beside me. When I say 'spirit' I don't mean his ghost. Rather, his loving ways, his warmth, his caring. I put my arms around me as if to hug him. It was nice to let go like that. I also felt that my Dad, deep inside his heart, loved me.

In the days that would follow, I kept thinking of my dad. The times we shared. I refused to dwell on the fights we had or the resentments I had harbored against him in the past. No, this time I only focused on the bright times. I told dad, in my mind, we will both move on. I also told him that I no longer bear those resentments and that I have long forgiven him for them. Funny, but I had wanted to write my Dad a letter and seal it and put it on his coffin on the day of the burial. In that letter I was supposed to write all the other things I wanted to tell him. But then I thought, would a letter be a letter even if it were unread? (I thought back to my philo class, you know, the one about the tree in the forest making a 'sound' even if no one was there to hear it). I also felt that to put that letter would be impolite to others. It's like whispering in front of other people. I also didn't want to be pressed by insensitive and nosey relatives/friends asking me what I had written there. And if ever, I didn't want to upstage Dad with that gesture. Steal the limelight from him. No, this was about Daddy. Not me. But really, I decided not to write a letter because I knew that I had communicated everything I wanted to say to my dad since that first visit of mine in June, during the succeeding visits, all the way through the wake. And funny, I still do all the time. Everyday I think of him. And I know that he knows. He understands. We've made peace a long time ago. That hug by his bedside wrote paragraphs and more between us. It spoke for both of us. How nice.

I leave you all now with an untitled poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. It expresses what I've been feeling the past days...



Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go, -- so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1917





Happy Holidays!
Martin