We just came from the hospital to visit my uncle. He was confined because two of the bones in his spinal cord were broken. It had been four months since he had been attacked by stroke and he has been recuperating, but it was this morning when he fell down the floor while he was trying to get up from bed. As I went in the hospital room, I saw him lying down in the infirmary bed as his wife, my aunt, was standing beside him. I stared at him sleeping soundly and immediately remembered my father.
My father and my uncle looked very alike now more than ever. They were brothers after all, their ears were both humongous and their eyes were both chinky, their cheeks were equally rosy and their smiles both seemed to stretch their entire faces from end to end – well at least that’s what I saw in pictures. The memories I can recall of my father did not seem to have the image of that winning smile he used to have in his photographs from before. I was six years old when he started to suffer from stroke and had to retire from his job. Because of his ailment, he had a tendency to get mad easily and throw some fits, but I as a child, never got to or tried to understand that. He would get irritated and mad at the smallest things. I hated him for that. I can even remember taking the side of my yaya whenever they had quarrels. I always thought my father was the villain inside our house. I never really had a chance to get to know him, more over get close to him. Whenever I would be asked if I loved my father, I would never know what to answer. I knew to say yes was the right thing to do and i knew deep inside i must have that love for my father, yet I just did not feel the words coming out from my mouth. I can say that was never a good daughter to my father, even when he was already bed-ridden, I would be the most useless person in the family in terms of caring for him.
When my father was dying last March, just before my high school graduation, realizations started to set in and it seemed like emotions deep down from the abyss of my cold heart started to pour out. During his hospitalization, I would be at school and my friends would always be taken by surprise on how I would abruptly cry without warning. I cried continuously until my eyes would swell, my nose turn red and my voice become hoarse. People would think that the fear of losing my father was the reason for my emotional hysterics, but they did not know that there was much, much more than to just that.
All throughout the ten years my father had been a stroke patient, my mother would always tell me what a good man my father iss. She would always tell about how much my father loved our family but most especially, loved me. The way my mother tells it, even at my birth, it seemed like I was the most valuable treasure of my father. At times I would be touched and would feel bad for treating my father the way I did, but after awhile I tend to keep my ears shut and hide away the guilt that stabbed me. I now wonder why I chose to suppress my emotions. Perhaps because it was too much shame and remorse than I was able to handle, that I shrunk of fear of facing reality.
But as I held my father’s hand at the hospital room while he was dying, tears gushed from my eyes, as if trying in vain to spell out the thoughts that I wished to articulate but wasn’t able to. All that came from my mouth were snivels and sobs of mortifying pain. I tried to tell him so much, so much that I didn’t know how or where to even start, so much that I was afraid if or not he would still understand, so much that time ran out and I didn’t get to tell him at all how much I did love him and that I was just really afraid to show my emotions. What irony it was; I had so much opportunities but still I had none, I had so much to say but still I kept mute, I felt so much love to give but not anything was I able to give.
In his epitaph, we wrote “a kind husband, a loving father, a good provider, a devoted Christian.” Yes, he was that and more. My father loved our family so much. The only reason why he was attacked by stroke was because of over work and the reason why his condition worsened because he did not want our family to spend money for his medications. He never had vices in his life; smoking, drinking, fooling around, even gluttony– name it and I can tell you that he hasn’t done any of it. His life was a mere cycle of work, family and spirituality. He would not even allow himself to leisure because he thought spending for the needs of his family was more important than spending his time and money on other things. He was a truly devoted Christian, even in the earlier parts of his ailment where he found it hard to walk; he would still diligently go to church. Even if people around him would think it was unjust that he of all people should go through this suffering, he would still whole-heartedly thank the Lord for the blessings of which he can count. My father would be by far the best example of the best father.
Recently, my friends looked up the meaning of my name, Abigail. They Googled it and found many different interpretations, but one the written etymologies that caught my ear as they sped through the words was, “Father’s joy.” My friends taunted me for the different interpretations of my name and I forced myself to smile and laugh with them as they did, but as soon as we parted ways I immediately ran home and cried. I was supposed to be the bearer of love when my father lost hope but I never fulfilled my purpose. I was supposed to attend to him whenever he was in need but I ignored my responsibility as a daughter. I was supposed to understand him the most but I abandoned him in his suffering. I hated myself for how I treated him, I felt unworthy to be even called his daughter. I know these regrets will haunt me to my grave; I lost those many opportunities that I could have taken. What has been done cannot be put right. All that is left for me is to do is to never allow an opportunity like that be foolishly missed again.
My uncle finally woke up. He yawned and rubbed his face with his right hand, just as my father used to do whenever he woke up. My aunt immediately attended to him. There was so much love and care in the air that my eyes felt like tearing up again. I wish I had the chance to show my father how much I loved him; how I wish I had another chance.
My father and my uncle looked very alike now more than ever. They were brothers after all, their ears were both humongous and their eyes were both chinky, their cheeks were equally rosy and their smiles both seemed to stretch their entire faces from end to end – well at least that’s what I saw in pictures. The memories I can recall of my father did not seem to have the image of that winning smile he used to have in his photographs from before. I was six years old when he started to suffer from stroke and had to retire from his job. Because of his ailment, he had a tendency to get mad easily and throw some fits, but I as a child, never got to or tried to understand that. He would get irritated and mad at the smallest things. I hated him for that. I can even remember taking the side of my yaya whenever they had quarrels. I always thought my father was the villain inside our house. I never really had a chance to get to know him, more over get close to him. Whenever I would be asked if I loved my father, I would never know what to answer. I knew to say yes was the right thing to do and i knew deep inside i must have that love for my father, yet I just did not feel the words coming out from my mouth. I can say that was never a good daughter to my father, even when he was already bed-ridden, I would be the most useless person in the family in terms of caring for him.
When my father was dying last March, just before my high school graduation, realizations started to set in and it seemed like emotions deep down from the abyss of my cold heart started to pour out. During his hospitalization, I would be at school and my friends would always be taken by surprise on how I would abruptly cry without warning. I cried continuously until my eyes would swell, my nose turn red and my voice become hoarse. People would think that the fear of losing my father was the reason for my emotional hysterics, but they did not know that there was much, much more than to just that.
All throughout the ten years my father had been a stroke patient, my mother would always tell me what a good man my father iss. She would always tell about how much my father loved our family but most especially, loved me. The way my mother tells it, even at my birth, it seemed like I was the most valuable treasure of my father. At times I would be touched and would feel bad for treating my father the way I did, but after awhile I tend to keep my ears shut and hide away the guilt that stabbed me. I now wonder why I chose to suppress my emotions. Perhaps because it was too much shame and remorse than I was able to handle, that I shrunk of fear of facing reality.
But as I held my father’s hand at the hospital room while he was dying, tears gushed from my eyes, as if trying in vain to spell out the thoughts that I wished to articulate but wasn’t able to. All that came from my mouth were snivels and sobs of mortifying pain. I tried to tell him so much, so much that I didn’t know how or where to even start, so much that I was afraid if or not he would still understand, so much that time ran out and I didn’t get to tell him at all how much I did love him and that I was just really afraid to show my emotions. What irony it was; I had so much opportunities but still I had none, I had so much to say but still I kept mute, I felt so much love to give but not anything was I able to give.
In his epitaph, we wrote “a kind husband, a loving father, a good provider, a devoted Christian.” Yes, he was that and more. My father loved our family so much. The only reason why he was attacked by stroke was because of over work and the reason why his condition worsened because he did not want our family to spend money for his medications. He never had vices in his life; smoking, drinking, fooling around, even gluttony– name it and I can tell you that he hasn’t done any of it. His life was a mere cycle of work, family and spirituality. He would not even allow himself to leisure because he thought spending for the needs of his family was more important than spending his time and money on other things. He was a truly devoted Christian, even in the earlier parts of his ailment where he found it hard to walk; he would still diligently go to church. Even if people around him would think it was unjust that he of all people should go through this suffering, he would still whole-heartedly thank the Lord for the blessings of which he can count. My father would be by far the best example of the best father.
Recently, my friends looked up the meaning of my name, Abigail. They Googled it and found many different interpretations, but one the written etymologies that caught my ear as they sped through the words was, “Father’s joy.” My friends taunted me for the different interpretations of my name and I forced myself to smile and laugh with them as they did, but as soon as we parted ways I immediately ran home and cried. I was supposed to be the bearer of love when my father lost hope but I never fulfilled my purpose. I was supposed to attend to him whenever he was in need but I ignored my responsibility as a daughter. I was supposed to understand him the most but I abandoned him in his suffering. I hated myself for how I treated him, I felt unworthy to be even called his daughter. I know these regrets will haunt me to my grave; I lost those many opportunities that I could have taken. What has been done cannot be put right. All that is left for me is to do is to never allow an opportunity like that be foolishly missed again.
My uncle finally woke up. He yawned and rubbed his face with his right hand, just as my father used to do whenever he woke up. My aunt immediately attended to him. There was so much love and care in the air that my eyes felt like tearing up again. I wish I had the chance to show my father how much I loved him; how I wish I had another chance.
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