PRESENT PERFECT
Today is the day of my birthday shower.
Actually, I was told it was to be a joint birthday celebration for me and my niece, Katie, who turns 16 today. (My birthday doesn't come until tomorrow.) They kept the baby shower part a secret from me until the very last minute.
This is my very first baby shower. It is ironic that I had to wait until my fourth pregnancy before somebody actually gave a baby shower on my behalf. It's nobody's fault, really. When I was carrying my first child, Max, my ex-husband and I were bi-coastal and essentially alone, dividing our time between California (L.A.) and Florida (Miami), away from both of our families. When I was expecting Lance and Troy, Lorenzo's sister, Selina, attempted to give me baby showers, but my babies decided to come way ahead of schedule.
So here I am, at Selina's house, finally revelling in the spotlight, gamely enduring the guests' pats on my tummy. I look at the dinner table, laden with food. My sisters-in-law, Selina, Grace and Anna really outdid themselves this time. Later, their co-conspirator, my mother-in-law, would arrive bringing more familiar family fare. It was the usual Sereno gathering, with food in the dining room, poker in the living room, karaoke in the family room, and swimming in the back yard.
Amid all the chaos, I found myself constantly returning to the kitchen counter where the pretty baby shower cake lay, still in its box. I would stand there as if mesmerized, gazing in wonder at the name swirled in pink icing: "Baby Loren". Our first baby daughter. I shift my gaze to the pile of presents intended for this unseen little bundle of joy. I have never seen so much pink in my life.
Yet this baby shower very nearly came too late again. Less than 24 hours ago, Lorenzo rushed me to the Emergency Room for contractions. I started feeling some mild cramping at about 4:30 yesterday afternoon but I brushed it aside. We were going to the mall in search of an outfit for me to wear to the party, and I didn't want to miss that. However, when 9:30 came and the contractions continued, I decided it was time to go to the hospital.
Looking back at what happened last night, it felt really strange to be in an LDR (Labor and Delivery Room) so early in my pregnancy. Yet there was that unmistakeable sense of deja vu. Yes, I had been in this scenario countless times, far too many than I care to remember. All my pregnancies have been far from uneventful. I am a veteran of non-stress tests and third-trimester complications. For the thousandth time, I ask the powers-that-be why a normal, safe pregnancy remains so elusive to me.
One of the first people we called last night was Selina, who fianlly spilled the beans on tomorrow's baby shower. I thought of the chic black and red outfit we just bought at Motherhood. "That's it," I told myself, "you can't give birth tonight because your husband just bought you a trunkful of clothes fresh from the maternity store!"
Pretty soon, I would send my husband and sons out to get something to eat. I could see that they were worried, especially Lance, who wouldn't leave my bedside for long. I settled down for the long wait at the monitors, sipping water and relaxing to the sound of my daughter's heartbeat, soothingly emanating from the bedside doppler.
After a tedious four hours, I was discharged with a clean bill of health. The hospital staff determined that the contractions didn't come in an ominous pattern, so I was free to go. I also got a negative reading on my fetal fibronectin test, which detects signs of impending labor as early as two weeks in advance. At least I know this baby will make it past her 32nd week.
I was so happy to be out of there. As I walked to the waiting car, I whispered a prayer of thanks to the Lord. At 30.2 gestational weeks, it was still to early for my daughter to see the world.
And so she stays in my tummy for yet another day. I only wish I could be more familiar with happy endings. I remember the failure I felt in another LDR, when I arrived too late to prevent Lance from being born too early. In Troy's case, I didn't even make it to an LDR. Troy was born in a storage closet at Kaiser Hospital because they didn't have time to prepare a proper Labor and Delivery Room. Both of my boys were "preemies", products of pre-term labor.
It is when this happens that you realize the impact one day makes in the well-being of an unborn child. And so I silently implore my daughter to stay in her warm, wet home for as long as she can:
"As much as I love you, Loren, I am in no rush to see you, so take your time, and just keep on growing." From within my womb, I feel an answering wiggle.
And I sense through some cosmic connection that she somehow understands.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Sunday, March 07, 2004
REMEMBERING DADDY
Today was supposed to be my Dad's 64th birthday.
My Dad was born in Mindanao, in the beautiful mountain city of Marawi, close to the shores of Lake Lanao. His parents were both University professors, pioneers of the venerable Mindanao State University. My Lola Luz was once Dean of the English Department, and my Lolo Pinong had an entire building on campus named after him. My Dad and his brother, my Uncle Bing, had a happy childhood in Marawi, despite being born shortly before the outbreak of World War 2. In fact, the most disturbing story I've heard about my Dad's early days was when he ate a cockroach as a toddler, thinking it was a prune.
Even as a young boy, my Dad already had a naughty streak in him. One of my favorite stories was my Lola's account of what happened one particularly hot summer, when my Dad got my Uncle Bing in trouble by telling him he knew of a secret swimming pool. The two boys spent their afternoons in this secluded spot for the most of the summer, returning cool and refreshed before supper. It was only after a chance encounter with another faculty member that my grandparents discovered that the "secret swimming hole" was actually the University's drinking water tank!
This propensity for mischief would carry on to his college days. Once, upon knowing one of his friends was smitten with a girl named Jenny, he suggested that his friend send her flowers. When his friend was addressing the bouquet, he realized he didn't even know Jenny's last name, so he asked my Dad if he knew what it was. Without missing a beat, my Dad responded, "Talya", thinking the guy would get the joke. Unfortunately, our love-struck Romeo was too enamored to pay attention, and suffered the cold shoulder from Jenny ever since.
My Dad was also passionate about certain causes, and one of these was Mindanao. His mother, my Lola Luz, was a refined Ilongga from Negros, but his father, my Lolo Pinong was a noble Tausug from Sulo. Despite his parents' conversion and their devout adherence to Christianity, my father chose to go back to his Muslim roots. He was proud to be a sharif, a descendant of Mohammed, and often chose to forego his given name, Joel, preferring to be addressed by his Muslim name, Jalal.
My Dad was also a secretive man, an enigma to many. It was only when I was 22, and about to get married for the first time, that I discovered that he was one of the founders of the MNLF (Moro National Liberation Front). I didn't even find this out from him. It was my Uncle Abul Alonto who spilled the beans. I wasn't too surprised. My Dad was a known activist during his UP days. When my mother went into labor with me, it was my Uncle Abul and Nur Misuari who rushed her to the hospital because my Dad was busy leading a vigil in front of Malacanang in protest of the Jabidah Massacre in Corregidor. In fact, I would later find out it was actually my Dad who composed the Bangsamoro national anthem, still in use to this day.
During the early martial law days, my Dad and my Mom moved their fledgling family to Baguio. They took on teaching positions in UP Baguio while my Mom worked on her Master's degree. I remember tense nights in our house, the only times I'd ever seen my Dad with a gun. We would sometimes harbor fugitive activists, wanted by the Marcos administration, and an unfamiliar knock in the middle of the night would put the household in a state of near-panic. But the nights would give way to sunny days, where my Dad and I would go for long walks together. One of our favorite pastimes was stopping every now and then at a gumamela bush to serenade the flowers. I still remember our simple song:
Red and white gumamela, red and white gumamela,
There is no other flower as beautiful as you.
One day, my Dad and I went horseback-riding. I must've been four or five then, and I fell off my horse, spraining my ankle. Daddy ended up carrying me in his arms all the way home. Years later, he would tell me how guilty he still felt whenever he remembered that incident.
My Dad had always worn his heart on his sleeve, especially when it came to his daughters. He wrote songs for all of us, delighting in playing them on the piano whenever we would request for them. All three of us, me and my sisters Maya and Haya, were always very malambing to him, showering him with hugs and kisses, even as grown adults. Because that's how he was towards us. Very malambing, very karinyoso. I guess it was my Lola's Ilonggo blood which accounted for it.
Whenever any of his girls would go out-of-town for camping trips with their Girl Scout leagues, my Dad would always show up to visit us. When I was in 6th grade, we went camping in Baguio. I was surprised to see him there, "just checking up on his eldest daughter". It was during this trip that I was named Miss International Night, wearing a Muslim malong costume. I was proud to tell him about it when I saw him, because I knew he would be happy that I had showcased our Muslim roots.
However, my Dad was Muslim only up to a certain point. And when his precious daughters were concerned, he could overlook certain traditions which weren't favorable to our welfare. For instance, most of my female Muslim cousins had arranged marriages when they were barely teenagers, in the tradition of the Muslim royal families in the south. When I was 15, my Dad, who had business dealings in Brunei at the time, received a marriage proposal from a prominent member of the Brunei Royal Family. It seemed that this man, who was old enough to be my father, wanted to ask for my hand in marriage and was ready to pay a handsome dowry. My Dad politely refused.
When I finally joined RPN News as a TV newscaster, nobody was prouder than Daddy. He used to joke that it wasn't too long ago when I was known as "Joel's daughter". Now they referred to him as "Renee's Dad". I wasn't sure if this was just bola from him, but I was tickled pink anyway.
Daddy used to watch all my newscasts, and he was my most infuriating critic. It wasn't unusual to receive a call from him when I'd come down from the studios, hearing his familiar voice saying, "You know you said 'twuck' instead of 'truck'?". And then he'd talk like Tweety Bird for the rest of the conversation, teasingly replacing all his R's with W's. Sometimes, he would invite me over to his place for dinner. Other times, he would ask me to "break bread" with him somewhere else. Our most recent favored watering hole was Cafe Havana in Adriatico. We would sit in a corner, preferably by the window, I would order my usual spare ribs and he would order his Ropa Vieja, and we would people-watch while waiting for our food.
Of course, my Dad, being the doting father he is, hated all of his daughters' boyfriends. His first reaction whenever he would hear of a new suitor would be, "I will shoot him." He gave all the guys in our lives a pretty hard time, and it took almost forever to win his approval. When I got my first boyfriend in High School, he did a full background check on the boy's affluent family, and told me to stay away from them like the plague. Years later, his suspicions would be confirmed, when my ex-boyfriend's older brother was indicted as the mastermind behind a celebrated double murder case.
When I told Daddy I was going to get married when I was 22, the expected fireworks ensued. It didn't help that he was a devout Muslim and my fiancee (who would later become my first husband) was Jewish. The fact that this was happening shortly after the conclusion of the Gulf War didn't help, either. My Dad was up in arms, accusing my ex of being a "member of the Mossad", calling him out to a duel at Fort Bonifacio, "Invectives at 50 paces, whoever wins gets my daughter". But through all this, he knew that I had already made up my mind, and eventually acquiesced to meeting my fiancee. However, Daddy still had the final word, pointedly telling his future son-in-law that his daughter "comes from a family of Muslim terrorists".
That marriage ended up breaking apart after six years. Through it all, I expected my Dad to say "I told you so", but he never did. And I loved him all the more for it.
When I first met Lorenzo, he was a typical "AmBoy", coming back from the States to try his luck at show business in the Philippines. He had done a few movies with the help of his showbiz cousins, the Santiagos (as in Randy, Raymart and Rowell), and his manager, Ronnie Henares, and was about to embark on a successful modeling career. Of course, this was enough to raise red flags in my father, who called me, cautioning me "not to fall for another pretty face". When I pooh-poohed his advice, he fell back to his usual tactics, threatening to have someone "shoot that boy". By then, I was already used to my Dad's tough talk. I knew I would wear him down eventually. When I heard him make a joke about Lorenzo's infamous "Kenny Rogers" commercial, telling my half-brother that all he has to do to gain muscles was "eat muffins", I knew a breakthrough was in sight.
Lorenzo managed to charm his way into my father's heart. I think Daddy saw what was long apparent to the rest of my family. After trial-and-error, his eldest daughter had finally found her one true love, and he was equally devoted to her. Daddy eventually softened under Lorenzo's earnest efforts to win his approval. At first, my Dad didn't quite know how to react to Lorenzo, who always greeted him with a mano. It was comical to see my father hold out his hand awkwardly, obviously ill-at-ease at this greeting, traditionally given to elders. But he learned to take this as a form of respect, not ridicule, graciously offering his hand in time.
When Lorenzo and I found out I was pregnant, we started making plans to move back to the States. My Dad was saddened to find out I was moving away again, this time for good. I can still remember him, quiet and brooding, during our despedida. He tried to put up a brave front, singing when it was his turn at karaoke and joking around with family members, but I would catch him looking at me with a sad smile on his face, and I could see the tears weren't far away. When I would go to him, asking him if he was alright, he would just hold my hand tightly, saying nothing. It still pulls at my heart to remember this now.
We ended up moving our departure to a later date, to accommodate the shooting of Lorenzo's last commercial, for Vicks. Two days before we left, I threw a party for our family at Trader's Hotel, where Lorenzo and I spent our last days in the Philippines. My Dad had just gone through his first round of chelation therapy that day, and he was feeling out of sorts. I remember he was sneezing the whole time, and my sisters and I were teasing him about it. After dinner, we girls went up to our suite for some last minute pabilins, and Lorenzo and my brother-in-law, Charlie, stayed at the hotel lobby, having coffee with my Dad.
Later that night, Lorenzo told me that their topic of discussion was, of all things, death. My father told them he wasn't afraid of dying, because he believed it was just "moving to another state of consciousness". Even then, I was already ill-at-ease, thinking my Dad might've had a premonition of something coming. "Was this his way of telling us something was about to happen?" I wondered, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
The next day (our last day in Manila), my Dad called us again, telling us he'd treat us to a shabu-shabu dinner at the nearby Pan Pacific Hotel. My sister, Maya, and her husband, Charlie, joined us. My Dad was in good spirits the whole evening, having shaken off his cold. He even did a little dance step on our way down to our cars, to everyone's delight. I had always told Lorenzo that my Dad danced funny, and here he was, giving an actual demonstration!
When we got to the hotel entrance, we took some last pictures, and said our goodbyes. For some reason, I couldn't accept that this was, indeed, farewell, so I kept an eagle eye out for them, even after boarding our car. We saw them again outside the hotel, and stopped beside their parking space. I quickly jumped out of my car and gave my sister and father one last hug. This was the last time I would ever see Daddy alive.
Our trip back to the States was far from uneventful. Hours into our Japan Airlines flight, we felt the plane make a sudden turn. It was one of those sensations that felt somewhat ominous, and sure enough, minutes later, we heard the pilot over the PA system. He explained that we were turning back to Narita because Engine 2 was completely dead, and we couldn't make it across the Pacific Ocean with only one working engine. It was a silent, tension-filled flight back to Tokyo, the severity of the situation confirmed by the presence of many emergency vehicles waiting for us at the tarmac. We ended up boarding another Japan Airlines flight to San Francisco, and got there in relative safety. Upon reaching terra firma, my first inclination was to call my Dad, but faced with the daunting task of unpacking all of our things at our new townhouse, I inadvertently ended up putting it off.
All throughout our first week here, there was a little voice at the back of my head, telling me to call Daddy. But since we had just moved into our new home and the phone service wasn't connected yet, it was impossible for me to do this easily. We were also very busy establishing a new household, buying all the necessary furniture, utensils and appliances. We were starting a new life, and had to build everything from scratch.
It was such a stressful time that I started spotting in my 30th week of pregnancy. Lorenzo took me to the emergency room, and my OB-Gyn ordered a level 2 ultrasound. It was then that we found out we were having a boy. If it had turned out to be a girl, I would've rushed to find the nearest phone card to call Daddy, knowing he wanted a granddaughter. But since I was having a son, I thought it could wait. I also didn't want to worry him, knowing he'd be concerned about my emergency room visit.
My Dad passed away a few days later, on October 18, 1999, just eight days after Lorenzo and I left for the States for good. He was just 59 when it happened. It was very sudden, and to this day, I'm still not clear if it was a heart attack or a stroke. One of my biggest regrets was not being able to return home for his funeral. By then, I was already seven months pregnant with Lance, and no airline would take me at such an advanced state of gestation.
There is a Filipino adage which goes "nasa huli ang pagsisisi" , which roughly translates to "regrets always come in the end". If only I would've called my Dad when we first arrived in the States, just to hear his voice again. And to think I had eight whole days to do it. I had every chance of catching him, still vibrant and alive. But instead, I procrastinated, and paid the final price.
Ironically, I would later know how it would've felt to talk to him one last time, when I called his mother, my Lola Luz, just hours before she passed away. My lola also sounded so vibrant and alive, still able to impart her favorite recipes to me at the age of 87. It was shattering news when I found out Lola Luz died in her sleep, just hours after we talked. But I thanked the Lord that in this case, I was able to tell her I loved her one more time.
Now that I look back, I guess it's funny (in a poignant sort of way) that when I gave my Dad that one last pahabol hug, it DID cross my mind that it might be our final meeting. But I just brushed it aside as a morbid thought and said a quick prayer, lifting him up to the Lord. In the light of what happened, I thank God that I was at least able to say my goodbyes to Daddy, that last day, at the Pan Pacific parking lot. This provided some sort of closure for me. My two sisters, Maya and Haya, weren't given that opportunity. He was such a part of their lives that they took it for granted he would be there again tomorrow, and the day after. It is when things like this happen that you realize how transient life really is.
I haven't gone back home since October 1999. A part of me is afraid to finally face the cold reality of Daddy's passing, the inevitablilty of which will finally hit me when I see his grave for the first time. I'm not sure if I'm ready for that yet. In fact, I'm not sure if I'll ever be ready.
What I really miss most about my Daddy is hearing his voice. I wish that he was still around so that I could share the joys of this pregnancy with him, even if it was just over the phone. He would've been delighted to find out he was finally getting a granddaughter. But I guess deep in my heart, I know he already knows. In fact, he probably knew about my new baby daughter even before we found out I was pregnant. I could almost see the twinkle in his eye, knowing I would be thrilled with the coming surprise.
This one's for you, Daddy. I love you!
Today was supposed to be my Dad's 64th birthday.
My Dad was born in Mindanao, in the beautiful mountain city of Marawi, close to the shores of Lake Lanao. His parents were both University professors, pioneers of the venerable Mindanao State University. My Lola Luz was once Dean of the English Department, and my Lolo Pinong had an entire building on campus named after him. My Dad and his brother, my Uncle Bing, had a happy childhood in Marawi, despite being born shortly before the outbreak of World War 2. In fact, the most disturbing story I've heard about my Dad's early days was when he ate a cockroach as a toddler, thinking it was a prune.
Even as a young boy, my Dad already had a naughty streak in him. One of my favorite stories was my Lola's account of what happened one particularly hot summer, when my Dad got my Uncle Bing in trouble by telling him he knew of a secret swimming pool. The two boys spent their afternoons in this secluded spot for the most of the summer, returning cool and refreshed before supper. It was only after a chance encounter with another faculty member that my grandparents discovered that the "secret swimming hole" was actually the University's drinking water tank!
This propensity for mischief would carry on to his college days. Once, upon knowing one of his friends was smitten with a girl named Jenny, he suggested that his friend send her flowers. When his friend was addressing the bouquet, he realized he didn't even know Jenny's last name, so he asked my Dad if he knew what it was. Without missing a beat, my Dad responded, "Talya", thinking the guy would get the joke. Unfortunately, our love-struck Romeo was too enamored to pay attention, and suffered the cold shoulder from Jenny ever since.
My Dad was also passionate about certain causes, and one of these was Mindanao. His mother, my Lola Luz, was a refined Ilongga from Negros, but his father, my Lolo Pinong was a noble Tausug from Sulo. Despite his parents' conversion and their devout adherence to Christianity, my father chose to go back to his Muslim roots. He was proud to be a sharif, a descendant of Mohammed, and often chose to forego his given name, Joel, preferring to be addressed by his Muslim name, Jalal.
My Dad was also a secretive man, an enigma to many. It was only when I was 22, and about to get married for the first time, that I discovered that he was one of the founders of the MNLF (Moro National Liberation Front). I didn't even find this out from him. It was my Uncle Abul Alonto who spilled the beans. I wasn't too surprised. My Dad was a known activist during his UP days. When my mother went into labor with me, it was my Uncle Abul and Nur Misuari who rushed her to the hospital because my Dad was busy leading a vigil in front of Malacanang in protest of the Jabidah Massacre in Corregidor. In fact, I would later find out it was actually my Dad who composed the Bangsamoro national anthem, still in use to this day.
During the early martial law days, my Dad and my Mom moved their fledgling family to Baguio. They took on teaching positions in UP Baguio while my Mom worked on her Master's degree. I remember tense nights in our house, the only times I'd ever seen my Dad with a gun. We would sometimes harbor fugitive activists, wanted by the Marcos administration, and an unfamiliar knock in the middle of the night would put the household in a state of near-panic. But the nights would give way to sunny days, where my Dad and I would go for long walks together. One of our favorite pastimes was stopping every now and then at a gumamela bush to serenade the flowers. I still remember our simple song:
Red and white gumamela, red and white gumamela,
There is no other flower as beautiful as you.
One day, my Dad and I went horseback-riding. I must've been four or five then, and I fell off my horse, spraining my ankle. Daddy ended up carrying me in his arms all the way home. Years later, he would tell me how guilty he still felt whenever he remembered that incident.
My Dad had always worn his heart on his sleeve, especially when it came to his daughters. He wrote songs for all of us, delighting in playing them on the piano whenever we would request for them. All three of us, me and my sisters Maya and Haya, were always very malambing to him, showering him with hugs and kisses, even as grown adults. Because that's how he was towards us. Very malambing, very karinyoso. I guess it was my Lola's Ilonggo blood which accounted for it.
Whenever any of his girls would go out-of-town for camping trips with their Girl Scout leagues, my Dad would always show up to visit us. When I was in 6th grade, we went camping in Baguio. I was surprised to see him there, "just checking up on his eldest daughter". It was during this trip that I was named Miss International Night, wearing a Muslim malong costume. I was proud to tell him about it when I saw him, because I knew he would be happy that I had showcased our Muslim roots.
However, my Dad was Muslim only up to a certain point. And when his precious daughters were concerned, he could overlook certain traditions which weren't favorable to our welfare. For instance, most of my female Muslim cousins had arranged marriages when they were barely teenagers, in the tradition of the Muslim royal families in the south. When I was 15, my Dad, who had business dealings in Brunei at the time, received a marriage proposal from a prominent member of the Brunei Royal Family. It seemed that this man, who was old enough to be my father, wanted to ask for my hand in marriage and was ready to pay a handsome dowry. My Dad politely refused.
When I finally joined RPN News as a TV newscaster, nobody was prouder than Daddy. He used to joke that it wasn't too long ago when I was known as "Joel's daughter". Now they referred to him as "Renee's Dad". I wasn't sure if this was just bola from him, but I was tickled pink anyway.
Daddy used to watch all my newscasts, and he was my most infuriating critic. It wasn't unusual to receive a call from him when I'd come down from the studios, hearing his familiar voice saying, "You know you said 'twuck' instead of 'truck'?". And then he'd talk like Tweety Bird for the rest of the conversation, teasingly replacing all his R's with W's. Sometimes, he would invite me over to his place for dinner. Other times, he would ask me to "break bread" with him somewhere else. Our most recent favored watering hole was Cafe Havana in Adriatico. We would sit in a corner, preferably by the window, I would order my usual spare ribs and he would order his Ropa Vieja, and we would people-watch while waiting for our food.
Of course, my Dad, being the doting father he is, hated all of his daughters' boyfriends. His first reaction whenever he would hear of a new suitor would be, "I will shoot him." He gave all the guys in our lives a pretty hard time, and it took almost forever to win his approval. When I got my first boyfriend in High School, he did a full background check on the boy's affluent family, and told me to stay away from them like the plague. Years later, his suspicions would be confirmed, when my ex-boyfriend's older brother was indicted as the mastermind behind a celebrated double murder case.
When I told Daddy I was going to get married when I was 22, the expected fireworks ensued. It didn't help that he was a devout Muslim and my fiancee (who would later become my first husband) was Jewish. The fact that this was happening shortly after the conclusion of the Gulf War didn't help, either. My Dad was up in arms, accusing my ex of being a "member of the Mossad", calling him out to a duel at Fort Bonifacio, "Invectives at 50 paces, whoever wins gets my daughter". But through all this, he knew that I had already made up my mind, and eventually acquiesced to meeting my fiancee. However, Daddy still had the final word, pointedly telling his future son-in-law that his daughter "comes from a family of Muslim terrorists".
That marriage ended up breaking apart after six years. Through it all, I expected my Dad to say "I told you so", but he never did. And I loved him all the more for it.
When I first met Lorenzo, he was a typical "AmBoy", coming back from the States to try his luck at show business in the Philippines. He had done a few movies with the help of his showbiz cousins, the Santiagos (as in Randy, Raymart and Rowell), and his manager, Ronnie Henares, and was about to embark on a successful modeling career. Of course, this was enough to raise red flags in my father, who called me, cautioning me "not to fall for another pretty face". When I pooh-poohed his advice, he fell back to his usual tactics, threatening to have someone "shoot that boy". By then, I was already used to my Dad's tough talk. I knew I would wear him down eventually. When I heard him make a joke about Lorenzo's infamous "Kenny Rogers" commercial, telling my half-brother that all he has to do to gain muscles was "eat muffins", I knew a breakthrough was in sight.
Lorenzo managed to charm his way into my father's heart. I think Daddy saw what was long apparent to the rest of my family. After trial-and-error, his eldest daughter had finally found her one true love, and he was equally devoted to her. Daddy eventually softened under Lorenzo's earnest efforts to win his approval. At first, my Dad didn't quite know how to react to Lorenzo, who always greeted him with a mano. It was comical to see my father hold out his hand awkwardly, obviously ill-at-ease at this greeting, traditionally given to elders. But he learned to take this as a form of respect, not ridicule, graciously offering his hand in time.
When Lorenzo and I found out I was pregnant, we started making plans to move back to the States. My Dad was saddened to find out I was moving away again, this time for good. I can still remember him, quiet and brooding, during our despedida. He tried to put up a brave front, singing when it was his turn at karaoke and joking around with family members, but I would catch him looking at me with a sad smile on his face, and I could see the tears weren't far away. When I would go to him, asking him if he was alright, he would just hold my hand tightly, saying nothing. It still pulls at my heart to remember this now.
We ended up moving our departure to a later date, to accommodate the shooting of Lorenzo's last commercial, for Vicks. Two days before we left, I threw a party for our family at Trader's Hotel, where Lorenzo and I spent our last days in the Philippines. My Dad had just gone through his first round of chelation therapy that day, and he was feeling out of sorts. I remember he was sneezing the whole time, and my sisters and I were teasing him about it. After dinner, we girls went up to our suite for some last minute pabilins, and Lorenzo and my brother-in-law, Charlie, stayed at the hotel lobby, having coffee with my Dad.
Later that night, Lorenzo told me that their topic of discussion was, of all things, death. My father told them he wasn't afraid of dying, because he believed it was just "moving to another state of consciousness". Even then, I was already ill-at-ease, thinking my Dad might've had a premonition of something coming. "Was this his way of telling us something was about to happen?" I wondered, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
The next day (our last day in Manila), my Dad called us again, telling us he'd treat us to a shabu-shabu dinner at the nearby Pan Pacific Hotel. My sister, Maya, and her husband, Charlie, joined us. My Dad was in good spirits the whole evening, having shaken off his cold. He even did a little dance step on our way down to our cars, to everyone's delight. I had always told Lorenzo that my Dad danced funny, and here he was, giving an actual demonstration!
When we got to the hotel entrance, we took some last pictures, and said our goodbyes. For some reason, I couldn't accept that this was, indeed, farewell, so I kept an eagle eye out for them, even after boarding our car. We saw them again outside the hotel, and stopped beside their parking space. I quickly jumped out of my car and gave my sister and father one last hug. This was the last time I would ever see Daddy alive.
Our trip back to the States was far from uneventful. Hours into our Japan Airlines flight, we felt the plane make a sudden turn. It was one of those sensations that felt somewhat ominous, and sure enough, minutes later, we heard the pilot over the PA system. He explained that we were turning back to Narita because Engine 2 was completely dead, and we couldn't make it across the Pacific Ocean with only one working engine. It was a silent, tension-filled flight back to Tokyo, the severity of the situation confirmed by the presence of many emergency vehicles waiting for us at the tarmac. We ended up boarding another Japan Airlines flight to San Francisco, and got there in relative safety. Upon reaching terra firma, my first inclination was to call my Dad, but faced with the daunting task of unpacking all of our things at our new townhouse, I inadvertently ended up putting it off.
All throughout our first week here, there was a little voice at the back of my head, telling me to call Daddy. But since we had just moved into our new home and the phone service wasn't connected yet, it was impossible for me to do this easily. We were also very busy establishing a new household, buying all the necessary furniture, utensils and appliances. We were starting a new life, and had to build everything from scratch.
It was such a stressful time that I started spotting in my 30th week of pregnancy. Lorenzo took me to the emergency room, and my OB-Gyn ordered a level 2 ultrasound. It was then that we found out we were having a boy. If it had turned out to be a girl, I would've rushed to find the nearest phone card to call Daddy, knowing he wanted a granddaughter. But since I was having a son, I thought it could wait. I also didn't want to worry him, knowing he'd be concerned about my emergency room visit.
My Dad passed away a few days later, on October 18, 1999, just eight days after Lorenzo and I left for the States for good. He was just 59 when it happened. It was very sudden, and to this day, I'm still not clear if it was a heart attack or a stroke. One of my biggest regrets was not being able to return home for his funeral. By then, I was already seven months pregnant with Lance, and no airline would take me at such an advanced state of gestation.
There is a Filipino adage which goes "nasa huli ang pagsisisi" , which roughly translates to "regrets always come in the end". If only I would've called my Dad when we first arrived in the States, just to hear his voice again. And to think I had eight whole days to do it. I had every chance of catching him, still vibrant and alive. But instead, I procrastinated, and paid the final price.
Ironically, I would later know how it would've felt to talk to him one last time, when I called his mother, my Lola Luz, just hours before she passed away. My lola also sounded so vibrant and alive, still able to impart her favorite recipes to me at the age of 87. It was shattering news when I found out Lola Luz died in her sleep, just hours after we talked. But I thanked the Lord that in this case, I was able to tell her I loved her one more time.
Now that I look back, I guess it's funny (in a poignant sort of way) that when I gave my Dad that one last pahabol hug, it DID cross my mind that it might be our final meeting. But I just brushed it aside as a morbid thought and said a quick prayer, lifting him up to the Lord. In the light of what happened, I thank God that I was at least able to say my goodbyes to Daddy, that last day, at the Pan Pacific parking lot. This provided some sort of closure for me. My two sisters, Maya and Haya, weren't given that opportunity. He was such a part of their lives that they took it for granted he would be there again tomorrow, and the day after. It is when things like this happen that you realize how transient life really is.
I haven't gone back home since October 1999. A part of me is afraid to finally face the cold reality of Daddy's passing, the inevitablilty of which will finally hit me when I see his grave for the first time. I'm not sure if I'm ready for that yet. In fact, I'm not sure if I'll ever be ready.
What I really miss most about my Daddy is hearing his voice. I wish that he was still around so that I could share the joys of this pregnancy with him, even if it was just over the phone. He would've been delighted to find out he was finally getting a granddaughter. But I guess deep in my heart, I know he already knows. In fact, he probably knew about my new baby daughter even before we found out I was pregnant. I could almost see the twinkle in his eye, knowing I would be thrilled with the coming surprise.
This one's for you, Daddy. I love you!
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