Thursday, October 26, 2006
One Day In History
I submitted a blog entry for a UK-wide project called One Day in History. Check it out at http://www.historymatters.org.uk/. It features entries on 17 Oct 2006, providing a snapshot of ordinary life in Britain on that day in time. You can read my entry here.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
My New 'Do
Won a raffle last week: 50% off on a cut-and-blowdry service at our town's best salon. Haircuts cost an arm and a leg here, if you must know. Since I'd been meaning to have my hair drastically made over from the rut it was in, I rejoiced at the win and immediately booked my appointment.
So I had my hair restyled last Saturday into a slightly longer version of a pixie cut. Think Alyssa Milano, Winona Ryder, Natalie Portman-- except mine is not as cropped. Maybe sort of like N. Tonks in the Harry Potter books. I love my new 'do! It's supershort, cool, trendy, and what's more, it's absolutely wash and wear. I can make it as flat or as messy as I want it to be, just by using my fingers. O and B loved it right away, but for the first five hours after my haircut, my two-year-old E refused to believe that I was indeed his Nanay! He wouldn't let me carry him, much less feed him or play with him. He kept stealing furtive glances at me, as if to ask, what have you done to my mum? Finally, after we got home, he seemed to accept that it was really me. Funny!
So I had my hair restyled last Saturday into a slightly longer version of a pixie cut. Think Alyssa Milano, Winona Ryder, Natalie Portman-- except mine is not as cropped. Maybe sort of like N. Tonks in the Harry Potter books. I love my new 'do! It's supershort, cool, trendy, and what's more, it's absolutely wash and wear. I can make it as flat or as messy as I want it to be, just by using my fingers. O and B loved it right away, but for the first five hours after my haircut, my two-year-old E refused to believe that I was indeed his Nanay! He wouldn't let me carry him, much less feed him or play with him. He kept stealing furtive glances at me, as if to ask, what have you done to my mum? Finally, after we got home, he seemed to accept that it was really me. Funny!
Thursday, October 05, 2006
My Father's Hands
It has been three years today since my father died. Three years on, and I'm still grieving, I'm still crying, I'm still missing him... I still remember the phone ringing at 5 am, with a neighbour on the other end, telling us that Daddy had been rushed to the nearby hospital. One massive stroke, that's all it took to change my family’s world forever. Despite being on complete bedrest due to a high-risk second pregnancy, I was able to kiss my dad's cheek one last time as his body lay lifeless in the ER. I attended the wake, and I was there on the eve of his funeral, when everyone said what they wanted to say about him for the last time. This was what I said:
My Father's Hands
It is always difficult to know what to say at wakes or funerals, whether you are the one grieving or the one consoling. Should one speak of acceptance, of happy memories, of prayers, or of regrets? I choose to speak tonight of thanksgiving and gratitude to the Lord for Daddy’s life, and even more so, for his manner of death.
One of the things I am thankful for is that, though Daddy’s leaving was sudden, unexpected and painful to us, it was still a peaceful death. No violence, no trauma, no suffering. He woke up feeling sick, with a headache, and then, after a brief period of pain, he fell back to sleep – this time, an eternal one.
I am thankful that God honoured my Dad’s often-verbalised wish that when his time comes, he would prefer to leave swiftly rather than linger on as half a man, unable to move or take care of himself, with senses dulled and reflexes slowed. To the very end, kami pa rin ang iniisip ni Daddy. Ayaw nya kaming pahirapan. He didn’t want to be a burden to us or to anybody. And so he left, in full strength of mind and body, desiring to spare us from having to take care of him if he had survived his stroke—something which we would have been all too happy to do for him, had he given us a chance. But no, Daddy had always been selfless and, at the same time, fiercely independent. He would not have chosen to stay if it meant that he would have had to be the patient instead of the caregiver. I can just imagine him saying, “Alagaan nyo na lang ang mga bata, ‘wag na ako.”
I am also thankful that, before he was so suddenly taken from us, God had already given us many opportunities to openly express and communicate our love for Daddy. How many times have we heard bereaved people saying, “How I wish I had told him I loved him BEFORE he died?” Well, in our case, the pain and the suddenness of Daddy’s death is somehow soothed by the knowledge that he KNEW just how much we love him, even before he left. He knew, because we told him so. We honoured him, threw a party for him, texted him, called him up, served him, visited him. We told him, plainly and clearly, that we love him. How happy I am that we had not been embarrassed to say “I love you” to Daddy in his last years on earth! That we had not wasted the opportunities given us to hug him, serve him and let him know just how much we looked up to him! That we had not shied away from thanking him for giving us the best years of his life, for working hard for our sake, for raising us up well, for being a great father to us!
I also count as a great blessing the fact that Daddy himself grabbed many opportunities to express his love to all of us. As a young father, he may have been too shy to actually say “I love you” to any of us, but lately, in the past couple of years, he had been quite vocal and open about his love for us. For example, he texted me an “I love you” for Valentine’s and wrote me his love on a recent birthday card. He was especially loving to his four grandchildren, and he delighted in exchanging “I love you’s” with them at all hours of the day. The week before he died, he was in and out of our houses everyday, visiting us, making what was to be his final rounds among us. My family and I can tell you many stories of all the strange, loving and wonderful things he did for us and with us the week before he died, and even up to now. ‘Dy, don’t worry, alam namin kung gaano mo kami kamahal. We love you, too.
I’d like to honour my Dad for one outstanding feature which I will best remember about him – his hands. The image of my Daddy’s hands remains one of my earliest childhood memories. His hands were strong, brown and manly. One look at his firm, dependable hands, and I would instantly feel safe and secure. I believed he could fix anything, whether it was broken or not. Nothing bad could happen to me while my Dad was around. His hands would take care of me.
Daddy’s hands were versatile and all-purpose. They were strong, and at the same time, gentle. Firm, but forgiving. They could, as I mentioned, fix anything – from electronics to engines, to antennas, to toys. They could compose and type out brilliant legal documents to win cases in court, they could write sharp and insightful letters to newspaper editors, and they could also fill a hand-picked birthday card with loving words and thoughts for an only daughter. They could teach me and my brothers the safe and proper way to handle, aim and fire a gun, for he was a sharpshooter himself. But those deft and skillful hands could also be playful and nimble enough to play a silly vanishing-coin routine with his unsuspecting grandchildren. The hands with such a sure and steady grip on the steering wheel were the same hands which would cook and peel my favourite “hipon” for me, even without being asked. The hands which taught me how to flap my feet properly when swimming were also quick to pull out precious cash from his wallet whenever he saw that I was in need.
His hands were game enough to hold a microphone as he yodelled out his favourite songs on the videoke, but they were also artistic and precise enough to capture moments and memories on film, beautiful images seen through an eye which missed nothing. His hands were skilled in setting up and focusing his telescope so we could all marvel at the beauty of the night sky, and they were also nurturing enough to plant and water fruit-bearing trees and flowering plants on any available piece of land, coaxing them to grow, bloom and bear fruit.
His hands were strong enough to swing a little girl up high in the air, and yet were gentle enough to remove a splinter from a crying daughter’s finger. His hands could point an unswerving finger at you if you did wrong, but they were also quick to open up, to hold you, forgive you, and pat you on the back once you said you were sorry. They were tender enough to cradle and caress his grandchildren. And they were humble enough to be raised up in prayer to God.
What a shock it still is for me to see Daddy’s hands, his once-warm, once-busy hands, now suddenly lying cold, still and lifeless. I will never forget my father’s hands. And neither, I think, will my mom or my brothers. ‘Dy, I want you to know that we will continue the love and the work which your hands began in us, and we will teach our children the lessons, values and actions which we learned from you.
How true the words of Morrie Schwartz: “Death ends a life, not a relationship.” Daddy may have gone ahead of us, but he will always be Daddy to us. His hands will continue to guide us, even from beyond the grave, until we are re-united with him in Heaven.
Until we meet again in Jesus, Daddy. Godspeed.
+ Requiescat In Pace. Atty Nescito C. Hilario. 20 March 1947 – 05 October 2003
My Father's Hands
It is always difficult to know what to say at wakes or funerals, whether you are the one grieving or the one consoling. Should one speak of acceptance, of happy memories, of prayers, or of regrets? I choose to speak tonight of thanksgiving and gratitude to the Lord for Daddy’s life, and even more so, for his manner of death.
One of the things I am thankful for is that, though Daddy’s leaving was sudden, unexpected and painful to us, it was still a peaceful death. No violence, no trauma, no suffering. He woke up feeling sick, with a headache, and then, after a brief period of pain, he fell back to sleep – this time, an eternal one.
I am thankful that God honoured my Dad’s often-verbalised wish that when his time comes, he would prefer to leave swiftly rather than linger on as half a man, unable to move or take care of himself, with senses dulled and reflexes slowed. To the very end, kami pa rin ang iniisip ni Daddy. Ayaw nya kaming pahirapan. He didn’t want to be a burden to us or to anybody. And so he left, in full strength of mind and body, desiring to spare us from having to take care of him if he had survived his stroke—something which we would have been all too happy to do for him, had he given us a chance. But no, Daddy had always been selfless and, at the same time, fiercely independent. He would not have chosen to stay if it meant that he would have had to be the patient instead of the caregiver. I can just imagine him saying, “Alagaan nyo na lang ang mga bata, ‘wag na ako.”
I am also thankful that, before he was so suddenly taken from us, God had already given us many opportunities to openly express and communicate our love for Daddy. How many times have we heard bereaved people saying, “How I wish I had told him I loved him BEFORE he died?” Well, in our case, the pain and the suddenness of Daddy’s death is somehow soothed by the knowledge that he KNEW just how much we love him, even before he left. He knew, because we told him so. We honoured him, threw a party for him, texted him, called him up, served him, visited him. We told him, plainly and clearly, that we love him. How happy I am that we had not been embarrassed to say “I love you” to Daddy in his last years on earth! That we had not wasted the opportunities given us to hug him, serve him and let him know just how much we looked up to him! That we had not shied away from thanking him for giving us the best years of his life, for working hard for our sake, for raising us up well, for being a great father to us!
I also count as a great blessing the fact that Daddy himself grabbed many opportunities to express his love to all of us. As a young father, he may have been too shy to actually say “I love you” to any of us, but lately, in the past couple of years, he had been quite vocal and open about his love for us. For example, he texted me an “I love you” for Valentine’s and wrote me his love on a recent birthday card. He was especially loving to his four grandchildren, and he delighted in exchanging “I love you’s” with them at all hours of the day. The week before he died, he was in and out of our houses everyday, visiting us, making what was to be his final rounds among us. My family and I can tell you many stories of all the strange, loving and wonderful things he did for us and with us the week before he died, and even up to now. ‘Dy, don’t worry, alam namin kung gaano mo kami kamahal. We love you, too.
I’d like to honour my Dad for one outstanding feature which I will best remember about him – his hands. The image of my Daddy’s hands remains one of my earliest childhood memories. His hands were strong, brown and manly. One look at his firm, dependable hands, and I would instantly feel safe and secure. I believed he could fix anything, whether it was broken or not. Nothing bad could happen to me while my Dad was around. His hands would take care of me.
Daddy’s hands were versatile and all-purpose. They were strong, and at the same time, gentle. Firm, but forgiving. They could, as I mentioned, fix anything – from electronics to engines, to antennas, to toys. They could compose and type out brilliant legal documents to win cases in court, they could write sharp and insightful letters to newspaper editors, and they could also fill a hand-picked birthday card with loving words and thoughts for an only daughter. They could teach me and my brothers the safe and proper way to handle, aim and fire a gun, for he was a sharpshooter himself. But those deft and skillful hands could also be playful and nimble enough to play a silly vanishing-coin routine with his unsuspecting grandchildren. The hands with such a sure and steady grip on the steering wheel were the same hands which would cook and peel my favourite “hipon” for me, even without being asked. The hands which taught me how to flap my feet properly when swimming were also quick to pull out precious cash from his wallet whenever he saw that I was in need.
His hands were game enough to hold a microphone as he yodelled out his favourite songs on the videoke, but they were also artistic and precise enough to capture moments and memories on film, beautiful images seen through an eye which missed nothing. His hands were skilled in setting up and focusing his telescope so we could all marvel at the beauty of the night sky, and they were also nurturing enough to plant and water fruit-bearing trees and flowering plants on any available piece of land, coaxing them to grow, bloom and bear fruit.
His hands were strong enough to swing a little girl up high in the air, and yet were gentle enough to remove a splinter from a crying daughter’s finger. His hands could point an unswerving finger at you if you did wrong, but they were also quick to open up, to hold you, forgive you, and pat you on the back once you said you were sorry. They were tender enough to cradle and caress his grandchildren. And they were humble enough to be raised up in prayer to God.
What a shock it still is for me to see Daddy’s hands, his once-warm, once-busy hands, now suddenly lying cold, still and lifeless. I will never forget my father’s hands. And neither, I think, will my mom or my brothers. ‘Dy, I want you to know that we will continue the love and the work which your hands began in us, and we will teach our children the lessons, values and actions which we learned from you.
How true the words of Morrie Schwartz: “Death ends a life, not a relationship.” Daddy may have gone ahead of us, but he will always be Daddy to us. His hands will continue to guide us, even from beyond the grave, until we are re-united with him in Heaven.
Until we meet again in Jesus, Daddy. Godspeed.
+ Requiescat In Pace. Atty Nescito C. Hilario. 20 March 1947 – 05 October 2003
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