Thursday, December 14, 2006

Last night, my Dad came home from Cebu. While perhaps most daughters would be glad about this, I was but left feeling otherwise. There's always this feeling of unease when he's around, as if some stranger came to visit. And I don't like it at all.

When he arrives, he wouldn't even greet us, he'd go straight to his room, change his clothes, play with the dog for a while, shoot a derisive comment or two (at me), then leave the house to play majong or tong-its with his friends. It has always been the same routine, and sometimes, out of nowhere, he would scold us for no valid reason, and because I am who I am, I would shoot back - and we would end up fighting over something that wasn't even a real issue to begin with.

God knows I try so hard to understand him and his situation. I know that I just have to deal with his moods or whatever, but I just couldn't. What hurts me the most is the fact that we once had a seemingly perfect relationship.

In the year 2004, my Dad suffered a stroke. I was told that oxygen couldn't reach his brain because of the foreign substances blocking his arteries. After hearing the news from my mother, who was hurriedly packing her things for Cebu, I felt as if my world fell apart. I loved my Father so much, and I didn't want to lose him. I offered to come with her, but I was in my senior year of high school and I could not afford to miss classes. It upset me that I couldn't be with my Dad in that crucial time, but my Mom assured me that he was going to be ok.

I remember crying for several hours inside my room as images and ideas of losing him entered my mind like crazy. I was sixteen, and it was too early to lose a Father. He was always the one I ran to when Mom was being hysterical, and the one I would ask money from when Mom was being her parsimonious self. I would give him hugs and kisses when he came home, and when I did something good in school, I would braggingly tell him about it, and he would kid about me lying or exaggerating things again.

Fear was what I had to battle... fear of losing all of these, and ultimately, fear of losing my Father.

He was hospitalized for weeks, and with each day that passed, I prayed for his life.

When my Mom called me and told me they'd be going home in a few more days and that Dad was ok, I felt rejuvinated. Knowing that my Dad was fine has become my saving grace.

There was one tiny problem though... he doesn't remember us.

Amnesia? No. He couldn't remember our names, but he knew we exist. He couldn't remember names of animals, names of food, names of vehicles, names of almost EVERYTHING. And since he refused to undergo therapy, he had to deal with his handicap himself.

Never did I expect that this little, puny detail that was brought about by the stroke would change my life forever.

We all saw it. The change. My Dad wasn't the same as before. The old Dad was much more jolly, effervescent and cool. Instead, what came in his place was a grumpy, irritable, and narrow-minded guy who seemed to not know who we were.

He was different, far, FAR different before the stroke. It was as if he suddenly forgot who I was, or the relationship we shared. He gradually viewed me as someone else. And never did it enter my mind that he would be thinking that way.

He suddenly kept on scolding me about my studies (apparently, my grades were too low), about my extra-curriculars (the reason for my grades being low) , about my friends (whom he fondly called "mga loko-loko", and he accused me of being "pabaya" and not listening to him anymore. Before, he was contented with what I can do in school, very proud of my achievements, and he would happily greet my friends who came over to the house.

My dad became a stranger... to me, at least.

October of last year, I experienced a motorcycle accident. My mother was by my side, telling me that my Dad was going to be ok with it, since I never meant for all those to happen. I went home, fearful of what my Dad might say.

After my mother told him the news, he went outside of their room (I was in the sala), and shot a fierce look at me, cut the gaze and spoke, "Kaya nga ba wala na akong ka-amor amor diyan sa batang iyan, eh. Wala na. She's dead for me."

Those words will forever be etched in my memory. It was the day I found out the painful truth about my father.

I cried my heart out inside my room, my mother beside me, crying as well.

I didn't sleep home that night. And I didn't talk to my Dad for months. Not a word. Not even a glance. I experienced not eating together with the family, even during Christmas and New Year.

I hated my Dad. And hate was such an understatement.

It's been more than two years since my Dad's stroke. Back then, I prayed for his safety, for his life. I was afraid he was never going home. I was afraid I would lose him.

Did God really answer my prayers?

All I know is that yes, my Dad DID go home, but he never really came back.

And even if he's here and I see him - alive, I feel like I've lost my father after all.