During the short time my dad was battling cancer and when he finally succumbed to it, I kept getting comments from friends on how they admire me for handling the situation really well. Some of them even said that they would be in a worse state than I was if they were in my shoes. They say this because when they came to visit my Dad in the hospital, and some others at the wake, they didn’t seem to find any trace of sadness in my face. They find it odd that I look “okay” while I explain to them Papa’s case as though I’m not affected by it.

But the truth is, I was (I am) extremely affected by it. I was just happy to see friends who came to extend their condolences that I was more concerned with showing them how much I appreciate them than making them feel uncomfortable. I’m not one to go hysterical in front of people so when I faced my friends at the hospital and at the funeral, I had to be strong and put on a smile. A friend of mine almost didn’t speak to me because she didn’t know what to say. I just told her that I understood, there’s no need to worry.

The truth is, I can no longer count the times I’ve cried over my Dad. But let me try:

I cried in the hospital that day in December when the doctor broke the news that Papa has stage 4 cancer. I cried when he was discharged from the hospital the next day and that night when I kept myself up because I wanted to watch over him while he slept. I cried while I was surfing the web reading articles about Lung Cancer and how to combat it. I cried whenever I saw him throw up the food he ate or when he had to hold on to the wall, the table, the fridge or anything solid because his headache was too intense he would fall over if he didn’t hold on to something. I cried during those times he would not eat due to lack of appetite and because he was too weak to get up. I cried on Christmas eve and Christmas day because I feared it would be our last Christmas together. I cried that night when he lost consciousness and we had to rush him to the hospital again. I cried the next night and kept whispering his name while I was forcing myself to go to sleep. I cried in the hospital when I saw him opening his eyes yet he didn’t recognize me. I cried when he finally regained consciousness and tried to say my name. At this point, I tried to tell him everything I wanted to tell him. That I love him so much, that I will miss him, that I will do my best to make him proud, that I will see him someday. I cried that day when he couldn’t open his eyes anymore. I cried a few times at my brother’s wedding because I kept thinking about him and Mama who would have wanted to be there. I cried on January 29 when I whispered to him that it was my birthday. In the morning of February 5, while I was watching over him in the hospital by myself, I cried when the doctor informed me his blood pressure had dropped to 70/40 and that “it’s not looking good”. I cried when a few minutes later I glanced his way to discover that he had stopped breathing. I cried when the nurse touched my arm and told me she was sorry for my loss. I cried when my brother came just before they took his body away. I cried when I saw Papa’s body in a gurney wrapped in white blanket. It’s a scene I only see in movies and TV shows. I cried when I saw his casket from afar the first time, and even more when I saw him in it. I cried when the boyfriend cried because he felt like he also lost a Dad. I cried that time we all flew to Bacolod City — me, my mom, and my brother were in the plane’s cabin while my Dad’s remains was in the cargo area. I cried when I delivered a brief eulogy before his burial. I cried during the burial. I cried the first day I went back to work when I realized I had to do move on with life and make things go back to “normal” (only, it will never be the same). I cry every now and again, especially at night or when I see his pictures and read his text messages on my phone.

I’m crying right now as I’m typing this.

It’s been a month since my Dad died, and yes, I know this post is late. Maybe you’re wondering about how I’m able to blog about trivial things (like broadband dongles and weddings) yet I can’t even blog about a major happening in my life such as my Dad’s passing. The truth is, there is no easy way to put everything that has happened into writing. It’s pain I could never have imagined. At least I was able to write this entry, huh? But look, I can’t even come up with an appropriate post title!

What triggered me to finally write this post is when I learned about FrancisM‘s death. He was only 44 years old! I am not really a fan of his but I am bothered by his early death. The “age” at which people die matters to me a lot these days. For one, I find it unfair that my Dad was only 54 years old when he died, while other Dads reach up to age 70, 80, or even 90.

But in the eulogy I gave during my Dad’s funeral in Bacolod I told everyone that I look at my Dad’s death in two ways. One, that I just lost a father. This is the selfish side of me obsessing about what I am missing and would be missing now that he’s gone. He was a lifetime’s worth of memories cut short and now all I would be adding to that are “what could have been’s”.

And two, my Dad is now free from the cruel hands of cancer and he is now in a better place where he’s having the time of his, er, after-life. Hee. I always try to think of number two.

This is my attempt to write about how painful my father’s death was. But, really, this still does not justify it. My heart goes out to the children of the late FrancisM…