Year 4.

March 2, 10PM.

Around this time four years ago, I was baking butterscotch brownies. My two pamangkins, Nikka and Cholo were helping me out, making more mess than necessary. I was mixing the batter while them two pour the chocolate chips in. An entire bag (minus the handful they pinched every minute or two). Hersheys chocolate. We had to make the brownies as delicious as possible.

When the brownies were done, after an hour or so that I've kept the two busy (which is of more reason to bake the brownies in the first place), while everyone else at home went around the house, Kuya Hary would drive me to the hospital down Tuazon Avenue. Mama would be in the room on the second floor. Kuya Hary wouldn't stay long. I'd give Mama the butterscotch brownies and we'd talk for a bit, but it would be getting late so she'd sleep on the tiny couch (which isn't even a couch, just a bench with cushions, really) at the corner of the room and I'd settle on the opposite corner which is near the thermos and mini-fridge which is also near the closet which is also near the oxygen tank, reading Brett Easton Ellis' American Psycho on my laptop.

The room, obviously, is small. Just a third of the rooms we occupied in Cardinal Santos Hospital the previous month four years ago. But it's protocol that ambulances take patients to the nearest hospital so this is where the 161 boys took us after we called them around lunchtime yesterday, four years ago.

Anyway, before midnight, we'd have visitors in that small room. Uncle Gus and Auntie Christy (who are on their third, or is it their fourth? hospital visit), and Uncle Pio with Auntie Coro (on their very first) who would come all the way from Baguio. They'd bring fruits. They'd hug Mama and ask how she is. Then they'd talk to, and stare, and try to hug the man lying on that hospital bed.

But Daddy wouldn't talk anymore. Daddy would just lie there. 

Uncle Pio and Auntie Coro would bring with them their granddaughter, Jerika. And I'd give her some of the butterscotch brownies. Later, my eldest sister Ate Weng would drop by the room with Nikka, talk to The Uncles and all. I'm never really big on talking to the Uncles, and Mama would be tired and all so we'd let Ate Weng do the talking. Around 1am, them visitors would leave. Uncle Pio and Auntie Coro and Jerika would take the bus back to Baguio and Uncle Gus and Auntie Christy would drive back to Bel-Air. Ate Weng and Nikka would take Mama with them and ride a trike home ('cause Kuya Hary would already be asleep). I'd be left to stay there overnight. Like the many nights I've slept over in the hospital since Daddy was confined January 29, four years ago.

I would stay. On that stupid bench at the corner of that stupid room. And I wouldn't talk, to Daddy or to myself. I wouldn't even think. I'd just sit and not talk and not think. And I'd be thinking of the worst that could happen in the next few days- few hours, few minutes- without really thinking. And time would move frighteningly fast but would stand painfully still. And you'd want the night to be over but would give anything for it not to end. That's how it feels when someone you love is about to die and you know it. You know it without knowing, without wanting to know.

I'd sleep. With about 97 intermissions of nurses checking in on Daddy throughout the night. I'd wake up at 830am tomorrow, four years ago, wondering where Mama was, 'cause she was supposed to relieve me in the hospital since I have to go to school. To appeal to my profs who haven't seen me in a month.

I'd take a bath and go to UP in my pambahay clothes. It was a Monday. Thesis day. But thanks to my thesis partner who waived all my thesis duties, I'd only have to make an appearance in my two Monday classes that day. I'd attend my Sociology class and approach my gay prof (forgot his name, but he was one of my favorites that semester) with my excuse letter in hand that read;

Dear Sir XXX,

I am humbly seeking your consideration to excuse some of my absences from your class. I have exceeded the allowable number of absences to look after my father who is confined in the hospital after being diagnosed with  cancer last January 31. I am hoping for your kindest understanding regarding my situation.

Gay Socio Prof, surprisingly, would not throw a bitch fit. He would ask me to attend his extra credit classes to offset my absences. After Socio, I'd attend Biology class. Bioprof has stricter rules so there would not be any pleading in that class. I would sign the attendance sheet for that day and pray she wouldn't drop me from the class list.

After class, I would head home. I would text Ate Weng to meet me at Robinson's Metro East. There we would have Daddy's old picture restored in Kodak. Restored and blown up to standard 11" x 14". With a nice picture frame to go with it. We'd have the photo framed just as we have one of his best suits sent to laundry. As we have his best pair of leather shoes shined. But Ate Weng would text back, "punta ka muna dito hospital". And I would reply "okay". Then she would call, ask me where I am. I'd say bandang Robinsons. She'd call me after five minutes and ask where I am, I'd say, Tuazon. She would tell me to hurry up.

And I would know right then. I would know without knowing and without wanting to know. And the music would blasting in that blasted Montalban jeep but I wouldn't hear anything. And the jeep would be taking forever skyrocketing along Tuazon. It would be the longest jeepney ride I've taken in my life.

And I would get off, cross the street and walk towards the hospital. It would be drizzling. And damp. And grey. A couple of kids on their bikes would splash water at me as they race past. As I reach the hospital entrance, I would see Kuya Hary parking his car. We would look at each other and not talk. We would go inside together and not look at each other. We would hold hands as we get on the elevator and hit the 2nd floor button. I would hold my breath.

At 2:10 in the afternoon, a Monday four years ago, Daddy would pass away.



******

It's been four years since Daddy passed away because of stage four cancer of the lungs. It was a time that I don't really remember, but I won't ever forget. It was that time when everything just seemed to be slowly, floating on. Passing by. Everything was surreal and a dream and real all at the same time.

This was originally something I wrote on the eve of his first death anniversary.

Daddy. Marikina City, New Year's Eve 2007.

Happy 4th year in Heaven, Daddy. ;-)

Miss you and love you for always,
Roanni