Nat King Cole, Elvis, Sinatra
I used to judge people who'd post stuff like this on Facebook, but now I understand why.The days are long. The hospital room is a concert hall, a warzone, and a reception hall all in one. Daddy slips in and out of consciousness, attended to by a rotating force composed of household help and my siblings and I. Sometimes he remembers our names, and when he doesn't, he calls us âhuyâ or âkulotâ or âbata.âÂ
He fidgets restlessly. Moves his feet to dangle off the bed to his side, plays with the tubes connected to his arm. He picks at the skin on his hands, absently tries to inspect pockets where there are only diapers and skin. The nurses ask me if I'm his daughter and I laugh, remembering how he and my grandmother refused to be called lolo and lola, and now literally everyone in my life â from our driver to my girlfriend â calls them Mommy and Daddy. I say his name, in full this time, when the nurses ask, and it is foreign to my tongue. I realize I will never truly know Ernesto the soldier, the lawyer, and the father, because to me he has been and will always be Daddy.
He asks where Mommy is. Asks whether she knows where he is, and how heâs doing. He asks why people choose to go to America and leave people behind. A breath later he says he doesnât give a damn.
He shares stories from his youth â how he would walk from Quiapo to Quezon Boulevard, and from there, take a bus to San Beda. Sometimes heâd instruct my sister on what he wants his funeral to look like, and all my sister could do is cry. Still other times, he would say random things: chickens crossing the road in front of him, hot puto getting cold, someone pulling on his arm. And other times he would mumble in his sleep.
It is when my uncle or aunt visit that he suddenly comes alive and energetic. Heâs graceful, says his please and thank yous, all of a sudden on his best behavior. Heâd say to us conspiratorially that my uncle, his son, is tanga, and our aunt laughs because her father, Daddyâs brother, is worse. Lolo Ben kicks and punches whoever tries to tell him what to do, and when he got too weak, would resort to spitting in their faces. Daddyâs stubbornness and harsh words, she says, are a blessing.
He sings to himself. Even while burning with fever he closes his eyes and belts out old songs I grew up listening to â Nat King Cole, Elvis, Sinatra. His full tenor voice would fill up the halls, as familiar and regular as my morning coffee.
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