Lolo Inggy

Looking Back, Looking Forward with Lolo Inggy

His eyes were close. He looked so virginal, so innocent. Very frail, his cheeks hollow. Gone was the tanned skinned, the flesh that was once the athletic masculinity of this man, the body no more than the bones that kept him apiece. He was waiting for me. Everybody said so.

The room was quiet, eyes watchful and ears listening. Everyone was anticipating the drama about to enfold. Except that it wasn't a soap opera. "Papang, I've just arrived but I am home now", I whispered in his ear as I kissed his forehead and stroke the little of what remained of his hair. No, not really a whisper. It was more than a whisper, to bring him fully back to his senses, to full recovery, to keep him conscious and awake.I could see he was conscious and awake. I could watch him battle his too weak and frail body against the weakness that was swallowing his strength. He couldn't. He just gave up. And then I saw him stir and his eyes flickered, his hands moved as it searched for mine, recognizing the voice of his beloved Shoti, the apple of his eye. And then a tear. I kept on whispering to keep him afloat, to stay alive. A full-pledged nurse that was my sister, was in full control and very efficiently nursing; kept on checking his vital parameters. He was going. Not too soon, I prayed. Not when I'm home.

"Stop it!" I shouted to no one. But I heard the litany of prayers resounding. "What are they doing?" I thought. Litanies are only for the dead. And he is not dead. He will wake up. Sick and weary from the journey, I lay down beside him, on that tiny bed in a hospital room and embraced him. I could feel someone shaking me to wakefulness, whispering something I couldn't comprehend.  I must have fallen sound asleep. "Papang is in coma, wake up." It was my sister. As slowly I came back to consciousness, I saw myself beside him, still embracing him and tenderly stroked his chest, talking, whispering. I prayed and begged him to fight like the baseball player he was. He played second base. I remember it to well.

Tears are a sign of defeat, of weakness.It is also a message of the simple truth. When the hurt overflows and the reality of a loss was too imminent to deny, I allowed my tears to flow freely. Aren’t nurses supposed to shed tears? I hated it. Everybody followed suit. The once quiet room was now loud with wailing. People just watching at the tick of the clock, watching for the rise and fall of his chest. It stopped, finally.

How many years was it since that day? I really can’t recall. It’s easier to put in the backburner all painful memories because they were too real. But I know for once, it was on a December day, when the world was rejoicing and celebrating the Christmas spirit.

December’s almost gone and the world is getting ready to herald the new year. There is no reason not to, not even when the pockets of most are empty or when bombs are raining some parts of the world. The spirit must be kept alive. The spirit must live on. And I am enliven by the thought the memory of Lolo Inggy, my father ,lives on in our hearts and in those who love him very much.