PEDRO

EDRO

“Every girl is a  huge fan of her father."—Arabic Proverb

My Dad, being a seafarer (seismic driver for oil exploration) for almost thirty years, has spent one-half of his life traveling around the world.  My siblings and I were brought to life when he met my mother during the commencement of his ventures.

My father is the selfless type. Despite his many years of work experience he never got to reward himself with exorbitant and superfluous gifts. He instead brought my siblings and me to very good schools in my country.

Souvenirs from around the world were his simple pleasures. He got miniature pyramids in Egypt which my siblings and I broke when we were small. We also broke his hand-painted ostrich eggs which he got from Africa. Now, my son is in the process of breaking his head.

He is so selfless that when I decided to go to another country to restart my life, he put aside his active career to be in charge of my son. I know he still misses the waves. He still misses the sound of drilling machines. He still misses the feeling that all his fellow crew is relying upon him. Retirement came early for him because of my happiness.

The true test of becoming a good parent is when you have children yourself.

I have never appreciated my Dad until I had a son of my own and embarked in another country to “toil the field” myself. When he was miles away I could not even spare him a minute of my time over the phone. I was such an ingrate that I count not what I have done for my Dad to reciprocate his sacrifices, but point out the material things that he had not supplied me with. I always compared myself to other kids, how their parents abroad sent homecoming (balikbayan) boxes containing stuff (un)worthy of showing off to everybody, while my Dad would come home with worn-out luggage filled with used towels and blankets, knives, hand tools, ropes, masking tapes—all such company supplies that one would rather dispose of at sea than take home to an eagerly waiting family.

My father is my best teacher. It was because of him that I learned to love the English language.  He was there at my primary level spelling bee, and he would coach me on the spelling of im-me-di-ate-ly. He taught me how to have a good taste in reading materials; he collected broadsheets, Reader’s Digest, and National Geographic for me. I was a big fan when he competed for Scrabble tournaments. His queer, yet sure-win words “zoaea”, “queue”, “qaid” and “Sequoia” made me a competitive Scrabble player myself. I’ll forever wish to follow in the footsteps of my father.

The true test of becoming a good child is when your parents grow old.

I did not know what and how to feel when, hoping to give it one last shot to going overseas, my Dad underwent a routine medical examination, and the result found him developing a heart ailment. The feeling was indescribable; I contained myself from bursting into tears right at that time when he and my mom broke the news to us at the dinner table. I could not believe he would be developing heart ailment despite his regimented exercises (brisk-walking as early as 3 am, rain or shine, and participating in aerobics dance at sunrise). How can I ever manage without my Dad? He was not just an anchor, but a lifetime buoy to me. It is always one of the things that I pray for, that my Dad (and Mom) stay with us for as long as he (they) can. One time he asked my siblings and me about what we will do when the time comes that he pisses his pants, and barely remembers our names. I told him that I would clean him, feed him, and assist him in everything that he would need. He jokingly snapped that I was not serious with my answer. 

I meant it, Dad. I promise to take care of you till you forget my name and to stand by you and beside you till you are too dirty and stinky, not because I want to repay you or it’s what you deserve, but because I AM YOUR DAUGHTER AND I LOVE YOU.

His name is Pedro; he is my Dad.

UPDATE: 

The Danny and Annie of My Life

Mom to Dad: "We will still be celebrating our 70th birthday."
(1st September 2015)

The operation done has a 90% mortality rate as per the doctor's info, but Dad has been strong and he continues to fight. The doctors were too amazed by the courage my Dad has shown.

It's too early to celebrate, but thank God the first phase is over. The second phase awaits. No monetary value can equal to my love for my father. I do not care even if I do not get my two months' salary for as long as he is okay.
God will provide.

DANNY AND ANNIE: "Being married is like having a color television set. You never want to go back to black and white."

UPDATE:

Dad succumbed to multiple organ failures on 5th October 2015 at 5 pm.

The fight is over. Thank you to all who stood by us through it all.

***

Prostituted

I cannot help but to be affected.  I cannot help but to meddle.  I cannot help but to feel hatred in things I wish I do not hear, but the source is just too near.  The conversation is not that loud, but its contents are shouting.   Her voice is firm, but is begging for mercy.

My fellow expatriate’s bed is next to mine.  Each morning she would call her family back in her country and with the tone that each daily conversation is being carried through, I knew that each conversation is just forced.  It seems to me that the entire family just feels obligated to talk to her.  One morning she called and I got awakened by her voice…

“I will send you money to buy Chinese noodles for our daughter’s birthday.”

“It is not enough?! But it is the only money I have now.”

“Where is our daughter now?  What you don’t know?  She went for a school rehearsal and you did not bother to check her up?  You just believed what she said?"

“Why don’t I go home and be the one to run after our children?!.....”

The husband turned off the mobile on her face.  Minutes after that I heard a series of sobs, sobs of restrained pain and anger.

She asked me once if I could give her a date.  I knew it was not a joke, for there are nights that she would just disappear in the middle of the night or not go home anymore, and go straight to the money transfer upon returning the next day to send whatever money she earned that night.  There are times that she would receive calls and would try her best to speak Arabic, “Ana irid pataka fil telefon.” (I need credit for my mobile).

My heart bleeds for her.  How many prostituted mothers are there because of irresponsible husbands who don’t have balls to provide for their family?  How many prostituted mothers are there because of capricious, selfish children who are only thinking about what latest gadget they should have that another classmate is possessing?  They say expatriates or overseas workers are the world’s modern day heroes.  But let us all go back to basics.  Before hailing us heroes appreciate us as your wife and mother first.

Tomorrow morning, just before my alarm wakes me up, I would wake up to the sound of the firm voice once again. Surely minutes after that, I cannot help but to listen to the restrained sobs of the prostituted mother in the bed next to mine.

***

First posted in another site on 23 August 2010, and with a total view of 1,372 till date of re-posting.