Recently, I met up with Ibanez, and he asked me to write a blog. If you're wondering who Ibanez is, he's the handsome guy from the Internet that I met a few years ago through a mutual friend. Although I know his real name, he will always be Ibanez to me. I should remind him to blog too, but I've been doing that for years. What he doesn't know is that I made a second blog. One that is more sappy/cooey/romantic than this one. I'll keep you posted when HE starts writing his
own blog.
Lol.
First the reason for the long absence- I feel lonely. And until Facebook, I just realized what that loneliness is. Its the solitary writing of a blog that I like, but what I love is the responses I get from readers. I kinda look at blogging as an afternoon yumcha session that goes on and on until I run out of things to say and like all yumcha sessions I need someone to talk to, not just someone who listens. And blogging, don't guarantee that kind of conversation. Anyway, this blog has gone through so many changes of layout and names that its still finding it self. Just like me.
Its 2011 I hope its a better year.
Ah, talking about solitary. I've started running. Just short marathons, I find that it helps me think. Also it made me wish I can upload whatever I'm thinking directly to a blog and lets me edit it later.
Also, I've started
drawing my thoughts. I still haven't decided what to do with them. I might just dump them all at my DeviantArt account.
Well, that's all for the update, now to the blog...
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If you've been following my blog you would realize that I talk about my family a lot. And not many are happy ones. I guess that's what loss does to you and backstabbing and lost of faith.
What made me want to write again is
this. This post is in response to that video. You can watch it first or later, its up to you.
Nobody knows what's wrong with my father.
He's not senile.
He doesn't have Alzheimer.
The best the doctor could tell us was this, "He has dementia".
And I remember that day clearly, he was testing my father, asking my father, waiting for his response.
One particular 'experiment' was this, he pretended to touch my father's foot and he asked him if it hurts. My father said yes. And the doctor took his big doctor book, and found whatever he was looking for and just gave us Dementia.
To understand my father's condition, one has to live with him.
The best I can come up with is that he has speaking disability. Its as if whatever nerves control his speech is broken. The link to the words he wants is not the same as the one that he utters. He could say he wanted some water but what he produces would be food. And that is if you're lucky. He doesn't speak..normally. If you can imagine a child learning how to speak, that's how he speaks. Sometimes he mumbles, sometimes he's garbled. But its worst for him, because he KNOWS what he wants to say, he KNOWS the words he wants to say, he could see it with his mind, but it doesn't translate well as he imagined it. That's frustration. That's suffering.
I know this because I'm his daughter. I can see it in his eyes, the spark that used to be there, the kindness, the father I used to have. Its painful to watch and I the only thing I can do is help guess what he wants.
As it is with all frustrations, he loses his temper, I lose my temper, my brother loses his temper.
Screaming matches is not unheard of in our silent home.
Maybe I can't imagine the pain of not being able to communicate and being treated as if one is a young child. Maybe I can't understand the painful indignities of a once proud man.
But I understand love.
I remember, his kisses. His touches. He will kiss my forehead before I go to school. It would somehow protect me from the evils of the world. He would pat my head when he passes me. He would pat my tummy if I'm sick. He would put me over his lap so I would feel big and yet so small. He would talk to me as if I was a real person with ideas and encourages those ideas. He would listen and write down my gibberish and understand each of those written words. He would help me draw my homework. He would hit me if I was unruly. But always I can see the guilt in his eyes. I could see his worry and his love.
And he still does these things. Sometimes.
The pain is not watching my father struggle with what he wants to say.
Its not seeing him struggling to wake up and stand and walk, things we take for granted.
The pain is that I remember, his goodbye.
It was when my mother was still alive and struggling with cancer. She was asleep on the hospital bed and my father was beside her. We were talking quietly in that hospital room. It was evening outside, but it was already night in the ward.
I think he knew he was slipping. I believe he knew that he was sick or there was something wrong with him.
He told me that he was going.
He told me to be strong and to look after myself.
I didn't understand.
But the next day, I knew he was not the same anymore. I knew I did not understand about illnesses enough to tell what was wrong with him.
I knew its my turn to take care of him. Even when my relatives wanted to institutionalize him and used my mother to tell me, I raged and I cried. Even though it could have been easier for the whole family...it wouldn't be right.
Don't be fooled. I'm not a good daughter. I get tired, I get emotional, I get angry and I shout at him. And I'd be thinking all sorts of evil stuffs and thinks that he's a burden. And I'd look in his faded eyes and see the hurt and it hurts me. And I don't know how to say sorry, an apology that he could understand in his state.
When people ask me, what I want to do with my life? Don't I want to work at a better place? Make more money? Have a better and secured life and prospects? I shrug.
I have him now for a reason. I want to be here, with him for as long as I can.
Because that's the kind of daughter that he has.
And don't ask me about regrets. Because it would be a bigger regret if I wasn't there for him when he was there for me.
