My Father

photo credits: sodahead.com

When I was in grade school, it was mostly only me and my father at home. Both my sisters were working in another country, while my mom was, hmmm, let’s just say on “Absence Without Leave”. So my dad was left with no choice but to play the mother’s role as well, and this includes attending to my then long hair. To say the least, it was a painful struggle.

One day my dad arrived home from work with several newly purchased hair clips and ribbons in hand that were apparently recommended by a workmate. He would painstakingly try them on me, clueless on how to use them. It was bittersweet. We both managed to survive.

My grade school class pictures still haunt me to this day. My father – the resolute.

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Mission Impossible

We were on a mission, and it was something close to impossible too. The goal was to get our father out of the house, to bring him to the beach. My father NEVER leaves his house, unless he’d like to escape for a quick trip to the nearby store – that’s the farthest he would get. He was never with us on our family trips; he’d rather stay home, and he never runs out of excuses – true story.

Another true story – my Dada grew up in a farm near the beach where he used to spend his spare time at. He adores the blue ocean (or used to). I was also told that he was a very good swimmer. All I heard were stories; I have not witnessed this yet.

My middle sister flew all the way from United Kingdom to spend a few weeks with our aging parents. The timing can’t be more perfect! So on this day, we have decided to push through with our mission before it’s all too late… For several days we have been convincing him about this trip, and he would tirelessly reject the idea; until finally, on the night before the set date, I was able to persuade him to come with us. Our excitement must have rubbed off on him; he was suddenly anxious to see the sunrise and sunset by the beach. To our delight, everything was at last set; this trip was going to be all about our father.

Not For Lack of Trying

photo by mangmertha / merthagraphy

My husband and I visited my father this weekend. We brought him lots of bread, in all assortments. They’re his favourite. He immediately sat up the moment he heard my voice calling to him. Hand in his lower back, I caught the grimace in his face from the pain he must be enduring. I could still vividly remember the glint of happiness in his eyes when he saw us. His appreciative words still linger in my ears: “you know I’m only happy when you visit”. Was it the bread we brought that made him say this? Of course I’m being silly. I was desperately choking back tears the whole time.

Alzheimer’s and A Promise To Keep

When I was in grade school, my dad would often brag to his friends how I’d promised to look after him when he’s all grey-haired and wrinkly. Being the youngest child of three, with 10 years of gap between me and my middle sister, I was the one closest to my father. My dad and I did everything together, from watching basketball games and wrestling matches to actually playing ball. He would even indulge me in my Barbie fantasy worlds from time to time. He was my playmate, while I was the son he never had. When I got old enough, he then became my debate opponent. We enjoyed intellectually stimulating each other this way, simple discussions of current events turn into hours of healthy debates. With envious eyes, my sisters used to tell me how our father never spent this much quality time with them when they were growing up. I was a proud Daddy’s girl. And I was going to take care of him when he’s old and grey.