my dad, Ceferino B. Trillana (1928-2009)
April 12, 2009
Let’s make it a trilogy then. First off, sad news, my dad passed away on a Good Friday. How’s that for going out in style? He had a flair for the dramatic, my father did! He’d been complaining of having difficulty breathing and was restless all day Thursday, so they upped his morphine and let him sleep it off. Hard to believe, my father is gone. All the shame of his body failing him is gone. All the fear of the coming unknown is gone. All the pain is gone - and for that last one, I am grateful.
The last time we had an extended chat on the phone, that was all that he was complaining about, the pain . The pain and the medication that would keep him from getting a decent amount of sleep. The pain and the medication that kept him from thinking straight sometimes. Two weeks of sleeplessness last March that resulted in a bout of dementia. My poor mother also had to suffer what dad went through, like when he was talking to cabinets as if they were one of his grandkids, like when he’d drop his pants for no reason at all (we had a good laugh about that one!), or when he called 911 at 4 am to pick up a sick, old man, turned out, he was that man! He didn’t want to wake anybody up, so he went out into the snow with no shoes on. Waiting for the ambulance. Well, he was sick and he was old, I guess he was right, he needed an ambulance. And as brain farts go, dad had no recollection of doing any of these things. Remember dropping your pants in the middle of the house lately? In the middle of a sentence that had nothing to do with dropping your pants? Neither did my father! I asked mom if dad was just getting frisky - she changed the subject - ooh, old people sex (gaaah).
So they took him off the meds, gave him morphine instead to help him rest, and he ate whatever he wanted. In short, the white coats had given up on him and handed him over to hospice care. My father spent his last days at home, ornery as ever, and surrounded by family that loved him and cared for him. I only wish we could have been there, not for me, but for Zach, and I’m sad that he’s not gonna get a taste of being called “damuho ka” whenever Zach is makulit. Speaking of which…
I’m just glad that my parents came home last year, and mama grachie obliged with an epic delivery that was just in time! (a few days before my parents were scheduled to leave, in fact). I was afraid that my parents wouldn’t be able to personally meet my first-born. Pictures and video through the Internet, sure, but to have my mom change Zach’s diapers for the first time, priceless. Also, goofing around the hospital that day produced my favorite photo of my father!
to be able to make him genuinely laugh, while presenting him my pride and joy, that’s all this son has ever wanted.
My dad, Ozzy Osborne
June 5, 2007
Early this year, we learned that dad had developed lung cancer. My brother emailed me with this: good news/bad news: Good—pops don't need an operation. Bad—its malignant. Brother A (the long-haired one), he's such an asshole too. Wow. Cancer. Seems ironic since I read about cancer almost everyday, I edit scientists' work (AACR, the most prestigious by far…), try and make sure that other scientists can understand what one geek is trying to communicate to the other geek, I imagined somehow that I and everyone I know would have been blessed, via osmosis or repetitive exposure, to some form of immunity from cancer, plus the fact that long-haired brother A is a nurse! Shouldn't we have gained some sort of protection from disease?! Well, I guess reading too many comic books can do that to you—start thinking that the normal laws of physics and reality no longer apply to you—too many comic books or seeing the Matrix 15 bajillion times might warp you (if you see someone walking with both hands clasped behind his back, ala-Morpheus, that's probably me!). All I need now is one of those cool trench coats… No one was too surprised though, my dad lived it up back in his day, like a real-life Marlboro man, except that he smoked HOPE (nope, hindi sya ngongo, di rin sya karpintero, and I have no idea how HOPE got linked with those two adjectives?!). HOPE was a menthol cigarette (with the white filters), the only thing I got worried about back then was the possibility that my dad would become a pokpok… yes, I was strange even as a kid… no, my dad never wore lipstick.
Before they left for the U.S., my dad quit smoking. This was around the same time when he retired (wala na raw sya pambili yosi eh!), never thought that day would come (his retiring or his giving up smokes? Both.). The smell of cigarettes wafting from his fingers was imprinted on my brain. But he quit one day, and the way I remember it, he got pneumonia the next. Heheh! How's that for a fly in your Chardonnay?! Alanis Morissette can kiss my ass! After that scare, he recovered pretty nicely. Swore off cigarettes, although I sometimes caught him breathing in heavily whenever one of his smoking friends came over to the house, or whenever a tricycle passed by. Then, when they were finally in the states, the land of milk and money, he had a heart attack. Boom! Triple-bypass heart surgery, here we come! (am-booo-lan-syaaaa!!!)
It's a good thing he got diagnosed in the states though, I'm afraid that had he been hospitalized here, he might have been sent home and given a prescription for Advil. Not to mention that an ambulance might take 2 hours to get you to the nearest hospital. I wasn't too worried though. It was just triple-bypass heart surgery! At about the same time, David Letterman had just had quadruple-bypass heart surgery! And he was still cracking jokes after a couple of months!
So I thought, no worries, my dad, masamong damo yun, he don't give in too easily! And the stories he told about being half-conscious when they operated on him, man, that's the stuff of legends between me and my nieces—open-heart surgery can't have been pretty?! Cracking your chest open and having someone rearrange your internal organs can do some strange things to a man!! All it did was mellow my dad. Just a tad. Although, I did miss him calling me "damuho ka!" by this time. I sometimes wish I could do something or say something just to see if I can still set him off? I wonder what he'd do if I told him that I was gay (I'm not, by the way). I'm assuming that a whole new line of expletives would have to be invented for that occasion (really, I'm not gay).
And now lung carcinoma. I don't have to do too much research to know that the chances for recovery are slim. They can't operate on him, so they blasted dad with radiation. To my relief, the hospitals in Illinois were out of gamma-radiation at the time. I would have hated to piss off my dad then if he became the Incredible Hulk! (besides, green doesn't really do much for him fashion-wise). The only side-effect was that he lost most of his hair (eyebrows too!), so he just shaved the rest of it off! Those of you who know me might have thought that male pattern baldness runs in my family. Well, it doesn't! Sometimes it skips a generation. Sometimes it lands on me. Now, we're both chrome-domes! Now I can say, yes, I got it from my father's side!
The one time I ever worried about my dad was when we recently spoke on the phone, he was afraid that being bald made him look hideous, and I told him that it just takes a little getting used to, to which he replied "kita ko nga yung picture mo na kalbo ka eh, mas pogi ka pala sa akin eh!"—whoa, call 911, my dad really is sick if he starts admitting that I'm the good-looking one in the family. Although, I really am. Really.
But what surprises me and brother B is how laid back our father is about the whole deal. Like I said before, my dad is one ornery sonnavabitch who doesn't take much crap from anyone or any thing. We half-expected him to complain about being sick, to complain about the doctors treating him—and if he got better—to complain about having to recover, to complain about the medicine and the hospital costs, et cetera, et cetera… but no. Apparently, he's taking it all in stride. Like he's seen it all before. Dare I say, with a Zen-like tranquility. I don't know what's going on inside that little bald head of his, I intend to ask him next time we speak on the phone. Or maybe when he comes back home, he says he's coming home soon.
My dad, Red Forman
June 1, 2007My relationship with my father was a lot like that of Eric and Red Forman (Topher Grace and Kurtwood Smith from That 70's Show), except that I didn't think my dad was too funny. How could I? There was no laugh track to cue when my father gave out one of his pearls of wisdom ala Red Forman ("dumb-ass!"). As far as I can remember, his favorite thing to say to me was "Damuho ka!", one of its substitutes "Dimonyo ka!", or my personal favorite, "Diablo ka!" There was one time when I said "diablo" over and over again after I pissed him off (…diabloh, DI-ab-lo, diABlow… it was such a fun word to hear and say!). That, of course, pissed him off even more.
It wasn't always like that though, when I was younger, my dad was the one who always spoiled me. Usually bringing something home from the office—whether it was siopao (from Oz, the best siopao place in Caloocan in the 80's!) or just a pack of gum, I was always waiting for him to come home, ready to hand him his slippers after he took off his shoes. My mother taught me that little trick, para daw lagi akong me pasalubong! That worked for a while, until he forgot the suhol several days in a row, then the siopao or candy came even less and less frequently, until he forgot the suhol altogether. Now, even as a kid, I was pretty smart, and I realized that my parents had been conditioning me like a dog—treats for tricks at first, slowly withdrawing the treats, until dog-boy performed all his tricks without the treats. One day dad came home and I was at the door of their room, arms crossed in front of my chest: "siopao ko?!" "sarado na yung Oz eh…" "kaw kumuha ng tsinelas mo!" "Damuho ka!" Couldn't say I blame him though, I wasn't much to be proud of as a kid, much as it pains me to admit it now, but I was a pretty typical pre-pubescent kid. Oh sure, I thought I was all that, special and a half (something I've carried over till today). Now I look back and see how selfish and self-centered I was. Still am. Fathers back then didn't have the luxury of awareness and understanding that Oprah or Dr. Phil have brought us (hindi ako nanonood ng Oprah, nakwento lang sa akin yun ng kaibigan ko…). Fathers back then were expected to make money while mom raised the kids, and used dad as a constant threat for discipline (lagot ka sa tatay mo pagdating nya mamya—much like the threat of a weapon of mass destruction). And why do fathers have punishment built-in into their attires? Thick leather belts! Those belts could have been made from cotton or polyester like a lot of my belts now, but nooo, belts from the 80s had to be made of thick, heavy leather?! Kids these days have it easy, corporal punishment is frowned upon?! Why just now?!! Where was Bantay Bata 163 when my dad was whaling on my behind?!! Fathers back then were definitely not touchy-feelie, one of the few times I remember dad hugged me was in the Lenten season of 1994. We had just come home from church, dad was the only one at home because he was sick (translation = tinatamad), and he gave each and every one in the family a hug… remember, this was during the holy week, and he was probably watching some religious special, and probably feeling all holy and pious… I gave him my best Doubting Thomas-look and said "me napanood ka no?" (I was such a smart-ass). Well, that ruined it for him. Guess what he told me?—"Damuho ka!"—Dah-moo-hwoo-woo-hoo-hooo… Tama!
Don't get me wrong, I love my dad and have all the respect for him. I always tell my friends of how my father started out as a security guard in the company he ended up working more than 25 years for. But he was smart (mana sa akin!) and hardworking (mana sa nanay ko!), and he made his way to upper management after just a few years. I doubt a present-day hard-working dad could achieve half of what he was able to. Its just not likely without a diploma these days (I started out as a copyeditor in 2000, now I'm a copyeditor in 2007! Woot!).
My father, he came from the old school of parenting. A mite detached and distant, trying to maintain his disciplinarian facade. And us, his kids, we've had varying degrees of success in dealing with that facade. Fathers are always disappointed with the way his kids turn out (or at least my father is). After having provided all the best, or at least better than what he had to work with, he might resent the fact that we're not millionaires yet, or politicians (same adjective?), or successful… I've come to accept that. Funny enough, I got that epiphany from watching "That 70's Show." You have to step back to see just how funny it all is, even without the laugh track. My dad was Red Forman and I was Eric Forman (except that I don't have a hot Donna girlfriend). I'm always trying to get away with something, my dad is always there to foil my plans and teach me a lesson by being insensitive and calling me a dumb-ass. Tama!
So I've stopped trying to impress him, stopped being hurt when I disappointed him, stopped thinking that everything I did was just not up to his high standards. I started living my own life. And started appreciating him for what he is… one tough sonnavabitch that I look up to (he's built like Wolverine too!). It's just so much more comfortable living with dad and treating him as just another person, perhaps an older friend, instead of seeing him as the stern taskmaster. I feel sad when I see how brother B is still exasperated whenever he talks to my father. I don't think he's gotten past the stern taskmaster portion of his relationship with my dad. He'd better get there, and soon.
[?Q1: Epiphanies. Short title OK?]
May 16, 2007Yay! First post! I feel so "in" (may blog na ko!!)—I'm a blogger!!
My nieces looked at me strange when I told them I had no intention of creating a blog. They looked as if they were seeing a new dinosaur for the first time (how's that for an anachronism? and will somebody please look up what anachronism means?). I felt like bloggers were wasting their time pouring out their thoughts online, where people's attention spans lasted only as long as the next pop-up, well, pops-up.
Yet here I am, I guess the bug has bit me again. I'm no dinosaur, a reptile maybe. Slow and cold-blooded—a turtle then. A blogger-head turtle (damn, that was corny, I'm shaking my head right now as I paddle off).
Nu ni nu ni nu…
Back in the day, we called it writing, not blogging. Back in the day, we were happy just to see our names in print, if they gave me an honorarium for my essay, it would have probably been enough to buy a Scott burger for myself and another friend (buy one/take one kasi!). Back in the day, we didn't have the Internet… Man, do I ever feel so old after typing that… sadface
Now I'm back with that "I can do that too, and better" feeling after browsing through SPI's Project Backspace. No I'm not bragging. I am not a better writer than them writer's guild members (better looking, maybe?). Those people do a fine job of writing and have the balls to put their work up for every backseat moderator (like me) to tear into. But their work has reminded me of why I started putting thoughts onto paper, oh so many years ago (remember when we either used notebooks or—gasp—tape recorders?).
The "I can do that too, and better" feeling started in my college (GAUF), where the writing truly sucked (at the time), and the "Official Student Publication" was mostly used as a fan or something to sit on, or to wipe whatever that is you stepped on in Swine Management class (Swine Management, hah!, glorified term for pig shepherd). Back in the day, students at my alma-mater-dear had no choice but to read my column (I was the only one writing about Sharon Cuneta and Kris Aquino in a mostly leftist-inspired school publication). Gad, I just realized… I was Boy Abunda in the making back then?!
I miss that. Not the Boy Abunda aspect of writing that I was heading into, but in making the reader go "Oo nga" or "Di naman" or laugh out loud - that was the best! When a reader sits down for a few minutes and takes your thoughts and makes it part of his/her own. A part of you has been injected into the aether, you created something on print from the nothing in your brain (and I got lots of that in my brain). It could be there years from now. It could be gone the next second. A waste of time? That's OK, as long as it's on company time! 
Could we get the same kind of reaction in a web log? Probably not. Right now, I'm fighting the urge to click over to the next site, the average reader is probably long gone by now (downloading porn, maybe? Ok, ok, downloading mp3s or the latest episode of Heroes, if you want to keep it GP). But the important thing is, I need to start thinking again. To put ideas back into the aether instead of just consuming them. Work has blunted my brain, I need my katana ready to sink into the next takoyaki ball. Apparently, writers write for themselves, not for the readers. I write to express my thoughts, to rant and rave, to let it be known that I am a dirty old man in the making - if other people enjoy what I've written, then it's a bonus, it's just a byproduct. But a wonderful byproduct it is!
That was my epiphany the other day. Head-scratcher that was, it took me 7 years to finally form that conclusion (told you work makes you dull). Let the Internet be my whetstone. Let the aethernet tremble for I have returned!!! (cue evil villain music)
Nu ni nu ni nu…
