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.
