my dad, Ceferino B. Trillana (1928-2009)

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.