Happy Birthday, Dad!
71 years.
It seems like a lot, doesn't it? And it is. But it's also not. Because time can play tricks on you.
You see that it's Frosh Week for the universities, and you realize it's been FIFTEEN years since you experienced that wild, nerve-wracking week. You have a newborn and although the days and sleepless nights feel like an eternity, suddenly a year is gone in a flash. How can time feel short and long at the same time? How can 71 years seem like a lifetime and yet not nearly long enough?
Over seven decades ago, on a remote island in the northern Philippines, a sickness took root in a vulnerable population: women who were pregnant. Most of them, sadly, lost their babies. My grandmother, however, did not. And thus, my father was born.
Fast forward 70 years and 3 days, and my little koala celebrated his birth day. Naturally, we envisioned a grand festive occasion for the birthdays of my son and my father - music, food, drinks, and cake. Smiles, stories, laughs and happiness. Still we will celebrate, but it will be sombre and emotional. Memories will be wistful, and silences will be weighted. All because another sickness has taken root. It is trying its hardest to take him from us, but right now, it has not won. Neither have we, but my father is still here. He weighs less than I do, but he is here. Laughing makes his inflamed abdomen hurt, but he is here. This weekend's joint birthday party is not at all what we envisioned, but we are here and we are together.
It doesn't really matter how long we will remain together. That is a question mark above all our heads, regardless of how healthy we are - or think we are.
What matters is that another morning will dawn on a group of people who love my son, care about my dad, and support my family. We will eat and talk and laugh. We will watch big sister blow out a candle for her brother, and shake our heads at how much cake ends up in my boy's curly hair. We will hug and we will love because we are celebrating two lives. One is a lover, the other a fighter. Both are Agutos, and both mean the world to me.
Cancer can sit its sorry ass at the door.
We have some partying to do.
Happy birthday, Dad!
It seems like a lot, doesn't it? And it is. But it's also not. Because time can play tricks on you.
You see that it's Frosh Week for the universities, and you realize it's been FIFTEEN years since you experienced that wild, nerve-wracking week. You have a newborn and although the days and sleepless nights feel like an eternity, suddenly a year is gone in a flash. How can time feel short and long at the same time? How can 71 years seem like a lifetime and yet not nearly long enough?
Over seven decades ago, on a remote island in the northern Philippines, a sickness took root in a vulnerable population: women who were pregnant. Most of them, sadly, lost their babies. My grandmother, however, did not. And thus, my father was born.
Fast forward 70 years and 3 days, and my little koala celebrated his birth day. Naturally, we envisioned a grand festive occasion for the birthdays of my son and my father - music, food, drinks, and cake. Smiles, stories, laughs and happiness. Still we will celebrate, but it will be sombre and emotional. Memories will be wistful, and silences will be weighted. All because another sickness has taken root. It is trying its hardest to take him from us, but right now, it has not won. Neither have we, but my father is still here. He weighs less than I do, but he is here. Laughing makes his inflamed abdomen hurt, but he is here. This weekend's joint birthday party is not at all what we envisioned, but we are here and we are together.
It doesn't really matter how long we will remain together. That is a question mark above all our heads, regardless of how healthy we are - or think we are.
What matters is that another morning will dawn on a group of people who love my son, care about my dad, and support my family. We will eat and talk and laugh. We will watch big sister blow out a candle for her brother, and shake our heads at how much cake ends up in my boy's curly hair. We will hug and we will love because we are celebrating two lives. One is a lover, the other a fighter. Both are Agutos, and both mean the world to me.
Cancer can sit its sorry ass at the door.
We have some partying to do.
Happy birthday, Dad!
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