My Father's Eulogy

For those who could not be there, I post my half of our father's eulogy in its entirety...

Far in the north of the Philippines, on a tiny island rarely found on any map, a group of pregnant women were stricken by a disease. All but two lost their babies. One of those two was my Lola – and thus, my father was born as he would live: as a simple island boy against unimaginable adversity.

My parents left The Philippines to search for a better, safer life. My dad arrived in Canada on a Friday and began working the following Monday, spending 26 years at Kaufman Footwear. When the factory closed, he moved on to Schneiders until 2010 when my parents jointly retired.

Then Mom and Dad started to build their dream: a house above the beaches of Sayed, Batanes - a place they could spend the cold Canadian winters, but more importantly, a home they could share with their children and grandchildren. It was to be their legacy. The walls went up, the red metal roof to represent Canada was installed. The big wooden door welcomed all.

And then, in July of 2017, the diagnosis. Duodenal cancer with metastasis to other internal organs. Non-surgical. Six rounds of chemotherapy. In and out of the local hospitals. PICC line, IVs, and three drains. Incurable.

Today is a day of mixed emotion. It is at once the worst day of my life as well as one of release. For 6 months, my dad fought what we knew was a losing battle. He was a warrior – never questioning his plight, despising any pity, and never complaining about his illness. It stole his body but left his mind and our family was therefore blessed with many meaningful conversations, a beautiful Christmas celebration, and his sarcastic, ridiculous humour right to the last day.

The house in Sayed will be complete. It will still be his legacy. But it is not only in wood and cement where my father will live on.

His handsome smile and charming demeanour: that lives on in my son, Miles.

His quiet observation, discomfort in big groups, and yet his ability to put on a performance when necessary: that lives on in my daughter, Olivia.

My dad’s love of laughter and silly jokes, his bad ass fighter’s heart that is still soft for his family: that is my niece, my goddaughter, Maxena.

My father’s fierce patriotism and Ivatan pride. His unwavering faith in God. His gift of being a leader and a good father, especially to a little girl: that lives on in my brother.

My dad’s musical skill. His love of hosting informal gatherings, full of laughter, fun, and good food. His love of scotch and Toronto sports teams. His giant head that means we can’t wear toques properly. His forgiving heart that welcomes all, and his generous nature that wants to share with and protect all those we love: that is him in me.

My dad was one of my best friends. We road tripped every weekend while I was at school because I was the big little girl that got rides to and from Western…and then to and from McMaster. We fished for bluegills in the summer, yelled at the Leafs in the winter, and when I reached drinking age – at which point, I was already an experienced drinker, sorry Mom – we shared stories and jokes over glasses of scotch.

As a child, my father and I would crunch ice on our snowy walks from school and find the birds’ nests in the trees. He held me and empowered me during my many visits to Sick Kids Hospital in Toronto. He let me snuggle into their bed on early Saturday mornings, and in his last days with us, I did the same again.

This journey was unexpected, devastating, and has left a void in our lives that will never be filled. But to look out on everyone gathered here today, to think of the parade of people we’ve seen over the last two nights, it truly brings me comfort. Better that we divide this pain amongst ourselves than for my father to be burdened with it any longer.

I am thankful for every one of you, rallying behind us with your love and support.

I am thankful for my children who shine their innocence and joy into this dark time.

I am thankful for my mother who is the strongest person I have ever known.

And I am thankful for the memories, the lessons, and the laughs we shared with my dad.

Rest well. Sleep peacefully. Know that we are all safe, successful, and will take care of mama always. I will miss you every day of my life. But I will take all that you’ve given me and try to make you proud.

My last words to you were “love you, Dad. We’ll see you later,” and that still applies today.

I love you, Dad.

We will see you…

Later.