Sick Speak

I wanted to smother him with a pillow. My fingers were itching to grab one and push him down with it until he breathes no more. His anguished and most of the time angry screams have fueled that murderous rage in me.

But I couldn’t.

He, in his condition, managed to get drunk and hurled expletives my way because I had the nerve to throw away what was left of the local rhum.  He went on to say that I studied in UP only to achieve nothing in life.  He said I do not have greatness, something that UP people are thought to achieve as they go head on with the world.  And in my sleepless state with one client backing out on me when the bills are piling up, I gripped the corners of the bed mattress opposite his angrily.  I kept telling myself that it was the alcohol and the illness talking but he got to me.  In that very instance, I wished he would die an instantaneous death.  But there were no thunderbolts and he was still morosely glaring at me albeit in silence now.  So I pictured grabbing the pillow that reeked of dried urine so I could kill him with it.

But I didn’t.  I couldn’t.

Regardless of how frustrated I was or how extremely helpless I felt, I couldn’t bear to kill him. What was there to lose? It’s not like he still earns a living. He doesn’t feed me. He is no fun anymore. He can’t even be a great soundboard. And no he no longer gives his solid opinion on things. But I can’t. Couldn’t.  Wouldn’t.

Because despite everything, he’s still my father. He may not be a perfect dad there is and his shortcomings pretty much eat up all the good things that he etched in his life’s record book, he still biologically makes up a huge part of me, and well, politically, socially, emotionally and spiritually too, I suppose.

My father suffered from a major cerebrovascular accident three years ago. We lowly lifeforms call it a stroke. It paralyzed the right side of his body and severely affected his speech. I know of a lot of people who got over something like this. There are others who even taught their functioning body parts to do most of the job. Some practically rose from the ashes to become newer and better versions of themselves.

But not my Pa, my sweetpeas. Nah-uh.

Like most men, my father took this turning point of his life lying down, literally. If three years ago he cursed at his Creator, the world, everybody else and whoever was in the room, or cried and lamented at how this new chapter of his lifebook took a turn, I would have understood. But he didn’t. He took it with an eerily complete submission that those who know him pre-stroke would swear that it is an absolute 180-degree pivot. I wasn’t surprised though.  Delayed reaction, it may seem, but I can’t help but suspect that this is just an act of a scheming con artist because a year or so ago,  the old Pa seems to have resurfaced sans the mobility and the paralysis-free physique—the result was an  irreverent sick old man whose angst came in completely asshole proportions. The old cunning bastard is back—screaming and kicking, if only humanly possible for him.  Manipulative as hell, an emotional blackmailer extraordinaire. It’s hard to explain but despite all these, there’s something about Pa’s ways that still makes him difficult to unlove, to me at least.

Years before D-Day, he became somebody different. You see, my father used to be the typical macho, brusque, rugged, sly, shrewd, man-of-the-streets kind of guy. He’s the rebel without a cause poster boy. Well, it’s never always a case of “without a cause.” He comes from rather extremely complicated family not that it’s fair to blame it all on the family all the time but for lack of something better to justify it with, let’s just take that. Also, his childhood was a textbook case for shrinks.

I’m only human and while I don’t want to use it as an excuse, there are simply things that sometimes I don’t get to take the wheel of. I get pissed off when he screams in seemingly perfectly scheduled unholy hours past midnight. I get that murderous urge when he calls on residents of hell to take him out of his misery and whatever else unthinkable. But at the end of the day, he’s still my father. He played a huge part in my childhood, some of it really bad but some were actually happy moments and quite preparatory for when I had to face the real world (like, right now?). As I always tell my nephew every time we have one of those aunt-to-nephew heart to heart talks that only those who have an awesome aunt-to-nephew closeness like we have can ever have, one can only blame his/her parents for whatever rough-ups he/she has had in his/her lifetime for so long. Despite all the Freudian analyses about how our parents are the root of all evil (and then some) in our lives, I believe we have that thinking and discerning capacity that eventually lets us decide which route to take as we get a bit older.

So my father isn’t the model dad.  I’m no model daughter either.  I do love Papa not only because there’s so much about me that I can only thank him for but because not everything about him is his undoing and if I take it all out in him, my children, if I ever get to have my own kids somehow, might do the same to me and I don’t want that Not that one or the other matters because in this life, regardless of the kind of relationship that we have, he’s another human being and no matter how awful some people might have been in their lifetime, no one deserves to be disrespected.

I guess I can only pray.  For acceptance, for strength, for faith.  For my Ma to be stronger.  For her to live longer because I sure can’t face this alone.  It’s one of those moments when being unmarried is a curse—gives me no excuse to opt out.  I don’t go to church anymore for reasons that I have yet to precisely point a stubby finger on, but I do talk to God, and bless him, I believe he knows where I’m at where he’s concerned.  I guess in times like this, it helps to have something to cling on to.  Something.  Someone.

Working My Arse Off

I’ve been unusually busy the past few days.  I do manage to go to sleep—the kind where my body just surrenders itself to the bed and then to slumber—at around half past five in the morning, at least for the past few days.  As if programmed by a Wake Up button, my system automatically reboots at around eight in the morning and my arm automatically extends itself so my hand could grab my phone and check the time, which is of course, always a few minutes shy of or a few minutes over eight.  Then I squint and look at my notebook’s screen to see how many new messages have come in while I was catching a few winks.  I can now make out from a 6-meter distance when I have an important message.  Usually if the new messages were folders filled with paperwork, they’re usually already a meter long up my desk but since they’re just in my inbox, I could say that I can measure them by the inches from afar and they’re always around six inches.  So I creep up to my chair and try to force myself to really wake up.  I check the e-mails, answer a few of them.  Ignore the YM messages and write on the whiteboard the things that I need to finish in a few hours.  And then I slump my still tired body to bed. 

I don’t go back to sleep.  My mom would come in after a few minutes to say that if I will eat at all, food’s ready.  And I would grunt in response.  Talk about ugly sounds. 

So I stay where I am until the image of my whiteboard embeds itself into my memory lane.  Just plain work waiting to be finished.  Sigh.  So I wash my face, brush my teeth, gargle oral antiseptic, change into my house clothes and go down to wave at my dad whose door is always open—he’s hardly mobile due to a cerebrovascular accident (CVA) more commonly known as stroke so he’s always in bed—play with the dogs, clean up their mess, check the beetle, stand motionless by the door and stare blankly at nowhere until my mom asks me something, head back to my room, slump back to bed, take a shower, change into a fresh set of clothes and whatever else—not necessarily in that order. 

But I guess I can’t complain.  In November last year, while I was living my own life, my brother, who I haven’t spoken with for over a year because of our personal differences, patched things up with me, or so I thought.  Well, he needed my “help” because he felt something physiologically incorrect in his body and he didn’t want to alarm anybody else so he went to the person that he knows rarely gets “alarmed” over any emergency–ME!  So, I took him to a hospital in Cebu, got him one of the best doctors whose specialization covered his “illness” and so after that, we became “close” again and he went back home with the assurance that he’s ok.  Then came December.  My sister had a general checkup in May and was given a clean bill of health but in July, she felt a lump in her left breast.  In August, she had a fine needle aspiration biopsy and was advised to have a frozen section biopsy because of suggestive mammary carcinoma, or breast cancer.  Typical of us Filipinos, they put it off.  When I learned about it, I went home and almost dragged her by the hair so she could have that biopsy.  True enough, she had breast cancer and after two days, she had a radical mastectomy leaving her breastless, well, at least in the left.  So until April, I accompanied her to her chemotherapy sessions.  The biopsy after the mastectomy was great.  It showed that all cancer cells were removed during the surgery but she had to go through chemo sessions just to be doubly sure that the chances of recurrence won’t be that high. 

In March, my boyfriend of over five years and I broke up in a very life-draining way.  I suspended the mourning period until my sister was not with me in Cebu because I believed that I could mope and cry my heart out in due time.  And that’s what I did for a whole month from April to May.  Then I packed my things and headed back home to “forget” and to start anew.  And then my sister, who’s a nurse based in NY, announced that she’s coming home for a short short visit.  And since no one at home cared enough to clean up the house, I did most of the scrubbing and whatnots on all fours, contacted carpenters, plumbers, etc to fix everything that needed fixing.  July came and so did my sister.  Then they left. 

Needless to say, the freelancer moi gave up a lot of projects from November up to around July this year.  So I started to contact my old clients and checked if work was available.  I also placed bids in some freelancer haven of a website to get new projects.  Work started to come in slowly in August and September and now, God is good, I’m swamped.  So yeah, I’ve been really busy that I couldn’t even find time to flirt that much anymore.  Jeez!  The only time I get to touch myself even, is when I take a bath or after I pee!  But like any other woman, I don’t really feel that lacking. 

So yeah, I don’t make sense anymore.  But I needed to write something to keep me sane.  there you go.