It's creeping

One thing about being in your forties is knowing that while you’re not that old, you’re no longer young either so you can’t just throw your caution to the wind when it comes to taking care of yourself. The years are counting faster than greased lightning and your age creeps up on you like that ex-boyfriend you blocked on Facebook.

With people my age (even younger) passing on from illnesses that used to beset only the older people decades ago, it made me more of a hypochondriac wreck than I already was. The slightest discomfort—like belching, for instance—and I’d find myself Googling for serious diseases that manifest such symptoms. And one thing I’ve learned from Googling your illness is, DON’T. It will scare the living daylights off you because everything ends up to either cancer, heart disease or diabetes.

I don’t remember ever fretting about what I eat. I was a slave of my cravings because I eat what I want when I want it (well, as long as I can afford it). If there’s one thing I will always remember from my dad’s many words of wisdom, that is to never be stingy on food. We work so we could eat, he said. Maybe I took that literally because I had no compunction eating what I like and it doesn’t matter if it’s street food, junk food, processed food, or if it’s been swimming in oil, sodium or preservatives, etc. As long as it satisfies my extra-efficient stomach then all’s good.

Sinful Cebu Liempo

I also tend to overeat. I don’t mean this as an insult, but I eat like a construction worker doing hard, manual labor that I need a thousand calories from high-carb foods and had to finish it all by 10 minutes. No wonder sometimes, when I’m done eating, I feel like I could use a wheelchair to get me around.

These things are okay when I was younger, but now I’m starting to feel the brunt of it. And I don’t mean just the effect of it going to my thigh or hips, I mean like feeling sluggish and bloated after. Shrugging it off can only go so far especially when you start scaring yourself by imagining the blob blocking a major artery.

But believe me, I tried. I really did.

There aren’t that many healthy choices, at least from where I am most of the day. Whether I bring lunch to work or eat out during lunchtime, the selection is limited to fast food, microwavable food from convenience stores or the hit-or-miss Jollijeep menu.

I don’t know if people will agree with me, but heck, eating healthy is more expensive. A nearby salad bar, where you can make your own, charges per 100 grams and can go as much the same price as a quarter roast with unlimited rice at another place.

I love vegetables, but veggies alone on a main course/viand feel incomplete. I get hungry just as quick and before I know it, I am stuffing sandwich on my mouth barely two hours from my last meal. If you’d ask me, it kinda defeats the purpose of not eating meat.

Aside from unhealthy eating, another sin I’ve been doing these days: Indolence.

How can I possibly burn all these carbs if my work entails me to sit on my coliseum ass in front of the computer for almost seven hours? Sure, I often hit the 10,000 steps but on a regular day, all this walking would eventually end up with me crashing in bed and asleep by 9pm. Spell sedentary.

In my twenties, I thought I would live forever. I cringe when I am reminded of how much abuse I forced upon my own body back then. I worked at night barely sleeping during the day, skip meals, eat junk, drink alcohol–name it.

And now, whether I admit it or not, I am slowly paying for it. 

At early onset of Alzheimer’s...

...play ‘80s songs on repeat and I promise I’d come back.

According to studies, music can give Alzheimer’s patients a cognitive buzz. Do you know that Alzheimer’s and dementia cannot touch the area of the brain where musical memories are stored? This means that listening to music from your youth can get you out of the fog. We all saw that scene in the Disney/Pixar movie Coco, right?

If that’s the case, if I ever suffer from that illness later in life (hopefully not), play me songs from my childhood and I’d probably be back doing the jitterbug faster than you can say, “Wham!”

People who knew me the longest will tell you of my love for the `80s to early `90s songs. Name it — pop/synth-pop, rock, new wave, euro disco, glam metal, punk—even the obscure ones. I can listen to it all day and it makes me happy.

If I want an immediate pick-me-upper, I’d just play these songs and it never fails. In my moments of sadness and even depressive episodes, my playlist can shift my mood and lift my spirits almost instantly. I mean why mope when I can dance along Wang Chung’s Everybody Have Fun Tonight? (“Everybody Wang Chung tonight!”—whatever that means.)

Have you ever felt that tingling sensation that crawls from your neck to your scalp when you hear a song you used to really love but haven’t heard in a long time? That’s the kind of feeling it gives me every time. So even if some people sneer at me because of my choice of music — saying it gives away my age too easily, or it’s a cheeseball — I don’t give a rat’s a** what they think. Instead, I plug my earphones and headbang to “99 Luftballoons” and get lost in my own rabbit hole.

It isn’t rare being told by people how hearing such songs reminds them of me and I like it when they say that. I’d probably win millions in Name That Tune under that category if ever I joined one. Frankly, it’s one of those trivial things I’m pretty good at.

My love for music is something that was hardwired at a very young age, almost like a default. We were exposed to many songs of different genres. My earliest memory was watching Video Hit Parade, a music video show on a local channel in the early `80s (remember this was long before cable TV where MTV became accessible to Filipinos). I’m like that little girl from the movie Poltergeist glued to the TV as if I was hypnotized with the audio-visual experience.

Don’t get me started with the artists from that era. They are a breed of remarkably talented people I look up to to this day. When I watch them on YouTube I’d always wonder who among the current artists can match them. Maybe Bruno Mars? Or Lady Gaga? I honestly don’t know anyone else. (That’s coming from me who didn’t even try to be cool by updating myself on the newer, ubiquitous genre such as KPop.)

I think I even learned to speak good English (well, not to discount my mother and school) because of these songs. So yeah, I might as well thank the likes of Tony Hadley, Simon Le Bon, Roland Orzabal, Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Whitney Houston and yes—even Madonna—for the education. Sometimes for the heck of it, I’d randomly recite the lyrics of some `80s song and people would go: “Wow, that’s deep”, without them knowing I just quoted lines from a Nik Kershaw song.

Growing up, I fantasize my crush would do a Lloyd Dobler outside the house (who am I kidding? I still desire for that to this day. Only the guy would have Chris Evans’ face and not John Cusack's). You don’t know how my eyes would glow and my heart flutters in very, very rare times I come across a guy who had the same musical taste. I gravitate towards them to the point na nagiging guwapo sila sa paningin ko.

Frankly, I don’t think I can even date a man who can’t stand my musical preference no matter how compatible we are on many other things. Disliking or critiquing my musical taste will be the impending doom of the relationship. As in, it will crash before it can even lift. I’d probably get bored at some guy who thinks Falco is a detergent bar.

If there will be a soundtrack of my life, then 80% of it will be `80s to early `90s songs. And it's going to be in volumes since I have a song for every feeling and every memory.

It has to be said, I know nothing about the music that younglings are playing and listening to these days. And I know I will sound like a music snob for saying this, but I don’t think I’m missing out that much anyway. I’m good with my own playlist that can last me for days even if the only ones who’d probably appreciate it are the people within my age bracket or older (or young people with good taste, I dare say).

So promise me that in my early stages of memory decline, plug this very playlist in my ears to bring me back.

And because sharing is caring, click here to be zapped to a time of big hair, nasty shoulder pads, acid washed jeans, plastic bracelets, leg warmers and great music. Trust me, there will be one, two or more songs you haven’t heard in a long time.

You’re welcome.

First year without daddy

This time last year, on a Friday night, my father passed away.

I was particularly lonely and out of sorts for no reason that entire week. We had this big event in the office, but my mind was not into it. A friend said that it’s probably nothing that a bar of chocolate couldn’t fix and I thought it was just one of those bad days too.

It was also just like any other day when I left home that Friday morning. I even handed daddy the twenty pesos I borrowed from him for fare the day before (I had no smaller bill). He was sitting on the couch next to my mom; he seemed tired but fine. When I think about it now, I don’t even recall if I said goodbye to them before heading for the door.

Who would’ve thought that it would be the last time I’d ever see my father awake?

By lunchtime, I got a text message from my older brother telling me that my father was not feeling well and was complaining of chest pains. They wanted to rush him to the hospital, but my father refused. Since it had been like that for a while, when he won’t feel well one day and be perfectly okay the next, mommy and kuya did not insist anymore. Instead, they just made him rest the whole afternoon.

My father died in our house that night, surrounded by family.

From my room upstairs, I heard a commotion in the living room where my dad was bunked. I went to see what was going on and from the top of the stairs, I saw him holding his chest and wincing in pain. My mother was beside him, crying, and my brothers were already looking for people downstairs to help them bring daddy to the nearby hospital. I don’t know why I just froze there only able to call out, “Daddy! Daddy!” — but there was no response from him, only moans. Then, after letting out what seemed to be a whimper, he drew his last breath.

That was the only time I descended the stairs but went straight to the door in a panic. I managed to let out a yell for help and saw people come rushing inside the house. A concerned neighbor carried my dad to his van as my brothers and a male cousin followed. Meanwhile, I stayed home with my mom, my sister-in-law and my nephews.

After what seemed like the longest thirty to forty minutes of my life, I got a call from my younger brother and he said that daddy was being revived and he kept asking me if mom was okay. I had a gut feeling when I passed the phone to my cousin Nancy and saw her reaction changed that something’s wrong. While fearing the worst, I tried holding it together for the sake of my mom and my nephews.

I waited a few more minutes before deciding to go and wait downstairs. When I got down, I saw that there were already a lot of people gathered by the gate, including my younger brother, who I spoke to just minutes ago and who I thought was still at the hospital. It turned out that some of those who rushed my father to the hospital had come back already, but none of them had the guts to come upstairs and tell me and my mother that daddy’s gone. It was only when my younger brother looked at me and shook his head that my worst fear was realized.

It was confirmed later on that daddy didn’t even make it to the hospital, but the emergency staff tried their best reviving him with intracardiac injections and pumped hard enough that they broke his ribs in the process.

***
I grew up being teased that I was my daddy’s favorite not only because I’m the only daughter, but perhaps more because we look alike. “Kamukha ni Luis!” is something I’d usually hear during family events or occasions. I wasn’t particularly thrilled about it then, because he’s maitim (dark) and for me, it was an indirect way of telling me that I am too. The funny thing was, I don’t seem to mind when they tell me I got my “better” features from him like my nose, my smile or my big eyes.

I would like to think that it wasn’t just the looks I got from him, for those who knew my dad can vouch that he was naturally sharp and witty. Even his own brothers would admit that he’s the intelligent one among them and would probably have been successful in life if only he wasn’t as lazy.

See, my father didn’t even finish elementary. We all know the story of how our grandfather beat him to a pulp after finding out he was actually skipping class and was spending all his time watching a construction. I heard he was beaten very badly, that it was my lolo who got exhausted and eventually gave up. He asked my father one last time if he still wants to go to school and when my father said no—that was the end of it.

I don’t know what he did all those years that he should have been in school because even with his lack of formal education, my daddy’s wide vocabulary can rival someone who had finished college. In his heyday, you’d find him quietly answering an English crossword puzzle while having a smoke and a cup of coffee. Because of this, he’s also unbeatable in scrabble and boggle. He loved words; he would sometimes impress us by using big English words in regular, everyday conversations and then go: “Alam mo ba ang ibig sabihin nu’n?” (Do you know what that word means?). This went on up until the time that I can already go head-to-head with him.

Daddy may not be articulate due to his stuttering (we often tease him because of that) but his acuity cannot be questioned. For one, he barely finished fourth grade but passed the Civil Service Examination in one take. And unlike his mathematically-challenged daughter, he was also good at basic math and quick computations in his head too.

He loves watching foreign movies, news and documentaries, while very critical of local celebrities and films. We’d always shush him when he’d suddenly curse in front of the TV after seeing some celebrity or politician he hates. He very much would like us to think that he had this impeccable taste on people, shows, movies, clothing, etc.

While we’re on the marginal side of the family, I think that he had this illusion of elitism—of regarding himself better than most people. We would always remind him to take it easy on judging and criticizing people, especially when we are neither privileged nor rich. It was something that we often fight about. As I got older, I realized it’s something that I noticed with his other brothers too, which made me deduce that it was probably how our lolo Eliong and lola Kuala raised them.

My daddy seldom gets angry at us, his children. If he does, he’d curse, which was more like a mere utterance of his frustration—but will not resort to hitting us. It was to him we’d cower when mom strikes us because he was the one with the “cooler head” and would rather counsel us calmly. In my lifetime, I can only recall one time he ever hit me, which I deserved by the way, and it was just one solid hit that left me limping for days.

I’ve always seen him as a groovy dad who can get away with black statement shirts and Chuck Taylor in his seventies. He was not your stereotypical disciplinarian. With him, we were allowed to think for ourselves or voice out our opinions. I don’t remember him impose rules such as curfews but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care for us at all. On the contrary, he’s the first to worry when one of us is not yet home.

He taught me how to drink beer, thinking that his sons would learn that on their own. In the end, it was only I who drink among his children, and my two brothers cannot even hold their liquor.

I think he’s the only father I know who gets excited when a guy visits his daughter. During my early teen years, he’d give me this knowing and annoying smile when he sees a guy at our house. As soon as the guy leaves he would ask me if that boy was courting me, and when I say he’s just a buddy or a friend—I kid you not, he’d look disappointed.

He may not have been vocal about it, but I knew that when my boyfriend Alex died suddenly in 2002, that his heart was broken too. Daddy would scold me whenever he sees me crying weeks after it but admitted to me later on how proud he was of my strength to move on after that. He said that a weak person would’ve easily gone crazy.

***

My father suffered two strokes before the third attack that got him. The first one in 2009, where he recovered fully, and the second in 2013, which was more serious it confined him to the hospital for a week. It affected his overall movement as he suffered hemiparesis on the right side of his body. Around this time, perhaps because of his discomfort and limitation of movement, he got grumpy and irritable. Sometimes when I talk to him, he’d not respond and would just sneer at me instead. It wasn’t really because he’s gone deaf—but more like he had gotten somewhat apathetic.

Then again, I chose to cherish the memory of my father by thinking of the better times we had with him. I would like to remember him as the super cool dad I’ve known all my life, rather than what has become of him in his later years.

It has been a year since and I can’t tell you how much I miss my main man every day. The pain from the deep void he left my heart has dulled but I know it will never, ever go away. There are still times I’d just find myself crying when I think of him. I sometimes wish that he was still here especially when I realized how I won’t be able to see his reaction when I bring a guy in the house (if that time ever comes) or see his happiness over my little everyday triumphs.

It makes me smile every time I think of this one time we were bantering many years ago:

“Daddy, huwag ka ng masyadong mapamintas. Hindi mo alam kung kailan ka na kukunin ni Lord.” I told him. (Daddy, stop being too judgmental. You wouldn’t know when God’s coming to take you.)

“I’m not afraid to see the face of God.” He quipped, almost stammering.

“`Yan ay kung face ni God ang makikita mo!” I said, laughing. (That is, if it’s God’s face you’ll see!)

He may not have been a perfect husband or father—but he was a good man. And I have no doubt that he’s with the Lord now. I carry on for I am comforted with the thought that he’s in a much better place where he wouldn’t feel pain anymore. What keeps me strong since he left is knowing that someday, when it’s my turn to go, I’d get to see my father again.

I love you forever, Daddy. Let my love for you transcend death. Bring it wherever you are.