Moments

I haven’t looked at this picture for a while. We were in Utah, on the way to Yellowstone.

I think that must have been one of Dad’s happiest moments. It was the first time he saw snowfall. Come to think of it, it was more than a snowfall, it was a snow storm. We have stopped the car on the side of the road, so we could get out and feel the snow paltering against our face. I remember the force of that wind. We could barely open our eyes. We had to shout at each other. It was wild.

My dad was cute. He’s a little on the chubby side, with the little round pot belly. Not the “obesed-ly” ugly kind, but a small cute one. I always thought he would have made a great Santa Claus. He has these small almond-shape eyes, the same one I have. His face was so young, despite his age at that time, probably from all the laughter and kindness. That’s my dad – always a helpful friend, always a happy man.

Sometimes I wonder how dad would look like if he were still alive today. He would have been 64. I think he would have still been equally jolly.

I remember his funeral and the scores of people that came. They came to pay their last respects. But they also came to relive my dad, to remember the joyful moments they had with my dad. It’s amazing how many lives my dad had touched.

That trip we made across the US was one of the best times I ever spent with mom and dad. They came for my graduation. I remember how proud dad was. I was sitting on the lower floor, and he was on the upper deck. He was so far away, his face was just a speck. But even from that distance, I saw his beaming. He was all excited, running around the Bob Devaney Center deck, snapping picture of me as my name was called and I walked up to the Chancellor to be bestowed my degree. I remember how he put his hand over my shoulder, gave me a pat and said “my daughter”.

I remember the day he died. I was still in bed that morning. It was a Monday morning. It was Thaipusam, a public holiday and I was sleeping in late. Mom was at working, overtime. He opened my room door and asked if I had wanted breakfast. My eyes could barely open. Through those small slits, I had a glimpse of him hovering at my room door. I grumbled “no”, agitated that I was jolted from my peaceful slumber. That was the last time I saw my dad. I was the last person he talked to.

That whole day was like a horrible movie. I remembered that sound – the furious clanging of our padlock against the metal grill. I jumped out of bed to check out the commotion. This kind Samaritan had found dad’s IC, followed the address and found our house. He informed us that dad had fainted in the pool’s shower room. I drove over with Rudy immediately, still in our peejays.

When I got there, I saw him lying still on the stretcher. The lifeguard told me he had called the ambulance about 20 minutes earlier, but no sign of it. To someone in vain, that news was ridiculous, totally unacceptable. I got impatient. I tried to call, but none of the phone in that complex was working. Hopeless public amenities. I had to do something. I told Rudy to stay with dad while I drove home to call for help.

I did find help. I informed Mom and gathered all the things that I thought I would need at the hospital – credit card, money, my driver’s license. By the time I got back to the pool, I was told that the ambulance has taken my dad to University Hospital.

I drove over as fast as I could, dashed into the emergency room. “Things are under control”, I kept assuring myself. “It’s just a concussion. They just had to revive him”. I wasn’t sure where to go. Then I saw Rudy walked out of into the corridors. He was mopping tears off his face. I walked up to him. Between sobs, I heard him say “Dee died, Dee died”.

Those words didn’t sink in at first. I thought it was a sick joke, I thought my brother just got too worried and nervous. Dad had just fainted from a minor fall. He was not sick. He was more than healthy.

Then I saw him. He was still on the stretcher. I called him, “Dee”. I shook him. “Dee” I called again, louder this time. “Wake up”. He didn’t. “Wake up, say something”. I went numb. This was not real, I thought. I was confused. I didn’t know what to do. I always made things happened, but now, I couldn’t make my Dad wake up. I stumbled out of the room. There has to be something that the medics have not been done. Some mistake some where.

I saw Mom walked in. She asked me how Dad was. I didn’t know what to say. I just muttered that he was inside the room. Rudy saw her. He was still sobbing. She asked him what was wrong and he continue to utter the only words he could managed, “Dee died” and broke down again.

I called Vincent. Vincent had special powers. He could tell me something. He answered. I whispered “my dad died”. The line was bad. He went “huh?”. I repeated myself, louder “my dad died”. I think he was shocked, he went “huh?” again. By this time, after myself said the words twice, it sunk in, it really did. “My dad died”. This time I was screaming, and I repeatedly screamed out the same words over phone, as if by getting the words out, the pressure would reduce. Tears gushed out of my skulls and eyes so hard. “My dad died”, I cried. I remember the people in the ward looking at me going hysterical. I don’t remember their faces. My mind had no room for them, it was too welled up with pain. I sunk into the hospital floor and cried.

I had many times wonder what ran through Dad’s mind the moment when he felt his heart cramped, his lungs contracted and his vision blacked out. What were his last thoughts? What did it feel like?

I will never know until it’s my turn. Time and time again, I wished I could turn back the clock to that moment when he opened my room door. Had I known it would be the last time I was seeing him, my last word would never have been “no”. I would have told him how much I loved him, hugged him, kissed him and would never have let him go for his swim.

Every time I think of that moment, it breaks my heart. I still miss my dad. After 8 years, the pain in not one bit lesser. It still makes me cry. Whoever said time will heel a broken heart. It doesn’t always.