The Pathetic Story of Fatherhood II

Last December 12, 2008 our father had a stroke. It was his first time – nearly fatal – that cost him the right side of his body. He is only 61 years old. (Save the obituary page for now).

So much that we, his children, think about how it happened. He’s the only one who knew what caused it. But reading between the lines, he was so full of regrets, full of guilt. At least, we were not short of giving him advices regarding his diet and the binge drinking. Ewan ba, but he can’t refuse to go out from the meaning of Filipino machismo literally and figuratively.

Seeing him limped in a hospital bed, one of my brothers and I thought of the good things we and our father had shared. His strong arms that used to spank us whenever we committed childhood mischief is no longer alert. He just murmured his inaudible instructions so much so that we miss his dry sense of humor. Good thing, his brain was not damaged. He is a good father – a good provider, a strict disciplinarian and a strong-willed person. On the other hand, he also has his shortcomings, particularly with my mother. But at that particular moment she’s always the supportive better-half.

The situation brought another unfair condition for our mother. True, they were bound to stick with each other through thick and thin, for better or worse. But during those times that he was drinking, abusing his physical self, he didn’t think of our mother or his safety or the financial implications. Our mother is always at the receiving end. That’s why we can’t blame her when she snapped irritably and uttered to the doctor that “he’s my roommate.”

At this instant, my brother and I contemplated about our future as husbands and fathers. Would our wife and children be there if we’re in the same situation? Would they be around to amuse us with their humor? Would they be our ears to listen to the doctor’s instructions? Would they be our mouths so that we can speak? Would they be our arms if we’re immobile? Would they be our feet to buy for our simple needs?

Our father’s immobility compels us to be strong and brace for the tough times ahead. More importantly, we don’t want to be helpless. We don’t want to be reduced as a mere roommate or housemate that can be evicted anytime. We don’t want to be taken out from their memories.

The Pathetic Story of Fatherhood

It’s been six months, ten days, 17 hours, 37 minute, 58 seconds since I resigned from my job (again). After six years of ego-tripping, mind-bashing, voluminous paper checking, and torturous grammar correcting, I finally called it quits… Amen to that.

It’s the Gemini in me once again – a pain in the ass adventurer whose idealism precedes the real self. Fed up. Bored. Unhappy. Hence, getting out of the structured walls of work was the answer.

Freelance once again. In transition, the family roles were reversed. True to form, the pressure in a Gemeinschaft community was somewhat hard to contend with. Duhh… Why do we always have to abide with societal mores and norms?

Example 1. An equally pain in the ass daughter could not accept the fact that I’m working albeit at home, thinking and waiting for a one-shot opportunity for the big bucks. She was already immersed with the idea of gender roles – that an ideal father should always be leaving the house daily for work. So absorbed, too, in the premise that: husbands (in my case, a house-band) should not sport a goatee, more so, a long hair.

Example 2. Another dilemma is the notion of former co-workers that my “shelf life” as a yuppie (yorppie is appropriate I guess – Young Rural Professional) is nearing expiration. Sooner or later, I will be taken out of the job market shelf.

Example 3. Why am I letting my wife to study in the big city and make all the sacrifices for the kids? (A woman-friend told me this. She hasn’t heard of women’s lib and too conservative to accept it.)

Shrugging my shoulders isn’t enough to answer those queries. So too is the fact that rationalizing won’t work as people do not have the same level of understanding. One thing is certain though: they are getting into my nerves!

An erudite friend once told me: “There’s not one thing comparable to the divine nobility of being a father. It is of vernal gift to witness the metamorphosing children and no joy greater than to stand in awe at the fruit of labor as it becomes the vital part of humanity. You have the reason and meaning to live, being a father is more than enough.” Thank goodness, he didn’t puke.

My life as a father is purpose-driven but contrary to the preaching of Rick Warren. Neither would it be Og Mandino’s greatest salesman in the world. Nor living in Coelho’s surrealist world. I guess I’m best fitted with Bob Ong’s antics – A B N K K Su L T N P L A Ko. At Y N Ang N G S Yo Ko!!! (10 October 2008)