Celebrating My Father

I don't take my time with my dad for granted. Never for several years now. Since he was diagnosed with his debilitating illness OPCA--the translation of which refers to the 3 areas of his brain that are permanently degenerating...Olivopontocerebellar Atrophy. So nearly every year (or every other), I've traveled to the Philippines to remind him in person...of my immense love for him. His one and only daughter. 

Our Welcoming Party: Just months after my father and Flor moved back to the Philippines, my brothers, their partners, and I would be greeted by an enthusiastic Papa. Here, one of the symptoms of his illness (i.e.facial palsy) is overshadowed by his joy in seeing his children.

Bright beautiful sunrays flood my Father's room, where he spends 90% of his time.  Flor sleeps in the bed adjacent to my father's hospital bed, so that she can brace his arm or hold his hand when she rests. (Have I mentioned what a Godsend she is? Well.  She is.)  To the right, are his medical supplies: suction, trach suction catheter, oxygen tank etc...)

You have to understand.  I don't claim that fatherhood suited Papa David well. While he loved all of us, vocalizing it or demonstrating it in a way we could recognize was not natural to him.  This was one of the reasons why my mother was dissatisfied in their marriage. And one of the many reasons I harbored resentment and frustration with him in my teen years--when I was the sole child of four, who remained in my father's care.

My father worked hard.  That's what he knew best.

The 2nd born of four children, I was a carbon copy of my Pops.  It would not be until the age of 6, when my hair grew in, that a stranger could differentiate me from my 3 brothers.  The tomboy role suited me well.

I remember loving him so much as a little girl. Like the way his bristly mustache scratched my lips when I greeted him with a kiss. When I was little, I was reported to be his favorite. My brother Brian, to this day, still claims the same.  If true, perhaps it was because I was one of a kind. A tomboyish little girl among three brothers. Perhaps it was because facially, aside from the mustache of course, I was the child who looked most like him. 

Clockwise: a) Living at the AirForce/Navy annex in Washington DC (My oldest and youngest siblings not shown); b) Clearly before 6 years of age, since I clearly have little to no hair; c) The father-daughter resemblance can't be contested here (my brother Christian 2nd from left, and our cousin Debbie to his left); d) The Pre-K version of me, rockin' the fake log for my school pics

My stepmother, Florencia Aranjuez Villalas...who by the way hates being referred to as a stepmother since she is 10 years my senior, has made an idyllic home for them in San Isidro, Dauis, Bohol, Philippines. Gasp! (San Isidro = barangay or barrio, Dauis = the town, Bohol = the island and province, and well...Philippines...the Motherland.) 

The scale after which my father's "estate" was modeled was a bit overstated.  As a result, they have more than ample room (and headspace) to claim as theirs.  It was an oversight many years ago, when my father sent a real estate booklet that illustrated the style and floor plan he wanted recreated for his "retirement" home on the island of Bohol.  Since he failed to clarify his preferred measurements (i.e. a more modest size) to the builders, like good meticulous craftsman, they followed the booklet to a tee and built a structure that was 3x the size that my father had intended.

My Father and his "Estate" (2011)

Despite this, it is a romantic paradise landscaped with tropical shrubs, plants, and fruit trees--our own little botanical garden. And when the windows are open and summer has not yet come in full force, the breeze kisses my father's skin reminding him that Mother Nature graces him with love too.

Best Therapy there is: Nature

Blinded by the Light my Father is reluctant to say "Cheese!"