I saw myself in her. She was trying to help me prolong my life.
“You have to walk 8,000 steps a day… You have to cut on your sugar. No chocolates.” And so on…
Fifteen years ago, I tried to prolong my Dad’s life. A doctor came to visit him at home upon my request. It was August 2003.
“Oh, you have to put a peg in his stomach. He is not eating enough. He will die before your sisters come for their Christmas holidays if he does not get enough nutrients. And the only way to do that was to put a peg.”
So I vaguely told Dad that we will put a peg in his stomach. Dad was a doctor himself, so I assumed he understood. I checked him into a hospital after he got his cardiac clearance. He was so trusting, he cooperated fully.
After the hospital, he suffered gas pain, which was normal when they put a hole from your intestines through your skin.
“Why did you have to do it?” he asked me.
I told him I wanted him to live longer. We both loved each other, but he KNEW that he was dying and it was an unnecessary operation to prolong his life.
He probably suffered through the first weeks, but he didn’t show it. I don’t remember now if he showed any marked improvement. His skin was still transparent, and his weight gain was minimal.
After three months, after breakfast, I went to say good morning to him. He seemed in good spirits. The nurse reported that he sang “Happy birthday” to my mother as soon as she woke up. Her birthday was still another month away.
“My birthday is still a month away,” my mother chided him for not remembering.
He continued singing. As I turned to go up to my room, he stopped me. He grasped my arm.
“Don’t leave me,” he pleaded. “I’m dying.” he said softly.
“Dad, you’ve been telling me that you’re dying ever since I was three years old. I will just finish some letters, and will return.” I said, hopefully gently, and pushed away his hand.
I went up to my computer. Barely 30 minutes had passed, when the nurse told me,
“Ate, wala na siya. Wala na si Daddy.” (He is gone. Daddy is gone.)
I rushed downstairs, and he was unconscious. I immediately called the driver, and the nurse and he carried Dad’s body into the car.
We went to the Emergency Room, but 30 minutes and a lot of injections failed to revive him.
The peg didn’t help. Dad still died before Christmas. It was November 24, 2003.
Now I see it again in her face. “Don’t die too soon,” she seemed to say.
I know for a fact that, no matter what we do, when our time is up, no amount of food nutrients and exercise can ward off death. But I will do what I can do to keep healthy until that moment when death calls.
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