“Si Tito, nasa ospital. Hindi daw maka-ihi dalawang linggo na. Ang laki na ng tiyan.” She also went on to mention cirrhosis, a diagnosis that seemed a bit sketchy for a senior with Type I DM and who has underwent kidney transplant nearly a decade ago.
I was outraged. Why the hell did he let two weeks pass without seeing a doctor? If I can not pee for a day, I would be in great pain. And very, very bothered.
The next words were a haze of words that included ER, nahihirapan huminga, hindi na halos makapagsalita at naghahabilin na ilang araw na.
The saline tears streamed down my cheeks as the little one flung her arms carelessly in mid-air, unaware of the world’s little mishaps. My sister tried her best not to choke too, but when my voice started to break, I know hers did too. I had to keep it together for my mother, though. She does not need a bawling family member when she’s just as distraught.
Three years ago, even before we considered conceiving a child, I dreamed that my first-born is a girl. She was about two or three and she was running around with my stepdad. Now I wonder if that was a divine prank.
The only logical thing to do is call. Let the apologies and the thank yous flow, weave some drama while we’re at it, and tell him I love him. After all, this guy has been my father since I was two. Whatever filaments of values and humanity I have, in part, I owe to him.
There are complicated plots. There are people to consider. There are laws and rules to be abided; discretion outside of one’s own that has to be observed. And all those are a pain in the ass.