Rest and M&Ms.

I buried my father today.

In my almost two decades of existence, this has got to be the hardest thing I’ve had to endure. It was extremely difficult, but I had given myself less credit than I apparently deserved. Of course, I had my own share of hysterics, and it was a significant share. I remember screaming, “Daddy, Daddy”, but not much else. I remember crying and crying, my eyes pressed shut as if in the hope that when I open them, everything would be fine and back to normal. But, it wasn’t. I reached that point where my feelings just swallow me and consume my entire person, and for the past few days I’ve been prone to rage fits and emotional blackouts. Today, I somehow managed maintain enough composure not to throw myself in his grave after him. That would’ve been another news piece in itself. Despite my complete and utter disbelief, I know that my dad wouldn’t have wanted me to loose my cool. I did the best I could in the given circumstances.

My sister and I each had a pack of milk chocolate M&Ms. He loved his chocolate, and M&Ms were his favorite. Whenever we’d receive a care package from relatives abroad, the chocolate would go through his consideration first and the M&Ms would be exclusively his, no questions asked. The last pack of M&Ms we received was the 56oz XXL pack, and needless to say, he was pleased. Those were rationed but consumed at leisure, since my father believed in temperance despite indulgence. When I felt like it, I picked the blue ones off his plate. At which point, he would send me away to get my own. My sister and I frantically peeled off the price tag, out of habit, because we had been taught to peel price tags from presents. I placed the little packs in his hands, one in each, for the journey. I don’t know what exactly this journey is, where it leads to and how long it lasts. I just know that there is a journey and my dad is on it right now, and in the event that he decides to drop by the mortal vessel that is his body, I’m sure he’d appreciate the snackage.

His hands were cold and stiff like ice without moisture, and his fingers didn’t grip my hand in reassurance. I could feel the coldness of his chest through the layers of his navy blue suit, and I could only imagine how his bare skin felt like. Glaringly absent was the lack of heartbeat in his chest. I had to be firmly pulled away from the coffin, my hand gliding over every little detail as if to draw out strength from the memories.

My father was a loving man with a big and generous heart. His heart was so big and full of love that one, singular, mortal human body could not contain it. With his death, his love now resides in all of us. There is so much love that we now overflow with hope.

As I laid my father to rest, I felt a sense of calm wash over me, like my sadness was being siphoned from the top of my head. Peace is a strange feeling to feel at this time, but I felt it. It wasn’t numbness, because I felt something, and this “numbness” made me feel that one day, all the hurt and pain and sadness and fear that I felt and continue to feel now, will end. As I drop in and out of my lucidity and calmness, as a grieving daughter in shock and denial is wont to do, I will try to hold on to this feeling.

Somehow, somewhere, I know my father is okay. I just pray that he help us, one day, eventually, be okay, too.

And God said, “Come home, Joel.” And my dad replied, “Yes, Father.”

Movie Date with My Dad, Part I

I’m currently watching 127 Hours. When this movie came out, my dad found the story laughable and utterly preposterous. A mountain climber gets stuck beneath a boulder and severs his own arm off to break free? How stupid, he says. We were on the way home from the mall where we saw the poster for the film. And the guy had a Swiss knife with him? Stupid, stupid, stupid. My dad shook his head as he chuckled to himself. If the guy let his rationality take precedence over his panic, then he could have just chipped away at the rock until it flaked away and he could’ve wiggled his arm out, right? A hundred and twenty seven hours, that’s around five days. Plenty of time for him to just work at it, right? Might be boring, but hey. It beats the alternative. At this point, the car slows at a stretch of traffic. He turns back to face us, his two kids, sitting in the backseat, bemused and amused. Right? Right, we agree. My sister and I exchange glances, rolling our eyes at each other good-naturedly as if to silently say, “Oh, dad.”

In my mind, I am in a relatively empty cinema in Shangri-La, my dad on the seat to my left. I have my overpriced candy from the counter in my cup holder, my dad is holding cold popcorn flavored with artificial cheese powder. I’d try to control myself from eating all my candy during the trailers, my dad would be picking at his first box because yes, he’d have more than one. The opening sequence would begin. I’d appreciate the treatment and style, Dad would be watching quietly and somewhat intently. Bored already, I wonder to myself how long it’ll take him to fall asleep this time.

In reality, I’m sitting on the couch, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, watching an AVI copy I mooched off a friend, on my laptop, alone. I don’t have the attention span for films; I’m like my dad, in this respect. I may not sleep during screenings, but my mind tends to wander. Even now, as I write this, the movie is paused at 23:08. I’ll get back to it in a bit.

The reason why I stopped the movie at that particular time is so I can say this:

Dad, Aron Ralston wasn’t an idiot. For starters, he didn’t have a Swiss knife, exactly. If you paid attention to the opening sequence - which you didn’t - you would’ve noticed the he left the Swiss knife in the cabinet. He had one of those metal multi-tool things, it had pliers and what I think was a nail file; it was the nail file that he used to slice away at the rock. He even drops the darn thing, and it’s such a struggle to retrieve. His efforts were completely futile, though. He works at it for a really long time, a substantial amount of time. He doesn’t consider cutting off his own arm off the bat, it’s just his desperation that drives him. I don’t think he let is irrationality take over, it just took its natural course. I’m not at the gory parts yet - since the beginning of this paragraph, I watched another two minutes - but his threshold for pain is just astounding.

Oh, Dad. I’m glad you didn’t feel any pain.

How I wish you were here with me, so we could watch this together. I could verbalize the above sentiments, and you could counter my claims. Your motto was always, “Stay cool,” no matter the circumstance, so of course you’d stick by it. This is assuming, of course, you actually stay up past your usual ten minute record. Which, I can honestly tell myself now, is no.

“Tonight, April 5, someone shot my father. I will not stop until I find the person who had the guts to do this. My father was healthy and very much alive, I do not understand who would do this. I am not sad but mad. Mad at the person/s who would do such a thing to someone who was just trying to make a living, he had big dreams and I am proud to have called him dad. Whoever did this to him will suffer. I will never forgive him. It is painful to say that a man lower than my dad would kill him. May he rest in peace and I swear I will not let this go by as another moment of my life. I love you dad thank you for everything you did for me and everyone in the family.”

The thoughts of my sister, a fourteen-year-old girl who just lost her father. She posted this as a note on Facebook. Technically, I’m not even supposed to see this post since she refuses - as in, refuses - to add me as a friend, but she left her Facebook logged on and unattended and I like browsing through her wall whenever she does so. I hope she doesn’t mind me hijacking this.

I am so moved. She’s a little slip of a thing, a small, skinny girl who’s been wandering the house like a zombie, not fully aware of the gravity of the situation and searching for her role in all of this.

That, and this is going to sound so dorky of me to say, but I am so impressed at the structure of her sentences, the technically correct grammar and proper capitalization, and the overall coherency of her thoughts. This is coming from someone who texts in shortcuts and sticky caps, with you as u and that whole shebang. The fact that she brings out her spelling and grammar prowess really makes me understand how serious the situation is, and how serious it is for her. I know, it’s such a dorky thing for me to notice.

Someone took our father away last night. The life we lived prior to the night before feels like an eternity ago, and I don’t know if we can ever go back to it. Time is creeping by so, so slowly. I’m just waiting for the hours to pass, for the days to pass, for the burial. I need more time, but at the same time, I don’t want any more time. I don’t know what I want right now. 

Ah, I want justice. I want to know who did this to my father. I want to know what whoever did this had against him, what they were fighting about, and if it was worth it. But, then again, whatever the answer to that question may be, the answer will always be, “No.”

So many people are writing on my Facebook wall, and it’s not even my birthday.

This sucks.

My phone’s inbox is also full of messages of sympathy and condolences, but I can’t bring myself to read them all, to press the center button of my phone and wait two seconds for a message to open, whose message I’ve heard too many times in the span of less than twenty-four hours, stated in so many different ways. Don’t get me wrong, though; I appreciate the outpouring of love and support, it’s the only thing I find consolation in. But, reading those messages would be another way of accepting a reality I’m not ready to face. I’m not ready to read them all, but I’m glad they are there for when I am.

My mother is crying, small, high-pitched expressions of her agony and disbelief. We are opposite sides of the house, but I can hear her. From where I am, it’s not so loud; it sounds like a whisper, or a subconscious thought. I’m trying to ignore it. Hearing her cry makes me cry. I can see her now, in my mind’s eye, clutching my dad’s pillow to her chest. If I stand up and go to her, my actual eyes will probably see the same thing.

I haven’t left the first stage of grief. I’m still in denial. I haven’t cried, not that much. I’m too busy keeping it together for the sake of my family. Heaven knows I am prone to histrionics, but I had my share upon— How do I say this? Upon seeing the body, stumbling upon the crime scene? I’m forlorn. But, there are so many things for me to feel right now. I don’t know which should take precedence. Right now, I am numb.

The sound of my mother crying, I can’t block it out. All I can think of is who could possibly do this to my father, to my family. Of course, my dad had enemies; he’s a lawyer, that’s a given. But, who would hate him enough to want him dead? I have no idea, and I don’t know if I have any intention of finding out anything more as the case progresses. Or, if it progresses. Hearing speculation would only anger me, The only thing I am interested in is the conclusion, because then I know whose balls I’ll be shooting off with my daddy’s gun.

Whatever nitty-gritty details I find out, I won’t be able to share them anyway, out of concerns for the safety of my family. Everyone’s running hot and heavy on wariness and paranoia; you never know who’s watching you anymore, you know what I mean? The only thing I can properly share with the rest of the world - or, the part that cares to read about my life - are my feelings, and I have a lot of them, even if I don’t know what they are, exactly.

The more I write, the more I inadvertently document my descent into madness. Because, really, these are maddening circumstances. I can only hope that I rise from this, eventually, because my daddy wouldn’t want his daughter to let go of everything she’s worked for and while away her days mourning.

It’s hard though, because everything I want and work for seems so pointless now.

April 06 would’ve been our last night here.

The last time I went out of the country to vacation in a non-Asian country for longer than five days was almost seven years ago, when I was thirteen. We went to the States, my entire family and I. We stayed with relatives and family friends along the East Coast for almost a month. We toured around, saw the sights - my love affair with the Phantom of the Opera began in New York City, when I saw the musical on Broadway - and enjoyed each other’s company.

April 06, today, would’ve been our last day here. The night of April 07, we leave for Europe; we, meaning my entire family, my parents, grandparents, sister and yaya dearest, who’s been with our family for almost twenty years. It would’ve been a thirty-five day vacation, the first in a really long time. We would go to Switzerland, France and Italy.

My dad was particularly excited about this trip. He went to Europe on his own, almost ten years ago, but he stayed around the Austria area. He showed us his pictures - one picture he was particularly proud of was of him shirtless in snowfall, he always handled the cold well - and told us of his adventures. With only enough money for fare and food, he’d get on a train and get himself lost. He often expressed his hope that, one day, he might take his family for a similar adventure. This is why we didn’t join a tour group, the tourist spots were too typical and the schedule too structured. We took pains in planning this trip; printed our a map and measured distances in kilometers so we know how to rent a van, booking our own hotels and traveler’s apartments, memorizing common phrases from dinky guidebooks.

We were so excited for this trip. My brain was actually on total vacation mode already, and all I needed to do was figure out how to pack my life into a tiny orange suitcase. That was my only concern, the night of April 05. Nobody suspected anything, because honestly, who thinks of such things? I am trying to come to terms with the fact that my dad was killed in a brutal, premeditated murder. I am trying to get used to saying those words. My dad didn’t die; he was killed. My dad didn’t die; he was murdered. I need to get used to it.

Needless to say, the Europe trip is off. My dad’s sisters are coming over from the States. This is the reality I have to face right now. I’m not asleep. This is fucking real. I’m slapping myself, I’m not suddenly sitting up in my bed. I’ve contemplated throwing myself down the stairs, because whenever I dream and I realize that I’m dreaming, I jump from a considerable height with the expectation of landing on my bed. But, it’s not a dream. It’s reality. It’s a nightmare.

I am currently on the first stage of grief.

Someone killed my father tonight, shooting him point blank and murdering him in cold blood.

I am crying, out of grief, but also for justice. Please pray for my father. He was a good man, excellent in all aspects. He said his prayers every day, upon waking and before going to bed.

I just arrived from the scene of the crime, writing out my feelings in an attempt to rationalize them. I don’t understand any of them, but I just had to let this out. I just finished screaming my head off at some irresponsible journalists who turned their cameras on me for the next pity party cover story, instead of documenting the cold hard facts unfolding in front of them. My uncle, my dad’s brother, arrived and told me not to lose my cool. I couldn’t help it, I’m sorry.

My dad was shot while getting gas, in the brand new pick-up truck he worked for so hard and for so long to get. He was shot, if I’m not mistaken, three to four times, in the head.

I ran across the crime scene tape. I needed to see him. I saw him, holes in his head the size of five peso coins. His eyes were closed, his head on his chest as if he nodded off during the chick flicks or cartoon films we drag him to. But, he was covered in blood. His face was peaceful, but he was bathed in blood; a blood bath of his own blood.

I know it might seem irresponsible of me to be blogging at a time like this, but it’s taking me all rationality and sanity to even sit down and write like this. This is how I am maintaining what little composure I have left. If I lost my sanity and self-control, I’d be writhing on the floor in disbelief and agony.

I hear my mom screaming. “Binaril si Joel!”, over and over again, repeating reality as if to confirm it. She can’t believe it; I can’t either. She’s calling all their friends, the closest, and letting them know the news. Every time she tells someone new, she doesn’t sound any more convinced.

My feet are numb.

My entire body is numb. I’m not crying yet. The fact that I’m never going to have another conversation about books or the stupidity of people with my dad has not sunken in yet.

All I ask now, to whoever reads this, is that you please pray for my father. Pray for his soul, pray for justice on his behalf. Because, right now, we have no idea where to start.