A few days ago, my brother Steven texted me to inform me that he had found two boxes in my mother's house, containing "stuff" that belonged to me. I had completely forgotten about the existence of these cartons. I must have left them in my Mom's house when I left for my first priestly assignment in Mindanao in 1988. Today, I went through the contents of the cartons, which had been unopened for twenty years. I found things I had forgotten even existed. Compositions from high school, including one intriguingly entitled "Why Xavierians are Superior to Icans." A one-act play and a short story I wrote in my senior year in Xavier School. My first philosophy paper entitled "A phenomenology of saying goodbye" (with a proud grade of "A+"!) which I wrote in 1978. Research papers written in college and during Jesuit formation: on Jane Austen, Graham Greene, Shakespeare's King Lear, etc. And poetry, including, among others, four sonnets (when did I write them? As a college freshman?) on Mozart, Bach, Ravel and Stravinsky and some angst-ridden semi-love poems.
But the one piece of writing that struck me most was a four page account of the last days of my father (who passed away at the age of 61 twenty years ago, on November 13, 1988), contained in a letter to my sister in the States, who was not able to come home for the funeral. I reproduce the contents of this letter, to remember those days that were filled with such grief and such grace.
Dear Atchi,
I'm writing because Mom thought that you would appreciate a fuller account of the many things that have been happening here before and after Dad's passing away.
You know that Dad had his attack on Wednesday night (Nov. 9). He had come from a golf game in Canlubang and was in the office talking to Susie over the phone. He just suddenly slumped over; his last words were words of fatherly concern: "How's Peter?" Dennis [our cousin] saw him and brought him to Makati Medical. Dad's heart had already stopped beating; they revived him with electric shock, but the five minutes without oxygen had already caused brain damage. The doctors said that if he did not regain consciousness in 72 hours--that is, by 730 PM Saturday night--that meant that the brain damage was very serious. . . .
I received the news in Ipil, Zamboanga del Sur on Thursday morning. There are no phones in Ipil, so the message, from Fr. Maceda, the assistant of the provincial came via radio: "Your father suffered a massive heart attack last night. He is in the ICU of Makati Medical Center and Fr. Zuloaga has given him the last sacraments. Please come." I hurriedly packed my things, made some arrangements for the work I had to leave behind, and forty-five minutes later, I was aboard the bishop's Suzuki bound for Zamboanga City, about 180 kilometers away. As I was leaving, the girls who worked in the bishop's house (where I had been living for a week as OIC) came out to send me off; one slipped me a piece of Swiss chocolate "stolen" from the bishop's refrigerator. It was her simple way of trying to express her sympathy and concern, and I was very touched. I left so hurriedly that I forgot to inform the superior of the mission district, Fr. Antonio, that I was leaving.
We made what was usually a four hour trip by bus in three hours or so. I had hoped to take a night flight to Manila, only to learn that the night flights had been cancelled. Through the intercession of Fr. Carretero, the president of the Ateneo de Zamboanga, I was able to book a ticket for the Friday morning flight. I arrived in Manila on Friday afternoon, was met at the airport by Tita Betty and Tita Mel, and went directly to the hospital.
I was shocked and deeply saddened to see Dad's condition: unconscious, with all sorts of wires and tubes inserted into him, breathing only because of a respirator. As I entered the ICU room with Mommy, Dicky greeted me with tears in his eyes. Later, when Peter and Ako John came, the same quiet weeping took place among us--though I tried my best to control myself, since I was aware that I had to be the priest in the family . . .
I stayed overnight in the hospital with Mom, taking turns watching over Dad and monitoring his heart condition through the machine. We slept very little. The next morning, Saturday, I said Mass in the hospital chapel for Mom; Lorraine, Robert and Freddy-boy Ortiz, who were visiting, joined us, while Dicky remained in the ICU. The Gospel was about Jesus' prayer during his agony in the garden: "Father, if it is possible, take this cup away from me, but not my will, but your will be done." I shared a little about what I had been thinking about the night before: that like Jesus, we should be ready to accept God's will, whatever it may be, trusting that God, in his goodness and wisdom, knows what is best for Daddy . . .
That day, Ako John and Peter made the necessary preparations concerning the legal and business arrangements. I stayed with Mom, and in the evening, when Dad had not recovered consciousness, I talked to Stevie [who was 19 then] and tried to prepare him for what might happen. Paul did the same with Franny [who was 18 then]. When all the visitors had left, at about 1130 PM, we all prayed the rosary around Daddy, as we had done the night before. We left Franny and Paul to stay overnight with Mom.
The next morning, Sunday, Nov. 13, at around 530 AM, Dad had his last attack. They tried to revive him to no avail. Paul called up the house, and we rushed to the hospital. All of us were around Daddy, and we began to pray the rosary again, praying Daddy into heaven, as it were. Though he was comatose, I kept talking into his ear, assuring him of our loving presence during this last journey of his. After the rosary, I prayed Psalm 23 into Dad's ear: " The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Though I walk in the valley of darkness, no evil shall I fear for you are with me." We then each walked up to Daddy, said words of farewell and kissed him goodbye. Somewhere in the middle of all this, Peter suddenly said, "That's it!" The heart monitor said "0." Daddy was dead. It was about 650 AM.
We all wept for a while, feeling such grief as I think we had never felt before. Then we quieted down. We saw the change in Dad's face: the look of agony and pain that was on his face during his last attack had been replaced by a look of peace. Perhaps he had heard us after all; certainly, he was now at peace with the Lord. I blessed the water in a little bottle beside DAd's bed and blessed his body. Mom said, "Tell Daddy to pray for us," and I did.
[to be continued]
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