Of love and lights
Another Christmas has passed — my 58th since the last Christmas I spent with my Dad. Until maybe 25 years ago, I still missed him with a physical pain in my chest, a lump in my throat, and private tears as Christmas brought memories of Christmases past — of his happy face, his wide grin at seeing his 10 children excited about the season, and his arms enveloping me in a big hug.
Christmas to me was always about Dad. It was the best time of year because he was home from work and he had the time to make it special for us. We decorated our Christmas tree and set up the cardboard belen as a family. We attended Misa de Gallo in the lead-up to Christmas and midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. And after noche buena, we opened the presents he and Mom shopped for.
I was six when my younger brother and I got our Christmas wish for a big blackboard, a box of chalk and an eraser. We promptly drew a vertical line in the middle of it indicating his side and mine. But when you are in a family of 10, there are bound to be interlopers and before we knew it, our older siblings had taken over the board playing games we were not part of. Looking back, it must have annoyed our parents no end that they had to constantly mediate among us, but I don’t have a memory of my Dad being angry at us for our antics.
Anyway, two days after that Christmas, I was diagnosed with acute appendicitis which meant I had to leave my presents to go to the hospital for emergency surgery. I remember lying on a gurney waiting to be wheeled into the operating room, with my Dad at my side. I was crying, begging him to accompany me inside the OR. He smiled and promised that he would be there. He even put on a hospital gown and mask. My last memory before the anesthesia kicked in was of him bending down to kiss me, his eyes reassuring, his smile under the cloth mask warm and comforting.
That picture of my Dad has stayed with me all these years. I believed he was with me when I underwent what was a major procedure at the time, and I continue to believe he is with me still, especially in those moments when I am most alone.
The next few days were unforgettable. Although I went through some pain, I felt truly special, with both my parents hovering over me in the hospital. No pesky siblings stealing Mom and Dad’s attention, no one I had to share the fruits Dad brought for me every day. We went home on New Year’s Eve with the doctor ordering extra care for me — no strenuous activities, no carrying of heavy stuff, and no pressure on my wound which was hermetically protected by a tight thick girdle of gauze and plaster. Dad carried me up the stairs, put me down in front of the blackboard, and admonished my siblings to go easy on me. Before long, I was in a tussle with a brother for control of the board!
On New Year’s Day, we went to Mass in a chapel at a nearby school, after which the nuns invited us to tour their new building. Dad carried me on his shoulders, like Tiny Tim, all the way to the top floor and back. Talk of feeling special! I was his princess for the day.
Some years later, we moved to a big house my parents built on Boston Street in Cubao. Our first Christmas there was pretty special. Dad and Mom led the decorating of the house for the holidays. After the tree was done in the playroom downstairs, Dad put up another tree in the living-dining room upstairs, this time made up of tree branches and lights. In a quiet moment with just the two of us, he turned off all the lights to show me how the colored lights reflected on the jalousies, the glass sliding door, the shiny black floor, and the glass case where the statue of Christ the King was enshrined in our home. I stood beside him in shared pleasure and wonderment at what has become my enduring memory of Christmas.
At the Ayala Triangle two weeks ago, I was that child again, enchanted by the light and sound display. But this time, I had a wide-eyed six year old boy on my lap taking in the multicolored lights hanging from the park’s old trees that were dancing, blinking and running to piped-in music. I thought of my Dad and how he would have enjoyed seeing his daughter, now much older that he was when he died, still entranced by the fairy-like setting.
With every Christmas since he passed away, the lump in my throat has gotten smaller; I no longer miss him physically; my tears no longer flow uncontrollably. Like Dad did for us, our large, happy and boisterous family has managed to make Christmas joyful and unforgettable for our children and grandchildren.
Merry Christmas, Dad. Your — and Mom’s — love and light will forever be part of this daughter’s Christmas.
