Happy Father’s Day to my hero

“When my father didn’t have my hand… he had my back.”

—Linda Poindexter

Father’s Day 15 years ago was my dad Frank Mayor’s last. My sisters brought him cupcakes and balloons in his hospital bed in California. He died two weeks later, on July 6. He made it to Father’s Day, but not to his 78th birthday on July 13.

Perhaps, that was quintessentially Dad. If indeed he had a chance to bargain with his Creator, he would have chosen Father’s Day over his birthday as his one last celebration on earth.  Dad would have said, “Father’s Day!” resoundingly. No ifs and buts. No question.

He was a loving and devoted husband to my mom Sonia, she was the light of his heart. But I believe he was defined by his role as a father to his four girls. During his wake, both in California and in Manila, we were approached by family and friends alike to tell us how proud Dad was of us his four girls, how to his dying day he was telling his nurses of our achievements, just like he did to his seatmates whenever his daughters  went down the stage with medals and plaques. If there was social media then and Dad was savvy with it, he would have boosted posts of what were really just family affairs — Recognition Day, Graduation.

Throughout my studies and career, it was the thought of Dad’s pride that inspired, nay fueled, me to be the best I could be.

My dad Frank and my mom Sonia were blessed with four girls: me, Mary Mae, Dr. Geraldine and Valerie— all born by Caesarian section.  My maternal grandmother, Nanay Jovita, gave my mom a midwife to help out in caring for her first three babies (my mom was an expert when Valerie was born, so Dad really wasn’t hand-son with us when we were infants.) I don’t think he even knew how to change our diapers. But when we were old enough to listen to his stories he would tell us stories of the Mommy carabao and the Baby carabao. He would cut our nails. Later on, when he had a granddaughter Trish, he would comb her hair.

My Dad was often away at work because he was in sales, but in our childhood albums, it was obvious how close he was to us. When he was home, we would be sitting on his lap or leaning on his shoulder.

I know he worked hard to send us to the best schools, wear the prettiest prom dresses and have debuts in five-star hotels. He couldn’t give us the world — I didn’t get to travel abroad till I was already working, unlike most of my classmates — but we meant the world to him. He was one of the most hardworking men I knew, and I saw how tired he was after road trips to northern Luzon promoting Tanduay Rhum or Yco Paints as part of his responsibilities as sales executive for Elizalde International.

I hope I got my work ethic from him because I never give up even when the going gets rough.

But no matter how busy Dad was, my sisters remember him as always making time to attend our school activities, no matter how perfunctory. He would take time off from work for PTA meetings, ballet recitals, and most importantly, Recognition Day.

“Dad made sure he attended school activities especially when I received an award,” says Mary Mae. “He took pride in our accomplishments no matter how small.”

“Even a small activity, like intramurals, or a play as long I was in it, he would skip work to watch and show support,” adds Valerie.

This, from someone who thought calling in sick was sacrilegious unless one was on a stretcher. Dad hardly tolerated school absences from us. “Arte lang ‘yan,” he would glower whenever I would give an excuse for not being able to go to school or to ballet class, unless I would be burning with fever. Once I remember he even checked my tonsils to see if they were really inflamed, by making me say, “Aaaa.”

As Liza Minelli is quoted to have said, “My mother gave me my drive, but my father gave me my dreams. Thanks to him, I could see a future. You have to work hard for it, but first you have to want it, and then you have to dream on it.”

My father gave me my drive, too, and my dreams, so he gave me a future because my dreams informed my future. My mother was my safe harbor, the warm hearth of our home. My husband Ed is my anchor.

My father was and is still the wind beneath my wings.

***

After my parents became American citizens and lived in Anaheim, California, my dad continued working. He spoiled his grandchildren whenever they came to visit him, taking them to Disneyland, Knots Berry Farm and Toys ‘R Us. On special occasions, he treated us to Morton’s. He was one of the most generous tippers I knew.

“As a grandpa, Dad was more patient and hands-on with his grandkids. Like when Hogan (my son Chino) would wrestle with him until he was almost on the floor, looking disheveled. Or when he would drive the kids to Blockbuster to rent videos,” continues Valerie.

It has been 15 years and 5,475 days since you left us, Dad. I remember  I wasn’t there during Father’s Day (I paid you regular visits but couldn’t stay for Father’s Day), but spoke to you on the phone. I promised you that I would fly in soon during the year to visit again.

The next time I flew to your bedside two weeks later, you were gone. I had tried to be by your side when I got word  from Mom that the end was near, but landed at the Los Angeles International Airport a few hours too late.

Fifteen years is 5,475 days. That’s how often I think of you Dad — 5,475 times —  since you left us. At least once a day, sharing memories with Mom and my sisters and your grandkids, or just in my thoughts. I miss you.

Happy Father’s Day in heaven! *