(Explained in the context of my faith)
A month of heartbreaking moments for me seeing my dad's deteriorating health and passing away... I never thought that I would be able to endure such tough times, but there I was with my heart torn into pieces seeing his helpless situation and that I was unable to do much than trying my best to comfort him for about ten days. I arrived home in Sabah at midnight on July 19, 2019. The next day in the afternoon I rushed to see him during visiting hour. I held his hand immediately and told him, "Pa, it's me. I'm here." He nodded. Then I said, "We love you, ok. We're always here with you." He nodded. He was already on intubation.
There was a blend of anger, frustration and deep sadness in me as I prayed for his healing and recovery. I wanted him to be healthy and strong again but that was my own wanting. It was challenging for me to look in the perspective of either God or nature. I wanted so much to be a miracle worker, wave a magic wand and make him well again. When I saw a drop of tear come out from the corner of his eye, my heart crumbled like grains of sand. How I wished I could take away his pain. But I could only caress his head and try to comfort him like a baby. Even until now, I still long to touch him, massage his feet and hands, pat gently his head. But things went so fast. On my last day at the Kota Kinabalu HDU Queen Elizabeth Hospital, I barely could utter my prayers, sobbing and trying to overcome the pain in my heart, as I saw him motionless—still, at that particular moment, I didn't have any idea if he was passing away. I whispered words of prayer on his ear—trying to give him comfort and consolation which only The Most High could grant.
It was hard to be told that our visiting time was over. If I could I would stay by his side but we (my mom and I) were told to come back later. About half an hour when we were about to go for our lunch, we were called by the doctors who told us they were doing the CPR on my dad. When we went inside, the doctors and nurses were standing in silence by his bed. The doctor in charge on that day pointed us to my dad's body. He was pronounced officially with no more heartbeat around 02:58p.m. on July 30 which was on Tuesday. The ventilator on his bedside displayed horizontal flat lines. He went to the Lord during the hour of grace in which the Divine Mercy devotion was being prayed around the globe. I called him, "Paa...." and fell in the arms of the doctor who slowly lifted me up. I went to his bedside and cried for as long as I wanted. It was probably fifteen minutes. Mom was stronger. She put her handkerchief on her face and sobbed quietly. As I was crying and sobbing I looked up above his lifeless body and said, "Pa, just go and follow the light. Go to Jesus." I tried to smile trusting that he was looking at me. I looked down and saw the last imprint of his face. He looked calm with a little curve of smile on his lips.
For two years he had shown great effort abstaining from all that could put more harm to his body. I noticed he spent more time in quiet personal prayers in his room. When later he felt hard to breathe whenever he moved a lot, as he described it to me on the phone, it was like preparing both of us for the next unwanted thing to happen. On that particular day when he went to the hospital in Kinarut, no one and not even him would have expected that it was his last steps walking out from our family house, the only home that he would want to be here on earth. It was amazing though to be told by my sister that he dreamt of seeing a big house, a mansion while he was admitted in the hospital. Somehow she said she knew his time was near. He said that if departing from this world won't happen today, it's going to happen tomorrow. He said whether he could get well again or not, both would be fine.
Knowing both the physical and spiritual symptoms of his condition, there was nothing more important to do than calling for a priest to anoint him or give him the Last Sacrament. We didn't really know what to expect but he had received the anointing three times from three different Catholic priests. Consuming the Sacred Host was his last piece of food before being put into intubation.
Meditating on his lifeless body, I thought of his passing as an imitation of Christ. It was like a cross, tied on a bed where he breathed his last. His body was complete except for several tubes poked through his lungs and kidney for 'cleaning' purposes.
There was a blend of anger, frustration and deep sadness in me as I prayed for his healing and recovery. I wanted him to be healthy and strong again but that was my own wanting. It was challenging for me to look in the perspective of either God or nature. I wanted so much to be a miracle worker, wave a magic wand and make him well again. When I saw a drop of tear come out from the corner of his eye, my heart crumbled like grains of sand. How I wished I could take away his pain. But I could only caress his head and try to comfort him like a baby. Even until now, I still long to touch him, massage his feet and hands, pat gently his head. But things went so fast. On my last day at the Kota Kinabalu HDU Queen Elizabeth Hospital, I barely could utter my prayers, sobbing and trying to overcome the pain in my heart, as I saw him motionless—still, at that particular moment, I didn't have any idea if he was passing away. I whispered words of prayer on his ear—trying to give him comfort and consolation which only The Most High could grant.
It was hard to be told that our visiting time was over. If I could I would stay by his side but we (my mom and I) were told to come back later. About half an hour when we were about to go for our lunch, we were called by the doctors who told us they were doing the CPR on my dad. When we went inside, the doctors and nurses were standing in silence by his bed. The doctor in charge on that day pointed us to my dad's body. He was pronounced officially with no more heartbeat around 02:58p.m. on July 30 which was on Tuesday. The ventilator on his bedside displayed horizontal flat lines. He went to the Lord during the hour of grace in which the Divine Mercy devotion was being prayed around the globe. I called him, "Paa...." and fell in the arms of the doctor who slowly lifted me up. I went to his bedside and cried for as long as I wanted. It was probably fifteen minutes. Mom was stronger. She put her handkerchief on her face and sobbed quietly. As I was crying and sobbing I looked up above his lifeless body and said, "Pa, just go and follow the light. Go to Jesus." I tried to smile trusting that he was looking at me. I looked down and saw the last imprint of his face. He looked calm with a little curve of smile on his lips.
For two years he had shown great effort abstaining from all that could put more harm to his body. I noticed he spent more time in quiet personal prayers in his room. When later he felt hard to breathe whenever he moved a lot, as he described it to me on the phone, it was like preparing both of us for the next unwanted thing to happen. On that particular day when he went to the hospital in Kinarut, no one and not even him would have expected that it was his last steps walking out from our family house, the only home that he would want to be here on earth. It was amazing though to be told by my sister that he dreamt of seeing a big house, a mansion while he was admitted in the hospital. Somehow she said she knew his time was near. He said that if departing from this world won't happen today, it's going to happen tomorrow. He said whether he could get well again or not, both would be fine.
Knowing both the physical and spiritual symptoms of his condition, there was nothing more important to do than calling for a priest to anoint him or give him the Last Sacrament. We didn't really know what to expect but he had received the anointing three times from three different Catholic priests. Consuming the Sacred Host was his last piece of food before being put into intubation.
Meditating on his lifeless body, I thought of his passing as an imitation of Christ. It was like a cross, tied on a bed where he breathed his last. His body was complete except for several tubes poked through his lungs and kidney for 'cleaning' purposes.
My last picture of him before returning to the US sometime in January 2018, he was sitting at the veranda outside the house, eating an ear of corn which I got from the tamu swap meet and boiled at home. He seemed so relaxed and was looking around the trees he planted. As I walk on my days without his presence, I pray that his spirit is free, just as free as he was on that day, and even more with no more physical pain and suffering, looking down from above watching over us. I look forward so much to be reunited with him one day as I see him in my prayers and converse with him in spirit.
Occasionally I screamed in my heart calling him out but I saw his gloomy face. He was torn too. It seemed like he didn't want me to call him that way. Often he would tell me, "Don't cry. I'm fine here. Take good care of yourself. Your battle on earth, you have to finish that. Don't ask where I am. One day you'll understand. I don't need anything but your prayers. I'll be always there for you and you're not by yourself. You can find me in your prayers. Now we can talk with each other directly from heart to heart ..." It consoles so much to be able to listen to him.
Those were his moments with God. I can't take away those despairing moments from him. Those were special between them. I could only be there to remain by his side. I realize I wasn't the most important person on his final moments, not even the doctors, nurses and medical assistants but God Himself. It reminds me that one day I will have to face such moments too. I realize that this is what my father is telling me in my prayer that I have to finish my race here on earth and be courageous like him at my own last days and hours. Does it really matter what type of sickness do we have when in the end it's all about leaving and beginning ...
It's not about him now. But it's about me and us to prepare ourselves well, be ready to journey through the other side of life. How I miss him so much. I pray that he'll be there to welcome me when my time comes.
Fabian M. L.
1943-2019
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