Celebrating Dad
My father Frank Mayor celebrates two birthdays in July—his birthday on earth (July 13, 1932) and his birthday in heaven (July 6, 2010).
He loved celebrating the day he was born—July 13—despite his frugal ways and aversion to frou frou.
I believe he wouldn’t mind, either, if we turned our deep grief at his loss on July 6, 2010—16 years ago—into a celebration of his life. Dad lived all that he stood for and died for, consistent till his last breath—hard work, determination, devotion to family and an unwillingness to throw in the towel when he knew he had a few more good punches left. Now, what isn’t there to celebrate about that?
I’m sure there were fireworks in heaven yesterday, Dad’s 16th year far beyond the stars, just like those on the Fourth of July—during which he would watch the fireworks rising over Disneyland from the balcony of his home in Anaheim, California.
I choose to celebrate his life, even if every time July 6 comes around, the abyss in our hearts carved by his death—an oak tree uprooted in its prime—remains unfilled. We shovel the soil of time into that gaping hole, but it is never filled. As Agnes says in the movie Hamnet, “It is not the years that are hard. It is the seconds, the minutes, the days.”
And the seconds, the minutes and the days become all too vivid when July 6 comes by.
Flashback to 2010
In the twilight hours of July 5, 2010 (Manila time), I received the call I had dreaded since my father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in September 2009. My youngest sister Valerie Sotto was on the line and she said the nurses at the Fountain Valley Hospital in Fountain Valley, California had sounded the alarm: the end was near. His oncologist said Dad probably had 48 hours to live.
A few minutes later, my sister Mae Mayor called me up and put the phone to Dad’s ear. With all my heart and soul, I told him I loved him and thanked him for everything he had given me and my sisters.
But with the sunrise in Manila came good news: Dad was holding on and his heartbeat was still strong. I then made a decision. As long as Dad’s brave heart was not giving up, I wouldn’t either. I was determined to exhaust all means to be by his bedside, to put my cheek to his heart and listen to its every precious last beat.
I was not sure I would get to his bedside on time but I was going to try. And the angels conspired for an available seat on the next PAL flight to Los Angeles.
Just before I checked in for my flight, I texted my sisters: “How is Dad?”
“Waiting for you,” they texted back.
On the plane, I texted again. They texted back, “Dad still waiting for you.”
On the 13-hour flight to Los Angeles, my thoughts floated like clouds to the last time I hugged my father goodbye—to late 2009.
On the day I was to return to Manila that day in late 2009, Dad was watching TV as Mom was helping me make last-minute additions to my balikbayan box. Usually, Dad would help out, too, by securing and taping the box. We were all joking and laughing because Dad would often tell me, “Kahit sa dami ng sale, hindi mo mauubos ang America.” (You can’t buy all of America despite the many sales!)
Would I still see Dad alive after I closed the door of his home behind me? I lived across the Pacific Ocean from California, after all.
Before finally closing the door of his home to catch my ride to the airport, I walked to the armchair where Dad was sitting, and knelt in front of him. I took his hand with both of mine and lay my tear-drenched cheek on it. Each tear, a thank you.
Soon, the wheels of the jet landed on the oncrete tarmac of LAX, and my thoughts, on the uncertain present. As soon as I could, I excitedly called my mother Sonia. I was but an hour away from Dad’s bedside.
“Mom, I am here. How is Dad?” Mom answered, “Dad is gone, Joanne. Dad is gone.” Her voice shaking, she then said, “Be strong.”
I had arrived in the City of Angels six hours too late at 7:30 p.m. Tuesday (California time) on July 6, 2010, as the city was settling into a deep, dark night.
Dad would no longer be in his armchair when I opened the door to his home.
Fireworks for you, Dad
When my sisters and I were little girls frolicking on the shores of Villa Beach in Iloilo, where we spent five years of our childhood, Dad, who willed himself to be a good swimmer to conquer his boyhood asthma, would slice the sea with confident strokes. We had barely filled our sand buckets when we would notice Dad disappearing into the blue yonder, till his head and the white crests of the waves near the horizon were indistinguishable. Before we could call for help, fearful as we were that he was lost at sea, Dad would re-emerge from the waters, energized and exhilarated. Triumphant. He had finished his race against himself, and he had won.
To reach his goals and to fulfill his dreams, Dad would swim the extra mile, conquer both the depths and the distance, and though buffeted by waves and winds, would always emerge triumphant.
Thus, this quote reminds me so much of Dad: “You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean, in a drop” - Rumi
Dad had the looks of Elvis, the sterling work ethic of his post-war generation, and the strength of Hercules. His looks were but a bonus—after all, he won the heart and the hand of my beautiful mother Sonia—because he worked like all he had as capital on this earth were his education and his hard work.
If he could swim to the horizon with hard work and determination, Dad raised his daughters to believe they could reach for the stars with hard work as well. When as children and during the hard times we sometimes went through, we would express our hopes and dreams to him, he would say, “Why not? Study hard, work hard.” Dad was the wind beneath our wings while we were aiming for the stars.
“Always be on time. Be thrifty,” were two pieces of advice from Dad that helped Mae achieve her dreams. I think I was half asleep when Dad would din that advice into our heads.
For the bunso, Valerie, Dad was the ultimate cheerleader. “He believed in each of our unique talents and supported us to hone them further.”
“He was the greatest believer in his children and grandchildren,” says our mom, Sonia.
Dad faced his illness like he was going to conquer it. When he was told of the life-threatening treatment options, his first question was, “After all of that, can I return to work?” Because work to him was not a drudgery. It was a springboard to dreams.
When he was told he needed several rounds of chemotherapy, he immediately asked, “When do I start?”
Dad showed us that life was worth going the distance for.
Dad had fought the good fight, he had finished the race, he had kept the faith. That line from Timothy is his epitaph. And that’s why we celebrate July.
There will always be fireworks for you, Dad.
