Why I Seldom Visit My Father’s Grave

I was invited to a writing challenge by my dear friend, Gio. The prompt is rituals/celebrations you no longer participate in.

My father died at an early age.

I didn’t even imagine my time with my dad would be limited. Like any other daughter who grew up with a good relationship with their fathers, I was part of the daddy’s girl club. I was sure I would live to see the day my dad would walk me down the aisle to hand me in marriage. Now, that forever remains a dream.

When I was growing up, my mom would often boast about how my dad turned into a completely different person because of Jesus Christ. She would always say, “Your dad used to be a drunkard. He was a gang leader. He’d be the first to throw a punch, and it would start a riot. Then, he would leave once the fight started. That’s how he avoided getting jailed because whenever the police showed up, he was already gone, even though he was the one who initiated it.”

As I was hearing this story, I simply could not believe it. My dad was the calmest and gentlest person I’ve ever met. I never saw that violent side my mom was talking about at all, except when Je, my brother, and I were being disciplined, and he needed to spank us with a belt. But even so, he would speak to us in a quiet, soothing voice, explaining why he had to do such a painful act. Despite the physical discipline, I never heard him raise his voice at us for no reason. I even wondered if he was secretly gay. It was because he had such a docile demeanor, unlike the other men I encountered growing up. Over time, I learned that he had just mastered controlling his aggression.

My father was an athletic person. He loved boxing, played basketball, and won marathons. He worked in a hospital. One time, I vividly remember him coming home from work wearing a basketball jersey. He had come from a basketball game tournament organized by the hospital. Suddenly, while talking, he warned me that basketball is one of the most dangerous sports because of how much contact is involved. I admired that he participated in a sport that seemed threatening, but I also worried about his safety. I liked that my dad was so masculine in this sense. He doesn’t smoke, drink, or gamble. He’s the funniest guy I’ve ever met. He always has a joke made up and ready for any situation. He loves our mother more than us, his children. He would always warn my brother and me that if we got our mom upset or disrespected her, he would be our greatest enemy. That sounds too good to be true.

My dad became a Christian six months before I was born. No one forced him to become one. My parents got married even though they had different religions. My mom used to be a Catholic and then became a Christian. My aunt, her eldest sister, invited her to a Christian church one day, and she has stayed with that church ever since. My parents met while they were working in a hospital. My mom was a doctor’s secretary, and my dad was an ECG Technician. One day, my dad entered her office, and they were introduced to each other. Whenever she told this story, Mom would always say that when she saw my dad for the first time, she couldn’t understand why she suddenly felt nervous. She shrugged it off then, and over the next few days, my dad expressed his interest in courting my mother. After my mom passed her CPA board exam, she agreed to date my dad, and after two years, they married.

My mom also boasted about their marriage. While dating, she warned Dad that she wanted him to marry her because he loved her, not because she got pregnant. She said their honeymoon was the best night of their lives because they were excited about their first night as a married couple.

My dad was still a Catholic when he and Mom got married. They would be together during the weekdays like a married couple should be, and Dad, on Saturday nights, would come home late, drunk. Mom would take care of him and clean up his vomit. On Sundays, they are two separate individuals. Dad would attend a Catholic mass while Mom would attend a worship gathering at a Protestant church. Then, they would meet after. During the first year of marriage, it was like this. Things only changed when I came into the picture. Mom said Dad only stopped his vices when I was born because he realized the weight of the responsibility of fatherhood.

One typical Sunday morning, my dad impulsively told my mom that he wanted to attend her church out of sheer curiosity. And so they went together, my father, utterly clueless about how things go on a Sunday worship service.

As he listened to the pastor, my dad felt disturbed and convicted by his words. The pastor sounded like he spoke directly to him, as if he knew him personally. Who is this person who seems to know every bit and detail about my life? It piqued his interest. Over the following Sundays, he kept attending and attending. The next thing they knew, he was telling my grandmother, who was a devout Catholic, with conviction that he had “decided to follow Jesus” when a nun requested that he needed to “go back to the root.” My mom, who was next to him during this interrogation, was silently crying tears of disbelief at what she was hearing from my dad.

I once heard a film director say, “Stories of transformations are the ones that change people’s lives.” My dad was a clear example of a transformed life. People who knew him before and after becoming a Christian could personally attest to this 180-degree change. His decision to change also changed the lives of our family, loved ones, and everyone who crossed his path.

I am thankful my dad decided to be a responsible father and husband. I’m sure his change wasn’t overnight, but it was a clear decision for my dad to start living a different life. I sometimes saw the old him when his temper got the best of him. Whenever I would childishly throw a tantrum when I didn’t get what I wanted, he would straighten me out with a painful flick at my ear. He wasn’t talkative, and he carefully chose his words. Often, he shares who Jesus is and how important reading the Bible is.

Our family wasn’t the traditional type. I remember that during high school, we had a subject that discussed the different family types: patriarchy, matriarchy, and egalitarianism. I remember quickly identifying that my family was an egalitarian type. Mom said that she and Dad had equal rights when making decisions in the family. Now that I’m an adult, I realize that our family witnessed feminism in action. My mom had the opportunity to get a college degree and become a professional. She slowly evolved into being a provider in terms of finances as she worked her way up the corporate ladder. Both mom and dad were busy working, and when they had the financial means, they outsourced the household chores. Of course, there were pros and cons to it. As a child, my mom told me stories of how some of the caretakers physically abused me while they were out working. They only found out when I would protest being left alone with them. I couldn’t remember this clearly, no matter how hard I tried. They looked for somebody else, and over time, we were blessed to meet some kind-hearted people who have stayed with us through the good and the bad times. I would have to say that most of my childhood was spent being with them, apart from time spent in school.

My Dad was absolutely cool not being the bigger provider. He was never insecure about my mom’s income and educational attainment. He only finished high school, but whenever my mom tutored me, she’d rely on my Dad when Math came. I was struggling, and Mom often became impatient with me. I’d end up crying because she became upset with me, and it would always end up with my Mom walking out and calling my Dad to take over. Dad would approach me with such gentleness and calm, and he’d patiently teach me. In one school year, the only subject I received a 100 mark was math. I don’t know how it happened, but I guess something must have paid off. Fast forward, I am still bad at simple arithmetic and mental math.

My dad was my mom’s number one supporter and provided my brother and me the things my mom was incapable of giving attention to due to the demands of her work. He’d buy us stuff we didn’t even ask for and showed genuine interest in what we loved or might love. He taught me how to use a dictionary, regularly bought me Candy magazines and some affordable books from Book Sale, burned CDs of rock bands, a pirated DVD of K-pop music videos, some underwear and bras to my embarrassment, and concert tickets to a Paramore concert for my brother and me after some pleading. My dad was the type of person who’d spoil you by entering your world to show his love.

It had been a habit of mine to complain to him about almost everything in my life, even the slightest inconvenience, expecting him to solve my problems because I knew it was safe to tell him whatever was on my mind and that he’d do anything for me. I miss having someone with whom I can fully be vulnerable and weak and not be judged.

It’s amazing when your parents are both earning money. We were a family who started as low-income middle class and slowly progressed to upper middle class because of my mom’s career progression. But like a thief in the night, tragedy came to us without warning. I was too concerned with my own life to even notice—a sudden weight loss and impulsively going bald for a haircut until he couldn’t hide the pain anymore. I sometimes hate how men hide that they’re in pain. His high pain tolerance made the situation worse. After a few tests, it was stage 4 stomach cancer. I was in college, yet I knew nothing about the illness. I didn’t think my father would die so soon. But we were so clueless and misinformed at the time. It feels like a blur. He had to be confined for surgery, and my college life became having to sleep in the hospital room and going straight to my class at the university. Life has to keep moving, and yet it felt so infinite. My dad is the strongest person I know. I know he could handle anything.

After the surgery, my dad went into remission. I celebrated my 18th birthday with a surprise party from my family and loved ones. We did the 18 Roses with my dad as the last person to dance with me. He hugged me tight during our dance. It was the kind of hug that didn’t want to let go. He gave a speech saying that he felt so blessed and grateful to God that he was able to witness my debut. He thought he would no longer be alive to see it. Remembering it now, maybe he felt that was the last time he would ever get to embrace me like that. I wish I had known. I would have hugged him back much tighter than he did.

We thought everything was gonna be fine, but a year after a successful operation and a series of radiation and chemotherapy, we once again found ourselves in the hospital room for yet another surgery. My dad’s face showed me he was no longer enthusiastic about the idea. He didn’t think he was ever going to make it out of the operating room alive. I was betting on him, and I was sure he definitely would. Maybe it was terrible of me to deny him the reality of the suffering he was going through. When the nurses took him back after hours of operation, I told him, feeling smug, I told you so as if I had won an actual bet.

But he didn’t get better.

He started to lose consciousness more and more. He would sleep throughout the day. The doctors were waiting for him to flatulate, but it never came. Friends and relatives visited, but he was no longer conscious. We were praying that his condition would get better. I was praying and saying the words, but my heart was wavering. I’m so scared thinking, what if he only got worse?

It was Sunday, June 13, 2010. It was the time of the Independence Day. By this time, my dad was still unconscious, just sleeping. I didn’t even imagine he was going to die that day. In the evening, around 10 pm, our last visitor had just left when suddenly, he woke up, eyes wide awake, and the first word he said was, “Ma.” He was looking for Mama. Then he vomited. So naturally, my mom attended to him, and my brother and I approached him to help clean his vomit. I was standing at the bottom of the bed.

I couldn’t remember if I was massaging his legs and feet, but I looked at my dad, and suddenly, I saw him looking straight through the ceiling, not saying a word. He was so focused looking up that his eyeballs looked like they were about to roll at the back of his head. I was sure he was looking at something beyond the ceiling. This lasted for a few moments until I saw him lift both arms on both sides, palms facing upward in a stiff position as if he was lifting something heavy and was struggling. Then, he seemed to take a deep breath, and the next thing I saw, he was shaking a bit. Then, he became as thin as a skeleton, like a balloon that was being deflated. It was a horrific sight to see with my own eyes. Then, his body returned to normal. But his eyes were now already closed, unconscious again but now unmoving. I snapped back to my senses as the events finally hit me. In my panic, I called out to my dad. My brother and my mother, completely unaware as they were busy cleaning him up, didn’t understand what was happening, and my voice was the only signal for them to take a look at Dad. His mouth was half open, and my mom put her palm in front of it to check if she could still feel his breath. Nothing.

When the doctor announced my Dad’s death, I was the one who cried over his dead body, wailing with my face buried in his neck, and they had to pull me away from him so that they could prepare his body for burial.

My mom said my dad wanted to die on a Sunday. I guess God approved his request. The night that my father died, we went home to my aunt’s house while we waited for the wake. I remember just uncontrollably crying myself to sleep that night. So this is what it feels like to lose someone you love forever.

During the wake, many people gave our family their condolences. It was unnerving to see all of the people I know come to offer their comfort and hear the story about my dad’s death. My role in those few days at the wake was to retell the story of how my dad died. I jokingly said that I should have just recorded this story and played the recording to every visitor who came.

What surprised us during the wake was that visitors would come and introduce themselves as someone whom my father has helped tremendously. Not even my mom knows them. It got me thinking about how my father pursued living like a Christian. Everyone just said nice things about my dad. People from other funeral rooms thought there was a politician who died because of the vast crowd in our room, and we inevitably had an overspill outside the viewing room. I was proud of how my father lived, but I couldn’t say a single comprehensible word during the eulogy. Unlike my younger brother, who made a note to guide his speech, I couldn’t prepare anything. When it was my turn to do the eulogy, I stood in front, holding the mic, but the people only heard my sobs whenever I opened my mouth to speak. I probably didn’t make any sense because I just told them all the good things I could remember about my dad–things he would do in certain situations that our family deemed admirable. I couldn’t even remember how I ended my eulogy, but I felt anxious about whether they got bored with what I was saying. I went back to my seat, having to tame my sobs.

My dad was buried where his father and his brother were buried, too.

Living in a country that is predominantly Catholic, the dates November 1 and 2 are the most important days to visit and remember the dead and pray for their souls.

Since my parents explained to us that the dead either only go to the Lord or Satan, I felt that visiting my father’s grave seemed nonsense because to me, he isn’t there but just his decaying bones.

Over time, I thought the grief wouldn’t last too long. There are a lot of things you can do to distract yourself from the reality of the permanent loss.

But Dad is special to me. He showed me what being gentle and loving meant in a practical way. He made me feel understood and seen. He was well aware of my issues, but I never once heard him criticize me about them.

He was a gentle person in my life.

My grief calls for this gentle person most times when the world feels too rough on me. Yet, my grief also lingers because I long for him, but he is no longer here. His absence is a quiet ache, a longing that time refuses to soothe, as though the gentleness he carried is forever unreachable.

There are so many moments when I feel like running away from everyone and everything. I always imagine myself on his grave, on my knees, sobbing and shouting, “Why didn’t you take me with you?”, thinking as if my sadness will be over if he did. I felt that I didn’t want to stay in this world without him in my life.

Will I ever meet someone as gentle and tender as my father?

This is why I don’t enjoy seeing my father’s grave. I don’t want to be reminded that I will probably never feel the same comfort he gave me when he was still alive.

I don’t know how my mother survives each day, losing the love of her life just like that. I once saw her break down in front of us, saying how he missed my dad so much, and it was just so painful to watch.

It takes great courage to rise above that feeling of permanent loss.

This also makes me afraid to love someone so deeply. Will I survive the deep pain if my partner left this world before me? Maybe losing my father early was practice.

They said my father was too good, so God had already taken him. My mom said he probably had a deal with the Lord. He mentioned that verse saying, “To be absent in the body, is to be present with the Lord.” He said he could leave this world because he already saw his children being active with the church and having a personal relationship with God.

One Sunday, in church, I got hungry, so I went to the back lobby to buy from one of the food stalls. I chose the stall of an uncle who regularly sold home-cooked meals and was a friend of my dad’s. We greeted each other happily, and I ordered my meal. While waiting quietly, to my surprise, he talked about my dad. I wasn’t done writing this when it happened. He naturally wanted to talk about my dad when he saw me, and fondly told me that my father was a peacemaker among their friend group, and he would go out of his way to help them save their marriages. He said my dad officiated the wedding when he renewed his vows with his wife. Since they’re in a ministry group of men, my father also boldly reminded them of their responsibility and role in the church—and that is to support its journey. He loved the church so much and spent most of his time serving. It’s nice to hear someone else talk about their experience of my father in their life. From time to time, it reminds me that he has existed and that his memory will always be remembered, not because he was wealthy or intelligent but because he loved the people around him so much.

I don’t know why God allowed me to witness my father’s last breath, his soul leaving the earth, hopefully going somewhere where there is no more pain, no more tears, and no more suffering. Maybe God knew how fragile my faith was. Maybe he knew it would be hard for me to handle the loss of my Dad. Seeing my dad pass away right before my eyes became a precious, intimate moment for me, and I am always humbled to share it with everyone when people ask me. I think it’s an assurance and a glimpse of heaven and God himself. This God can’t be seen with my own naked eyes. I couldn’t touch him, hear him, or even smell him. But this invisible God became visible, and it was through the way my father lived.