Abstract
“I'm sorry.”
“I forgive you.”
“Thank you.”
“I love you.”
T
I was introduced to an 85-year-old man, whom I will call Anthony. He was admitted to hospice for worsening of his heart failure. He struck me as a humble and soft-spoken person. As a student physician, I was meticulously going through my list of questions. When asked about family history and relationships, he volunteered to talk about his son, who resigned one year ago from work to be his full-time caregiver. He praised his son but worried the burden was much too heavy for him. Subsequently, I asked him about the relationship with his daughter, whom I will call Marie. He looked far into the distance in silence. His silence spoke volumes. His silence told a story.
I met Anthony's son later that day. To him, his father was the nurturing one and the mother was the strict disciplinarian. He spoke about his parent's bitter divorce. For reasons unknown, the father chose to fight for full custody of the son. This choice left Marie confused, rejected, and filled with envy toward her brother. In the recent years, Anthony attempted to reconnect with Marie and visited her family in New Mexico. Sadly, his hopes of rekindling the spark of their relationship had never come to be.
Despite her brother's insistence, Marie refused to visit her father in hospice. She offered only excuses of errands and responsibilities. Anthony's choice has left her with a wound so deep it may never heal. I fear Anthony will be buried under his regrets. I fear that in the wake of his death, she will be living with regrets.
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Marie's story of abandonment is familiar to me. I have witnessed the piercing effects of a parent's rejection. I have heard my own father's story numerous times from many different family members; the story my mother ingrained in me to help understand my father with his irritable attitude and his tendency to push loved ones away.
My grandmother gave birth to my father when she was an unwed 21-year old woman. Living in a derisive and judgmental Catholic community in the Philippines, her pregnancy was deemed sacrilegious and obscene. As a product of a premarital union, my father was abandoned by his mother, and was passed around to live with one relative to another until he was old enough to support himself.
In his early childhood, my father's naïveté shielded him from fully comprehending his mother's act. Not until he was in his teenage years did he intensely feel the sting of her abandonment. During a family reunion, my grandmother did not introduce him to any of his 12 younger half-siblings. Nor did she, at the very least, acknowledge his existence. This moment marked the first time he was compelled to face his reality. No one could dull the impact of his mother's neglect. He no longer took solace in the hope that someday his mother would take him back. Being deliberately denied a place in her life left a scar that would take decades to heal. Without her love, a mother's love, which is so inherently needed, that yearning cannot be replaced even by the greatest love of friends, children, or spouse. Since that family reunion, he carried around the burden of her shame as if he was the one that sinned.
My father has always been a very hardworking man. Even without any financial support, he was able to help build a loaning company in the Philippines. He has an impeccable work ethic; however, his success may have been driven by a more lingering motivation. Building a fortune seemed to have become the struggle to prove his self-worth. The money would bear his identity. With it, he hoped to gain his mother's affection. Therein lay his skewed pursuit of happiness. Everything seemed to be going in the right direction for him, until we came to the United States, in search of the American dream. I was 12 years old.
He changed. As a family, we felt like we were starting a blank slate. As we toiled through our obstacles, our frustrations worsened, and my father sank into a state of depression. He lost his identity in America. With no money, he felt deserted by any inkling of self-worth. Helplessness immobilized him, leaving him unemployed for years while my mother supported the family. Months and years were spent at home mulling over his regrets and entertaining the insecurities of his past. It took years for us to get back on our feet.
A few years later, an opportunity for healing was presented. We got a foreboding call from the Philippines that my grandmother had a heart attack with poor prognosis. My siblings and I hastily tried to find a way to send my father home; we feared he would not make it in time. But he did. He sat next to my grandmother's bed, spoke to her, and held her hand. Intubated, grandmother tightened her grip on his hand, possibly her last gesture of love.
“Grandma died one hour after I arrived. I think she waited for me,” father cried over the phone.
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“I'm sorry.”
“I forgive you.”
“Thank you.”
“I love you.”
These simple words are taught to us as young, innocent children and yet, bear such profound meaning, perhaps heightened during the last chapter of our lives. I pray that Marie will have the courage to open her heart and heed these words, and with that, as my father did, she may finally find closure.