When Christmas Hurts, As told to Queenie Sue Bajenting

We all look forward to the Christmas Season, but what about those who are reminded of bad memories during the Holidays?

From the corners of my eyes, I could see that the lights in Fuente Rotonda are once again lighted up for the season. I took a rather sapped sigh as I breathed in the Christmas breeze. I was thinking of changing my route in going home just so I can’t pass by the oh-so-merry streets. It’s Christmas once again and I’m once again feeling down.

It was exactly two weeks before Christmas Eve, three years ago, when I received the most horrible news. I was just on my home from my yearly Christmas shopping. Exhausted by the utterly crowded mall, I got my mobile phone as I stepped inside the cab. I was to call my classmate and pick up some notes that she borrowed. Midterm week was coming. The screen on my phone displayed “14 missed calls.” My aunt had been calling me all along, while I was busy squeezing my way through the Christmas rush. I was about to text her when I realized that there were a lot of ignored messages. I instantly opened the seemingly impatient set of messages, but before I could, my aunt was calling again. Within seconds, I was sitting in the cab stupefied by the news that single call was bringing.

My dad had a heart attack and within an hour after he was rushed to the hospital, he died.

I later on realized that the early messages were telling me to go home because he was rushed to the hospital. If only I had read the messages, if only I wasn’t too occupied with my shopping, perhaps things wouldn’t turn out the way they did. Or if it still did, at least I would have been beside my father on his last breath.

My father was basically the only family I had. I never knew my mother. I never bothered to. My lola and titas say that she just one day ran away when I was very little. I learned she was eight years younger than my dad, and still a college student when she got pregnant. The pressure of being a mother and a wife at a very young age apparently was too much for her. But I never really cared about her side of the story. I was never angry at her either. I found the perfect love and attention from my father. He was there when I played my first Barbie and was still there during my first period. He was all I needed, and I always hated him for not giving proper attention to his health.

In a snap of a finger, I turned from being a happy teenager who anticipated Christmas into a deserted girl who had nothing more to look forward to in life.

The days after his passing were the longest days of my life. I insisted on taking my Midterm exams even though all my teachers said that they could give me special exams after the Christmas break. But I thought that being in school would minimize the hurt and sadness my mourning house was providing. Besides, I believed that it’s better to take an exam with a wandering mind than an empty one. I didn’t want to review my lessons again on January.

While the whole world cheerfully celebrated the Christmas season, I on the other hand, just spent my days locked inside my room, listening to Usher’s sad songs or party songs. I was driving myself crazy, crying and dancing all at once.

When Christmas day arrived, I could see the efforts made by my lola and my other relatives to celebrate it like we always do – although we all knew we can’t. My father was no longer there to slice the lechon and serve me its crunchy skin. It was a rather gloomy Christmas. Before the clock striked 12, I opened the present I myself wrapped for him. It was a coffee mug with the words “I luv my DAD” on it. I decided to keep it with the childish thought that it automatically belonged to me since he wasn’t able to shop one for me.

Slowly and very carefully I moved on from the melancholic memory. My lola and titas were especially nice to me. They even allowed me to go out late at night because I “deserve to have fun too.”

Today, I still mourn over the loss of the one man that mattered most in my life. I still occasionally curse him for not being there on my graduation. I feel ironically happy when I do that, it seems to me that his soul is giving me his I’m-your-father-respect-me look because of my cursing. I still feel awfully down when ber months arrive though. Yet as the years pass by, I realized that it was part of God’s plan for me. It was something that transformed me from being an official brat into a responsible and independent woman whose dreams are yet to be conquered. My father’s death made me appreciate more every person that I love and who loves me.

With the connivance of the Creator, my father’s death was his very special way of keeping an eye on me – to see if I have been naughty or nice.