If lying would earn me an express ticket to hell, perhaps I would be assured of a first class seat in the smoldering cauldron. But then again – good heavens help me here – I would probably not merit even an economy pass. After all, I lie for good reasons.
Well, I lie to my father many times, especially now that he is 70-plus. He’s weak and I’m strong. My might I always use to concoct tall tales every time I see him. My tongue, every time I speak with him, is pronged with sweet lies, so sweet they are like potion that makes my father high. Whenever I lie to him, I think he gets stronger, much stronger than me at times.
Just two Sundays ago, about past 12 midnight, he got out of bed to get himself something in the kitchen. He did not reach the kitchen. Instead of food he saw stars when he fell on the floor, at our sala. His fall was so forceful it created a sound that made my 60-plus-year-old mother gallop from the boon of her sleep. From the floor, my mother, amazingly at that, bodily carried my father to the sofa. I woke up to the commotion. I saw my father on the couch, sitting silently, breathing through his standby oxygen tank, his frail body mixing well with the green seat cover. His burnt-skin became pale, almost ashen; his lips, paper-white. This was perhaps the fifth time he suffered from hypertension. His attending physicians, however, said it was the fifth time he had a "minor heart attack." It was frightening to see a loved one on the brink of death. Then again, fright would not offer a solution. I remained calm, as always. I was grace under pressure personified. It was always in this kind of terrifying situation that my proclivity for lying surfaced. Call it my defense mechanism but downplaying the truth to my father would always do both of us good. Let truth not be told. With my father, forgive me, I will continue to lie.
My gosh, ‘Tay, mas malakas pa kayo sa kalabaw.
Of course that’s a lie. It sounds trite but I always tell him he is still strong even if I am aware that physically he is half the man I used to know. But stale as it sounds, that you’re-still-strong line always makes him feel good. If I tell him he’s weak, he’ll just sit in the corner, sulk in his room until he degenerates. When I tell him he’s strong, he picks up his cane and walks around, as if throwing away to the wind his infirmity. With this little form of exercise, he forgets about his frailty. Of course we don’t allow him to overdo it. Alalay lang.
I always tell him everything will be all right even if his blood pressure sometimes shoots up to a deadly 240/170. Even if he cannot talk several minutes after his hypertensive bout, I deem it important that he hears words of encouragement, that he feels no panic in the air, that he smells something good. (Like in his last "episode," I even sprayed honeydew-scented home deodorizer all over the house just so my father would smell his favorite fragrance. I thought the sweet scent would help him recover fast. Perhaps it did because after I stopped spraying, he started coughing, then he started talking. Each time my index finger touched the spray atomizer, I was mumbling a prayer. In fact, I was even able to send a text message to many of my friends to storm the gates of heaven for my father.) I always treat an emergency situation in the house like the most important event of my being. I have to be there – physically, mentally, emotionally. Other things can wait. But not the life of my father.
"Mahina na ako. Hindi na yata ako tatagal (I’m weak. I don’t think I can still last)," he told us in a hush the last time, his slouched body resting on the couch. His soft voice competed with the slight rumbling sound coming from the oxygen valve.
"Sus, pag-baba ng presyon nyo okay na kayo. Bukas mas malakas na naman kayo sa kalabaw (When your blood pressure stabilizes you will be okay. Tomorrow you will be stronger than a carabao)," I told him, my voice was calm, as if I had just detonated a time bomb inside me.
My "fearless forecast" would always elicit from him a faint smile. Then his BP would shoot down. The next challenge was bringing him to the hospital.
Check-up lang, ‘Tay, ‘di kayo i-co-confine.
This is my standard lie. In five times that he suffered from hypertensive attack, I must have used this lie five times, too. Tell him that he will be confined and he will rather stay home and wait for himself to recover his strength in his room. The word "check-up" will always sound friendlier to him than the thought that he will endure for nights the sick yellow walls of the hospital. You see, my old man does not like hospital scenes. More like he does not want hospital bills because he’s nahihiya that his children will spend. With his life on the line, however, my rule, if not my lie, reigns supreme. What am I his Junior for if I cannot convince my Senior to stay in the hospital?
To keep him "sane" in the hospital, I also confine myself. Ditto with my mother. Together, in his modest private room, we exchange jokes. I ask them about their love story – something I have heard a million times. I don’t get tired listening to it as they tell me how they met. Sparks are flying all over the room.
Two weeks ago, at the hospital, my mother slept beside my father on the same bed. I didn’t mind curling up myself in a cushioned bench enough to accommodate three-fourths of my body. That particular night, when I woke up for my toilet visit, I saw my parents cuddled up together on the bed. I looked at them as they lovingly embraced each other, making sure, even if they were fast asleep, that no one would fall off the bed that was so small for two people. They exchanged snores but their concerto was filled with love. I admit I cried at that scene.
‘Tay, okay pa ako sa alright.
"Okay ka lang?" my father often asks me. I feel weird every time he pokes this question at me. Isn’t it that I should be the one asking him this, given his health condition? My template answer is: "Okay pa sa alright."
There are times, however, that I am not okay. But I can’t tell him that. Not that he will not understand. Only, I don’t want to burden him anymore. My problems become his problems, too. He feels and bears my pains. His hypertension is heavy enough for him that I don’t have the heart to load him up with my infrequent emotional debacles. I want him to feel that I am Superman; that he can rely on me to "powder with my punches" the nurses in the hospital who wake him up in the middle of his sleep to give his medicines. But I am not Superman. And, with my lies, I take it upon myself not to let him know this. Sometimes truth can be such a kryptonite.
"Si _____________ hindi na pumupunta dito. Dati malimit siyang bumisita sa iyo. May problema ba kayong dalawa (How come _________ does not visit you anymore. Do the two of you have a problem)?" he asked me one day, noticing the glaring absence of a friend who used to be a regular fixture in the house.
"Busy lang ho siya," my curt reply. I wish I could tell him that my friend and I – though we still share a laugh to this day – had a painful falling out. My father may be old and sick but that does not mean he does not feel things anymore. Somehow, with my lies, I am able to make him believe that everything in my life is a walk in the park.
‘Tay, maganda pa rin pala boses nyo.
"Sira ulo (Crazy)," my father tells me every time I praise his singing voice. We both know this is a lie, more like a bola. He used to sing very well but with the passing of time, his alto tone has also changed. It was from my father and mother that my brothers and I learned to sing kundiman.
While my friends in grade school were singing "One-Way Ticket," "In the Navy" or dancing to the music of the Jackson 5, I was singing Nicanor Abelardo’s "Bituing Marikit," a song which – pardon my bragging – I can sing at the drop of a hat. My parents taught us harana songs by singing the old traditional love ditties every time there was brownout (power interruption) in our barrio. As they lulled us to sleep, they would sing to us "Pakiusap," "Ay! Kalisud," "Maala-ala Mo Kaya," "Nasaan Ka Irog," "Sarung Banggi," "Lagi Kitang Naaalala," among other kundiman songs.
"Maganda pa rin ang boses nyo, ‘Tay. Para pa rin kayong si Ruben Tagalog (You still sing very well. You still sound like Ruben Tagalog)," I always tell my father whenever I hear him carry a tune or two. I know he wants to always remember his good singing voice. So, with my bola, I give him back his confidence to sing. After all, singing liberates him. It makes him forget that he’s old and weak. Somehow, somewhere in the lyrics of the old songs, he finds strength as he remembers how he was before.
Today, I know, I will find him on the hammock under our himbaba-o tree where he finds solace as the habagat or amihan wind keeps him constant company. On days when it is still, he invites the elusive breeze by whistling. Then the wind blows. Then he will hum a tune as if his humming is his prize for the wind that immediately obeys him to comfort him that moment. Once again, life for him will be a breeze. Even if I lie to him most of the time.
(Thank you for your letters. I will not lie to you at bumbaki@yahoo.com. You may also snail mail me at The Philippine STAR c/o Allure Section, R. Oca corner Railroad Streets, Port Area, Manila. Have a happy and blessed Sunday.)