From the memoirs of an impostor

We never told Father about the death of his younger brother Tito Ting, the doctor who resided in Fairview. This was because Tito Ting died barely a couple of days after the family buried Tita Lor, the nun, in the middle of last year. Erpats was already depressed by the passing away of Tita Madre, who was younger than him by 13 years, and Tito Ting’s demise would only shatter him. So it was decided that erpats should not learn of yet another sibling’s death.

I told this to a student of my father’s, the writer Erwin Castillo, last May at the birthday party of Recah Trinidad at the sportswriter’s residence in Barangay Vergara, Mandaluyong.

"We never told him about it, Erwin,"I said, a bit bothered by the very likely possibility that Father smelled something fishy, although his siblings rarely paid him a visit.

At the wake of my erpats Erwin showed up all puffy eyed, after all he himself had lost a son less than a year ago. He and Krip Yuson brought enough liquor to last the night, the late Francisco Arcellana’s first dark night of the soul in UP Diliman.

I recalled what Erwin said to me at Recah’s party, how when they last paid the old man a visit sometime last year, they noticed a crucifix hanging near his bed, a simple sign that a long-time agnostic was slouching towards some kind of faith.

"It was different from what he taught us. In college, he said if we believed in those things – religion, the afterlife, heaven and hell – then you have a weak mind," Erwin said. "There’s nothing, Juaniyo, there’s nothing out there. So we don’t like to be like your dad."

Of course I held erpat’s hand as he breathed his last, and he was surrounded by family. A daughter or two were reciting verses from the Bible, mucus falling from one’s nose, as he made his exit before noon of a Thursday.

As his heartbeat went on a slow decline my eldest sister said, "Hawakan mo ang kamay niya para hindi siya masyadong matakot. Malapit na siyang tumawid."

The whole of July, and some months before it, were difficult for my father. We watched him slowly become bedridden, then fade away inch by bloody inch. At first we thought he was just depressed, maybe an attitude problem; only much later did we realize that his prostate problem had metastasized into a cancer of the spine. He had also developed pneumonia, his kidneys were jammed, suffered multiple infarctions in his brain that left his right side paralyzed, and had graphic bedsores.

Yet he was the master of disimulado. Not once did he ask for morphine or other painkillers when he could still speak, which was around two weeks into his confinement.

Disimulado is one word to describe him, I told a reporter of BusinessWorld who was covering the wake.

"What does that word mean?"

I said it means that’s when you don’t want the other party to worry about you, or at least keep them guessing.

The past weeks too have been like a flashback for members of the family, with faces from bygone years suddenly making an appearance at the ICU, the wake, and funeral. Never before too have I heard so many Masses in so short a span of time, all for the old man’s eternal rest, though I hope that doesn’t betray a weak mind.

I am re-reading his stories and other works, and can only admit that mine pale in comparison. "A tough act to follow," my brother’s old girlfriend said.

The poem "Prayer" still astounds and proves that, modesty aside, erpats was a genius. If I could write just one poem on that level then my claim of being "the son of" would be justified. The story "Writer During War" speaks of the dynamics of survival, while "Story For My Country" reminds me of a time long ago when a distant cousin of ermats wanted to borrow money to buy a gun. Her cousin walked with a limp and was maybe out for revenge.

The truth was father never wanted to be taken to hospital, was adamant about his wanting to die in the old house on Maginhawa Street. Up to the last he was giving the finger to his own mortality, though there were clear signs of surrender and resignation when doctors insisted that he stay at the Kidney Center in the last ditch hope that he would get better.

"If we tried to take him home, he would not have even reached East Avenue alive. Imagine the spectacle that would create, and we would have had to sign waivers," my eldest brother said. In this case we were all stupid, and impostors as well.

That is all water under the bridge (over troubled water). The state funeral accorded to erpats as National Artist was beautiful if a bit extravagant; he himself would have probably found it rather superfluous. OA, he would have likely said, and besides, he wasn’t around to enjoy it.

"You are my friend, but you shouldn’t be," was what a drunk Erwin whispered to me as we embraced before my father’s casket. It was Tito Ting who fetched my old man from planet Earth.