Roslyn Ofalla

A Loss in My Life

There I was, sitting in my room, nervously tapping my pen on the edge of the spiral notebook I was going to be writing in. At this point, the spiral notebook had become a bit soggy because of the teardrops that were falling onto it. I couldn’t stop crying, so my eyes had blurred to the point that I could barely see the paper anymore. Finally, I mustered up the courage to let myself recall the experience once again. I started to write, just letting my pen bleed my emotions onto the paper.

I grew up with everyone around me thinking that my family and I lived a perfect life. I had a father that was an accountant and a mother that was and still is a principal for two early education centers in the Los Angeles Unified School District. My siblings and I never failed to get good grades or make the honor roll in school, and we were favored by many of our teachers, frequently being chosen as “Student of the Month.” Three out of the four of us received the Academic Presidential Award, which was signed by the President himself.

My family and I were always traveling, along with two other families that we were very close to. We’ve probably been to almost all of the states on the left side of the U.S. map, in addition to the traveling that we would do outside of the country. We would have gatherings at the house every weekend for no particular reason at all. It was just all about singing, dancing, eating, and having a great time with close friends and family! Compared to a lot of my friends and classmates, my siblings and I were fortunate enough to always have nice, new clothes to wear and most of the time, it was name brand clothing. We lived in a nice house and never had to take the bus to or from school.

On the surface, I guess one would be able to say that we really did seem to be a family that lived a perfect life. Little did they know that we were a normal family that actually had many problems. From as long as I can remember, my mother and father never got along. I remember not being able to sleep so many nights because they’d be yelling at each other all night. Their yelling was usually accompanied by the throwing of things at each other, things such as expensive china, chairs, and books; basically anything they could get their hands on. I often peeked outside of my room door, crying, and just wishing that they’d stop. My grandma always had to pull me away and force me to go back to sleep.

There were even times that my mother would threaten my father by telling him that she was going to leave him, taking all the kids with her. She’d have us pack some things and we would actually stay in hotels for a few days at a time. All four of us siblings would always go with my mother. Just picture the five of us trying to fit onto one king-sized bed! We’d just sit or lie on the bed, watching television and eating the candy and snacks that we’d bought from the vending machine in the hotel lobby. Sometimes, if my mother allowed it, my younger brother and sister would jump up and down on the bed, laughing their heads off. I don’t think they ever understood why we were staying in a hotel in the first place. We never talked about it. My mother never talked about it. I never knew what her point really was in doing this because we’d end up going back home all the time.

At the same time, I couldn’t really blame her for feeling the way she felt. My father was an extremely insecure person with a very bad temper. When it came to my mother, he would always get jealous of even the smallest things. He constantly accused my mother of cheating on him, even though she never did. “You’re a whore,” he’d yell to her. “You need to keep your legs closed.” He never trusted her. It got to the point that he’d secretly follow her around when she’d go out without him just to see if she was actually going to meet up with another man. There was a time he got mad at her just because she was talking to a male relative, accusing her of having a relationship with him. Can you believe that? No wonder he drove my mom crazy! I would be angry as well if I kept getting accused of things I wasn’t actually doing.

When it came to his children, especially his daughters (my younger sister and I), he was just always too overprotective. I have always had a lot of friends, guys and girls. Many of them are from San Diego, San Francisco, San Jose, and from many different cities in the Los Angeles and Orange County areas. Whenever our family would throw big parties, such as graduation parties or anniversary parties, or if there was a big event all of my friends and I were going to attend, I would always have them stay at the house, instead of staying at some hotel. Filipinos are often known for their kindness and warm hospitality, even to those they don’t know very well. Thus, my family has always been hospitable. It’s a part of our culture and who we are. My father was, of course, an exception to this.

Unlike my mother, my father was always against having boys sleep over. I didn’t see the problem when I had two brothers who lived with us and were also friends with the guys who were sleeping over. It’s not like these guys were sleeping in mine and my sister’s room or in the same bed as us, for goodness sake! Not every time, but there were many times that my father, in the middle of the night, would get angry out of nowhere and yell at my guy friends to leave. He would accuse them of trying to do something to us and then kick them out of the house. It was truly embarrassing for me. There was another time when my younger brother was having a little gathering at the house and one of his friends happened to be asking me something in secret. He wasn’t actually whispering to me, but he was standing pretty close. If you can only imagine how angry my father got. He chased this poor boy outside of the house with a knife in his hand! All of the kids got so scared that they called their parents to come and pick them up immediately.

We never really knew where all of this jealousy and anger came from. There were so many times other than the ones mentioned above that my father embarrassed or shamed us. Just his habits alone, including his table manners, embarrassed us. Before eating, whether we were at home or at some nice restaurant, and whether it was just our family or other people as well, my dad would take off his dentures and place them on a napkin next to his plate for everyone to see! Also, he had a bad habit of buying old clingkity cars that made a lot of noise, and sometimes even died on us in the middle of the road; so my siblings and I were always so embarrassed when he’d drop us off or pick us up from school! All of his actions made me feel this sense of hatred toward him, never wanting to build a close relationship with him. I made myself believe that he never deserved my love, that I didn’t owe anything to him.

My mother and relatives would often tell me that I should cut my father some slack because of his sickness. They blamed his behavior and actions on the medicine he had been taking. You see, my father had diabetes for so many years. He was injecting insulin into his body three times a day, in addition to taking a basket full of other medicine. Early 2001, his body started giving up on him. He became bed-ridden and had to start going to dialysis three times a week just to survive. He was constantly in and out of the hospital. The paramedics and firemen near our house practically knew my father and my family from all of the times we had called 911.

My younger brother and I took turns taking him and picking him up from the dialysis center. We also took turns taking him to the various doctors he was seeing, as well as Urgent Care when he wasn’t feeling well in general. Each time we’d bring him somewhere, we’d have to take out this heavy wheelchair in order to transport him everywhere. We also had to start giving him his daily insulin shots because his hands had become too shaky to do it himself. In addition to this, we had to specially prepare his three meals for him because the doctor put him on a strict diet.

All of these responsibilities lay on my younger brother, Jonathan, and me, because my mother was at work all day and night, since we didn’t have my father’s income to support us anymore. She was a principal during the day and an ESL adult school teacher in the evenings. Our older brother, Glenn, got married young, so he was out of the house already. Our youngest sister, Eunice, was just too young to really do any of these things. It was just so hard for me to have all of these responsibilities, while also working part-time, going to college full-time, and still trying to get good grades.

Honestly, I viewed these responsibilities as a burden. I hated having to spend almost all of my time taking care of him. Even in front of him, I would always complain, sigh, and show my dislike in having to do all these things. I had built up so much hate towards him in the past that I couldn’t get myself to truly care for him or want to build a close relationship with him. Even the way I would handle him while he was sick was not gentle. Sometimes, when giving him his daily insulin shots, I’d abruptly poke the needle into his very fragile and weak arm, pushing down hard on the shot, causing the insulin to enter into his arm quickly. I know this must have been painful. Sometimes, when taking him out of his wheelchair and putting him onto his bed, I’d pull him up and place him down aggressively, not keeping in mind that his body was already so frail.

One day, I finally started to realize that nonetheless, he was my father and that I shouldn’t treat him this way. There were actually many times that I’d cry to myself after dropping him off at the dialysis center or when visiting him during the many times he stayed at the hospital. I really did love him and care for him and I wanted him to know that. It was too late though, because not too long after that realization, he became very ill and ended up in the hospital with a coma. He died after being in the hospital for about a week and a half.

I was so angry at myself. I was not even there when he passed away. I was off having fun snowboarding at Big Bear. When I got to the hospital later on that night and first saw him lying there lifeless, I burst into tears. I really couldn’t stop crying. How could I have been so selfish? How could I have been so full of hate? He was my father after all. Without him, I wouldn’t be on this earth. He took care of me when I was younger and even though he was way too overprotective; he really did care for our family and loved us with all his heart. Maybe that is why he acted the way he did; because he loved us all too much. I was filled with feelings of regret. All I wanted was to have a second chance, to have been able to show him that I really did care about him. I feel like he died not knowing that I truly loved him.

In my sophomore year of college, almost a year after my father died, my English professor gave the class an assignment to write about something that we regret doing or not doing. As I read the writing prompt, I already knew what I was going to write about. Just thinking about having to recall my experience though made me want to cry. I had finally overcome my feelings of grief and guilt. I really didn’t want to be reminded of the loss of my father and how I regret not treating him better while he was still alive. I felt that it was part of the process though, that it would help me heal if I transferred my feelings onto paper and shared the way I truly felt, feelings that I kept to myself for the past year.

That night, I sat in my room, nervously tapping my pen on the edge of the spiral notebook I was going to be writing in. My eyes were so blurry from crying that I could barely see the paper anymore. Once I mustered up the courage to let myself recall the experience once again, I started to write, just letting my pen bleed my emotions onto the paper. I was finally able to release my feelings of grief in having loved and lost my father and my feelings of regret in not being able to show him that I truly loved him. I couldn’t stop crying as I was writing the paper because all of these feelings that I was able to block out of my mind and heart surfaced once more.

My experience has made me a stronger person though. I never would have thought that I’d be able to talk or write about it. Now I try my best to be a good daughter and sister, never forsaking the chance to show my family that I care for and love them. We aren’t always given second chances in life, so it’s always best to try to get things right the first time around.