Atty. Glenn Avecilla Nuyda1925 - 2002
It's been four years and four days since my Papa left us. I remember that day very well. I passed by Papa's room the night before to say hello and saw, to my shock, a shrunken and emaciated old man on the bed where my energetic, vibrant father used to be. The physical transformation had happened almost overnight, even as his condition had been deteriorating for weeks. I choked on my hello, knowing in an instant that he wouldn't be with us much longer. I ran to my room weeping and praying very hard to God, asking Him to embrace my father very tightly in his last hours.
It was very hard to see him like that, looking small and defeated by those ravenous cancer cells. My Papa had lived BIG. He climbed mountains and sailed the deep seas--as much in pursuit of elusive dreams as he did barracudas and butterflies. He loved family, and revelled in the fact that he had produced 6 children and 12 grandchildren (now 14 and counting). He loved food, and cooked better than anyone in his household. Fresh lapu-lapu, bilaos filled with giant prawns baked in chili sauce, salted ham and lechon karaha (the saltier, the better!) were his ultimate favorites. By no means a gourmet, he nevertheless knew a good plate of laing when he saw one. And how he loved knowledge! Perhaps the most intelligent man I had ever known, my Papa knew world history like the back of his hand. A bar top-notcher, he could stand in front of any audience and speak with poetry and eloquence--just from the top of his head! He had a loud, booming voice that never really needed the aid of a microphone. My love of drama and music came from him. I appreciate great minds and talent--from Ayn Rand to Bing Crosby--because of his influence.
Which was why the sight of him wasting away before my very eyes was very difficult for me--the youngest and most sheltered daughter--at the time. But my sadness was very cerebral, and no one could have guessed how much I had already been grieving even before his actual passing.
Anyway, I had an errand the next morning, a trip to the supermarket to buy supplies for a photo shoot Peachy and I had to supervise the next day. At around 9am, I said a quick goodbye to Papa, who barely looked at me--I'd like to think he was just too deep in conversation with his heavenly guides by then to take notice of anything around him--then I jumped into my car and drove off. As disturbed as I was by his appearance, I still didn't think that that would be the goodbye. So unceremonial was it, so off-handed. I had still fully expected to see Papa when I got back after an hour.
In the supermarket, as we were piling loaves of bread into our cart, my cellphone suddenly slipped from my hand and fell crashing to the floor. I remember thinking, how did that happen? I had a pretty good grip on my phone. I bent down to pick it up and saw that the cover had broken apart.
Later on, at the parking lot, Peachy and I said our goodbyes as we both drove off in separate cars. I had just pulled out of the lot when my phone buzzed. A message had just come in. I didn't want to read it at first. I felt that it might be the message I had been dreading for weeks. And it was. It was from my brother Jojo, and all it said was: Papa's gone.
The ten or so minutes of that drive home were very surreal. It was as if all my nerve endings had been suspended in mid-air and there was only silence around me. . .and numbness. I said one last goodbye to Papa there in the car and drove on, staring at the morning sky all the way home.
It was very hard to see him like that, looking small and defeated by those ravenous cancer cells. My Papa had lived BIG. He climbed mountains and sailed the deep seas--as much in pursuit of elusive dreams as he did barracudas and butterflies. He loved family, and revelled in the fact that he had produced 6 children and 12 grandchildren (now 14 and counting). He loved food, and cooked better than anyone in his household. Fresh lapu-lapu, bilaos filled with giant prawns baked in chili sauce, salted ham and lechon karaha (the saltier, the better!) were his ultimate favorites. By no means a gourmet, he nevertheless knew a good plate of laing when he saw one. And how he loved knowledge! Perhaps the most intelligent man I had ever known, my Papa knew world history like the back of his hand. A bar top-notcher, he could stand in front of any audience and speak with poetry and eloquence--just from the top of his head! He had a loud, booming voice that never really needed the aid of a microphone. My love of drama and music came from him. I appreciate great minds and talent--from Ayn Rand to Bing Crosby--because of his influence.
Which was why the sight of him wasting away before my very eyes was very difficult for me--the youngest and most sheltered daughter--at the time. But my sadness was very cerebral, and no one could have guessed how much I had already been grieving even before his actual passing.
Anyway, I had an errand the next morning, a trip to the supermarket to buy supplies for a photo shoot Peachy and I had to supervise the next day. At around 9am, I said a quick goodbye to Papa, who barely looked at me--I'd like to think he was just too deep in conversation with his heavenly guides by then to take notice of anything around him--then I jumped into my car and drove off. As disturbed as I was by his appearance, I still didn't think that that would be the goodbye. So unceremonial was it, so off-handed. I had still fully expected to see Papa when I got back after an hour.
In the supermarket, as we were piling loaves of bread into our cart, my cellphone suddenly slipped from my hand and fell crashing to the floor. I remember thinking, how did that happen? I had a pretty good grip on my phone. I bent down to pick it up and saw that the cover had broken apart.
Later on, at the parking lot, Peachy and I said our goodbyes as we both drove off in separate cars. I had just pulled out of the lot when my phone buzzed. A message had just come in. I didn't want to read it at first. I felt that it might be the message I had been dreading for weeks. And it was. It was from my brother Jojo, and all it said was: Papa's gone.
The ten or so minutes of that drive home were very surreal. It was as if all my nerve endings had been suspended in mid-air and there was only silence around me. . .and numbness. I said one last goodbye to Papa there in the car and drove on, staring at the morning sky all the way home.
wow, jen. i knew your papa's passing really hit you hard four years ago. this must have been a really sad post to do. am sure, though, that he's up there catching butterflies in heaven. ;)