Emptiness

Things have been good since I moved out - so good, in fact, that I never felt the urge to write anything emotional on this space of mine. So good that I found myself waking up with a smile on my face and basking in the peace that I had created for myself. So good that it felt unreal almost.

I've always hated feeling happy. I've always believed that people constantly search for happiness but never really attain it. And I used to always prepare myself for the sudden drop into oblivion. But I didn't this time.

This time, I just let myself be happy. And so, I was caught completely unawares when I found myself unexpectedly going to our home in BF to learn that my dad was bedridden because of what looked like another stroke.

Not gonna lie: I was angry. Angry that no one had bothered to inform me. Angry that my dad was lying in his bed instead of in a hospital. Angry that I wasn't there when it happened. Angry that I had left home knowing full well that this could happen.

And angry that it had happened so soon after the last one. My dad used to get minor strokes every few years, but this one came a mere four months after the last one. And it is a more serious one. There is nothing minor about this one.

Days have passed and my dad is still in the hospital. He goes through therapy twice a day. He is unable to clean himself. He can't stand. He can't walk. And he still can't speak properly. My dad. My rock. The man who, after I had moved out, would send me messages every few hours just to check on me, to say good night, to make sure I locked all of the doors and windows, to ask for help with his laptop or Grab deliveries, and to ask me to send him food.

He is stuck in the hospital and due to the pandemic, I am unable to do anything more than run errands for him and update immediate family members on his current state. I feel helpless, lost, and alone.

And while I used to joke with my friends about how clingy my dad has gotten since my move, I find myself staring at my phone wishing he would ask me to send him banana bread in the morning or just ask me to come over because he's excited to see me.

I hate that my last memory of him prior to seeing him bedridden was of him in an online class as I tried to fix his laptop. I hate that I didn't knock on his door every time I dropped by to pick up some of my stuff. I hate that I was so caught up in this road to freedom, that I decided to finally put myself first during such a critical time, and that my worst nightmare actually happened.

And yes, I blame myself. I have been blaming myself every day. And if he doesn't recover, I don't know how I'll ever bounce back.