The orphan-age

My father, Ricardo Cu-Unjieng, passed away on Sept. 29 at the age of 83. Coupled with my mother’s departing at the too-young age of 62 in 1996, I’m now an orphan. It’s never a good age or time to become an orphan, but that is the inevitability in the natural course of things, and along with my sisters and brother, we spent the week reminiscing and dishing up memories of my father. Memories allow us to reconnect, and hence, they become so precious to us. And rather than mope or be saddened, we turned to lighter moments, funny anecdotes that made us feel that much closer to him, now that he’s gone.

My dad was a mass of contradictions and idiosyncrasies; not the easiest of persons to understand at times. An only child, he could be both self-centered and super considerate, thoughtful to a fault. He could be congenial and friendly, yet distant and aloof. He chose his moments; but if there’s one thing we can all agree on, he didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He would readily forgive those who had wronged or slighted him, and would be genuinely puzzled if we would make tampo with him for more than 24 hours. He was our surviving parent, and his absence now leaves a gaping hole in our respective lives.

A doctor/golfing buddy once remarked that if Ricky had been born in a more contemporary era, he would have been diagnosed with ADD. Always in a rush, it was like his life was tethered to a stopwatch. Back in the days when I would be called to complete his golf foursome with the likes of Johnny Jalandoni and Benny Lim, a common occurrence would find me about to putt on say, the 7th green, look up, and see he had already teed off from the 8th, and was streaking down the fairway. His version of Speed Golf meant that quite often, his round of 18 holes would be reduced to 16 or 15, as he would skip holes if the flight ahead of us was too slow for his pace. His daily Mass would always find him first to Communion; and the priest intoning “the Mass has ended, go in peace” would coincide with him in the car, heading home.

His gift-giving was legendary. Christmas gifts and greeting cards would reach friends by Halloween, birthday gifts would arrive a week early; and we would joke how his version of Holy Week would entail celebrating Easter Sunday on Good Friday. His gifts, especially for his grandchildren, were hot topics of mirthful conversation. For his eldest grandson, one Christmas saw a T-shirt with panels of aliens in different sexual positions, emblazoned with the slogan, “The Aliens Are Coming.” A battery-operated humping dog, a TV remote in the form of a woman’s torso so you’d press the mammary glands — these are just some of the more memorable gifts, and the grandchildren would turn Christmas into an annual bet of who would get the most risqué, wacky gift.

I would discover that it was bazaars and mail-order catalogs that were the sources of his ingenious gifts. And of course, this would come to light because some bazaar stall owner, who was a friend, would come up to me to say, “Your father is too cute, he was at the bazaar last week, wanting to purchase something before we hadn’t even opened.” Classic Ricky!

Like any bona fide golfer, his golf outfits held your breath. No color was too loud, too neon, no logo too large or screaming — the proudest of peacocks, the largest of billboards, would not hold a candle to him. We would joke and call his closet “The Rainbow Collection.” When the grandsons would jokingly compliment him on his sartorial splendor, he would take their words at face value, and gift them with the same shirt — wondering afterwards why he’d never see them wearing his gifts.

During his last months, bed-ridden, physically debilitated, and coping mentally with the onset of Alzheimer’s and dementia, his sense of humor remained intact. My elder sister became the unofficial “enforcer,” nagging him about his physical therapy, his medication and his diet. Often were the instances when it would take moments for him to recognize us. One evening, my sister dropped by and asked him if he recognized her, his reply, “Of course!” She then asked “Who am I?” An impish smile appeared out of nowhere, and he said, “The police!”

Moments such as these made my father such a character, and these are the memories that bind us strongly, making us miss him. Always true to himself, he leaves lessons to life we all can learn from; and I just hope St. Peter has a good sense of humor, and plays a fast round of celestial golf.