Secrets in the Shower
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Ami at 2 yrs of age, Papa (Photo courtesy of Amihan Ferrer)
It was the 1970s in the Philippines, Martial Law was declared. Under the alias, Ulysses Maguindanao, Papa joined the UG (underground) anti-Marcos movement. He was under constant threat of military capture. To me he was just Papa.
Starting at the age of four, before the divorce, Mama would send Papa and me to the open-air market for our week’s supplies.
Mama, Ami, Papa before the divorce. Ligao, Bicol at Ferrer residence (Photo courtesy of Amihan Ferrer)
"Buy catfish. 2 kilos pork, lean cut. NO fatty parts. Please. Vegetables." I grasped Papa's left hand and repeatedly tugged him towards the door. "C’mon Papa!"
We didn't own a car. Papa preferred motorcycles for the freedom to navigate the narrow curving gravel roads in the Philippine countryside where we lived. It was also a speedy getaway vehicle. He named all his bikes Bruno. We rode Bruno together wearing coordinating red helmets. Brrrmmmm. Brrmmmmm. Off to the palengke we rode!
There was deep crimson tuna flesh, glistening catfish that undulated off tiled counters, and tiny pink shrimp jumping out of water-filled buckets. Freshly killed chickens tied together at their claws hung on hooks, heads dangling, eyes half-opened. There was a flurry of voices negotiating the prices of guava, papaya, or requests that pineapple be sliced just so for snacking. The honeyed scent of ripening yellow mangoes mingled with sweat in the crowded aisles.
At the butcher, meats were stacked up and plump longganisa (sausages) dangled from above. Papa said, “4 kilos of liempo (pork belly) please" He winked at me. I smiled.
These scenes played out in my mind as I stood there, 24 years later, helping Papa after his stroke.
***
We keep secrets for those we love.
I heard Papa call through the closed bathroom door. I sat up in bed fighting the jet lag-induced haze of my annual 20-hour flight from Seattle to Manila to visit him.
"Papa, how can I help?" I turned the knob and out wafted the aroma of minty soap mixed with the sting of bleach.
He sat on the closed toilet lid, his large belly hung forward partially obscuring the mound of hair underneath. His left arm was bent at the elbow tucked close to his ribs. His hand clawed into a half-closed fist. His right hand motioned to the shower head dangling against the tile beyond his reach.
I directed the water spray following his lead as he lathered his chest, the pectoralis visibly atrophied. His eyes were closed, his trunk swayed from side to side in sync with a private Rachmaninov concerto, humming. It took months of rehab, weeks in diapers, four hourly bed turning, for him to get this far -- taking a shower alone.
An image flashed before me. I was about seven years old. I sat on the sidelines at the Philippine National Judo tournament. Papa was seated on a mat in the center of the gymnasium, legs bent underneath him, his back straight held up by an invisible string pulling him towards the sky. His eyes were closed, palms on his lap, the black belt around his lean waist moving with him as he breathed deeply. He waited his turn to wrestle men younger than him down to the ground. Grab, throw, grapple. Repeat. At the end there was clapping, jumping up and down, raised fists clasping clinking medals. Suddenly, I was being lifted under the arms, up into the air and spun around and around.
***
As I stood in this space, I cheered him on in silence as he carefully lifted his legs one after the other, rinsing them off. I let my breathing slow, my shoulders slack, my gaze soften.
I longed to be lifted and spun around in the air. This was preferable to standing in front of his coffin, and yet the word UNPREPARED echoed in my ears.
***
We keep secrets from those we love.
Papa confessed to feeling palpitations when he exercised but was uncertain how long this went on before his body betrayed him.
His fibrillating heart launched a clot that traveled and lodged on the right side of his brain. This tiny cluster of cells threw him down unconscious. This Aikido and Judo sensei met an invisible opponent.
He was on an errand the morning he had the stroke.
"Son of a BITCH!" he said. He was at the motorcycle shop. The town mechanic fouled the repairs on Bruno. Papa grew hot, half his face contorted then he started slurring his speech. His legs gave out. Pure luck saved him. His lunch buddy that day, the college nurse at the school where he was the dean, caught him mid fall.
In the U.S. where I lived, the news arrived in a text.
I took the next flight home.
The ER refused to take him unless he showed proof of ability to pay. With all the bravado she could muster, the nurse said, "Don't you know WHO HE is? His daughter is a wealthy, famous doctor in the USA! She will sue you! "
I am a physician; the rest was a lie.
I stood in line at the hospital cashier where Papa was admitted. Along with my ID I surrendered a signed IOU form. In this corner of the world, cash is king, and like most Filipinos, my father had no medical insurance. My husband and I withdrew all the cash we had before leaving Seattle yet fell miserably short. In 10 days, we found Papa a new place to live, hired a live-in housekeeper and 24/7 nurses. We had to check out of our dingy hotel to economize. Papa's college graciously sheltered us. We camped in the faculty lounge where rearranged furniture became our beds for the night. The sole toilet-shower combo opened unto the basketball court. In the mornings, we emerged, toothbrush in hand and hair dripping wet, to students in PE class dribbling balls and dunking hoops.
***
This scene in the shower was my third visit since his stroke. For the longest time, Papa refused to leave his house. This time, after much cajoling he agreed to travel to the city. My sister, husband, and Yaya, our long-time family housekeeper, were together in this rental where we could entertain friends and minimize travel for Papa.
He hyper fixated on details. Toileting was of the utmost concern. "How many steps to the toilet? Is there a bidet? How big is the shower? I need two travel urinals in the car."
For some reason, here in this windowless bathroom we found a chapel to lay down his fears, a sanctuary from the assaults of his own psyche. A time to empty our cup as this Sensei would say.
Rivulets of water ran down his varicosed legs. His feet spread wide, arch almost flat. Nowadays, he preferred to walk barefoot. The stroke rendered the nerves on the bottoms of his feet slow to sense what was underneath. He was insecure of his footing -- one among plenty of emerging anxieties.
The dimly lit room hid my face in shadow. I whispered as I ministered to him wanting to preserve the solemnity, the rare palpable calm.
He kept his eyes closed throughout these few minutes we were together. Finally, he was done. He lifted the towel I set on his lap just moments before and started drying his hair. As I was turning to leave for his privacy he said.
“Thank you for your help, Yaya....”
He didn't realize it was me.
This moment, I will keep just for myself.
***
Outside that bathroom door, I was his guardian, his golden goose, his on call 24/7 de-escalator. No longer just the daughter.
I missed riding Bruno.
I wanted to keep lying about liempo.
I grapple with how my feelings are precariously triggered by his behavior.
“I longed to be lifted and spun around in the air. This was preferable to standing in front of his coffin, and yet the word UNPREPARED echoed in my ears. ”
Right after the stroke, he gave up chain smoking with no argument. Pride.
At 79, Papa is still a voracious reader. Gratitude.
He demanded an ER visit-- because he didn’t poop on cue the past two days. Frustration.
He threw a book at his caregiver for petty reasons. Disbelief.
He navigated YouTube and rediscovered Mozart. Thankful.
He didn't save for retirement; his pension is a pittance. Resentment.
If I die before him, he will be homeless. Anxiety.
He dreams of teaching again and speaks with pride for his students in Ateneo de Manila and Kalayaan college. Love. Inspiration.
On my birthday, he recited his poem about how he could tell me apart from the other babies in the nursery. “…it was because of your large head.” Tenderness. LOL.
He tells stories that begin with “You were conceived in…” TMI.
He masks. He got the covid shot. Relief.
He failed to check in on my sister when she got Covid. Infuriated.
He fell to the floor and couldn't get up. Terror. He didn't break anything. Relief again.
Each time we Zoom he says, "I love you, baby."
***
The unveiling of truths happens anywhere. In this mundane act, I found solace in glimpsing how Papa can still find reverie in spite of the losses he incurred. These truths, lies, secrets, joys...they live together. If I let them, they can dance.
In that room, I could forgive us both our faults.
I am a keeper of secrets. I hide from myself.
I could still be hiding things.
Just don't tell anyone.
Manila: Ami in college, Papa, Annette in high school (Photo courtesy of Amihan Ferrer)
Ami is a family medicine physician, foodie, writer and nature photographer, Atenista. In her spare time she cooks for friends, rides her bike or dabbles in art. She has a staggering collection of Filipino cookbooks.
[Sidebar]
About Antonio Llacer Ferrer, Ph.D.
23 September 1941 - 11 August 2022
Sensei Ferrer - founder of Ateneo Aikido Club (Photo courtesy of Amihan Ferrer)
Antonio Llacer Ferrer was an educator and poet, a Martial Law activist and political detainee, a professor of English Literature in the Ateneo de Manila University and Kalayaan College in Marikina and Bataan, a dean of Kalayaan College Bataan, a co-founder of the Ateneo Aikido Club, an iskolar ng bayan (from UP Diliman), and a black belt and sensei in Judo and Aikido. He was an avid reader, a passionate professor, and life-long student. He was not much for material things, except for books that dispensed knowledge. He was generous in teaching – from English Lit, to Marxist theories, to sociology and anthropology, to Aikido and martial arts philosophies, to Einstein, and poetry. He died from complications of Covid with his 2 daughters at his bedside.
