Taken by the Light

Taken by the Light

He was sitting on a rocking chair. His eyes were tired, his voice weak. I held his warm hands, and my heart was in so much distress and sadness that I could not endure the pain of looking at him. He was in terrible agony. I could see it in his face; he was already ready to succumb to his illness.

"I love you, Tatay! I really miss you so much," I said in a rattling voice, gently breaking the silence that surrounded us.

As he looked at me, I saw subtle sparks flicker from his cloudy eyes. Those eyes had lived in darkness for so long, yet they rose, trying to express emotions hovering inside. My father had been blind since he was sixty years old, taken by cataracts.

Now, at eighty-five, his body was changing, withering away because of age and illness. For so many years he had been unhappy and lonely, especially after my mother passed away. I knew that dreadful feeling. I thought grieving would last only for a while, but it took me three years to finally accept that my beloved mother was truly gone.

I carried guilt that haunted me. I had left my father alone when I should have been caring for him. But how could I? My job was in the city, and I was only renting a small apartment. He lived with my brother on the island. We sent money for his medication and daily expenses, but money was never enough. If only my sisters had stepped in. None of them wanted to commit. They were busy with their families and their own lives. I often wished my eldest sister would offer her big house in the city. There was so much room for him there, and it would have been easier for all of us to visit. Hospitals and clinics were nearby, unlike on the island where medical help was far away. I did not own a place, only a tiny rented room close to my work. Now that I had left my job, I finally had the chance to visit my father and care for him, even if only for a short while.

"I'm sorry, Tatay! I'm really sorry I only came now," I said apologetically while sitting beside his bed. He was lying down, his eyes shut.

I held both his hands and felt their warmth.

My brother had told me that my father could no longer remember all his children, not even their names. His memory was fading, a condition that often comes with old age.

It was heartbreaking to see him like this.

I reached for his forehead and gently rubbed it, then asked, "Tatay, do you know me? Do you still remember me? Do you recognize my voice?"

My father nodded and quickly responded, "Yes, of course. You are my youngest child. My Bunso, always the top of your class from Kinder to High School. You graduated Valedictorian. I am so proud of you."

I could not believe what I had just heard. My father still remembered me. He never let me slip from his memory. I was so happy, but that happiness lasted only for a moment before fading like lightning.

My eyes filled with tears. I could no longer endure the pain inside me. The day I arrived in this house felt like punishment. I was being punished for not standing out, for not doing enough for my father.

I took scissors and a comb from the drawer and began trimming his long gray hair. I shaved his mustache and beard. His eyebrows had grown so long they nearly covered his eyes.

That was the happiest moment of my life — the chance to bond with my father in such a simple, tender way.

Every night, when we tried to sleep, we heard his screams. Loud cries born of dreadful agony and unbearable pain. We did not know what to do. His body was shutting down. We sent him to the hospital, but the doctors told us there was nothing more they could do. His body was riddled with complications from different illnesses. He was in so much pain that he could not sleep or rest peacefully. Awake, he cursed, he yelled, he begged. He wanted to end everything, even his borrowed life. He was ready to be taken by the light. He screamed and called out for his departed loved ones — his father, his grandparents — begging them to take him. He felt they were waiting behind the light, reaching for his hand.

I prayed desperately. "God, please help him. Please contain the pain. Do not let him suffer the way Mom did." I remembered her torment, the cancer that consumed her, the way her suffering stabbed me over and over until I thought my heart would collapse. I would have taken her pain if I could. I would have carried it all. She was my world, my best friend, the closest person to my heart.

Indeed, it is the most painful moment in life when we are losing our loved ones.

The pain inside me was like an atomic bomb. It exploded devastatingly, not just once but endlessly. The aftermath felt eternal. I could not find words strong enough to describe that feeling. It was as if language itself had failed. All I wanted was to escape, to run away from it. My poor heart felt stabbed by a thousand knives, over and over, a million times.

I remembered so clearly when I lost my dear mother. I told her, "Please don't leave us yet. I don't want you to go. I want you to stay. If only there were a miracle, I want you to live. You will recover, you will be fine. But I know I cannot be selfish. If leaving us will give you peace and comfort, if it will take away all the pain and suffering, then I will let you go."

Now I was telling the same thing to my dying father. I wanted him to fight against death. I wanted him to stay. But I also did not want to see him suffer, fading gradually before my eyes.

"Tatay, please don't leave us yet. I still want to hold your hand. I still want to hear your voice. I still want to feel your heart beating. But I know, and God knows, I cannot ask selfishly because you cannot hold on anymore. Deep inside, we want you to go in peace, to end your agony. So we want you to let go of our hands. But before you go, please know this. I love you. I love you, Tatay."

I love you, Tatay. I truly do. I am sorry for everything. I apologize for all the times I missed visiting you when Mom was still alive. I was preoccupied with work and my own life.

A few weeks later, on October 4, my father passed away. It was the moment my eldest sister arrived to visit him. I believe he tried to hold on longer just to see his other children one last time. As he closed his eyes for the final time, we saw a single tear roll down his cheek, endless and silent.

This time he truly had to go. My mother was waiting for him. I know she took his hand and led him to a beautiful place, a paradise where they could find comfort, free from pain and suffering. Another life, parallel to ours, where they could continue together. A place where they could live happily for eternity.

Author's Note and Reflections

I wrote this story in October 2015 when my father passed away. I first published it under the title Please Don't Say Goodbye. I miss my father every day, and how I wish I had more time to be with him, more chances to tell him how grateful I am to have him as my father.

This story is not only about loss, but also about love, regret, and the fragile bond between parent and child. It reminds me that time is never guaranteed, and that love must be expressed while we still have the chance. Caring for him in his final days, even in small acts like trimming his hair or holding his hand, taught me that presence matters more than perfection.

The moral of this story is simple yet profound: never postpone love. Visit your parents, speak your gratitude, hold their hands while you can. Life is fleeting, and when the light finally calls them home, what remains are the moments we chose to give.

I love you, Tatay. Always.