A Photo Tag and My Dad

I think this is a great tag, thanks Karen. The instruction is to look up your very first file of photos on this computer and find the 10th photo.


This was taken on October 22, 2006 at the cemetery where my dad is buried and a few of my Mom's ashes are. It was the 1st death anniversary of my Mom and we (me, the husband, Josh and Dash) brought flowers to my Dad's grave.


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Tomorrow is Father's Day. This is the 6th Father's Day without Dad. I haven't talked about him much lately. Not that I don't miss him. Maybe even missing him even more. I'm trying to search through my feelings right now.

It doesn't get better each year, doesn't get easier. The pain varies each year. One year it was purely the missing feeling. The next, it was guilt. What came next was the yearning. Then, the wondering why knowing there were no answers. For a time, I thought I was ready to simply swallow what just had to be.

I still look for his wisdom. Those things about life that he taught which I never really paid much attention to. When crossroads confront me, I close my eyes and try to imagine what he would have told me. I crave for his unsolicited advise which on hindsight, pretty much made me make the wisest decisions in my life.

He was my wall. That wall I never gave much importance to but without that wall I know I would never had stood firmly on my own. That wall that allowed me to lean my head back on, slide down and cry my heart out on.

He knew me much more that I thought he did. He knew who I was and who I could be.

He believed in my even when the world decided to say I didn't have a chance.

He was brutally frank with me. He slapped me with the hard truth but after doing so, embraced me without saying anything. But i knew everything he wanted to say.

He is my hero.

He is my Dad.

I love you Dad.

My Dad's Daughter

* I am reposting this as part of my way of remembering my Dad on his 5th year death anniversary.




I did want to let you know Lou that when I read your blog entries I am reminded so much of your dad. You write in a similar style and with lots of emotion. And he would especially like your blogging.
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Apparently, my dear cousin made me cry just by what she said. She sent me an email and I found myself crying at 8 this morning. In the office. Good thing I was alone. Seriously. She said so many many other things that completely broke me - in a good way, that is. And yes, it does feel good to be broken. I think I really needed that.



And I pondered on that line, that I remind her of my Dad through my writing. It brought me to realize that indeed, I am my Dad's daughter. And I feel like writing about him, the relationship we shared, my growing up years with him. Bear with me. Do not read on if you wish.

He was a very passionate man. He loved what he did best - writing. Later on in his life, as he came full circle (shortly before he died) he went back to painting and rejoined his old college buddies and revived their art group Tahong Bundok . (Do check the link, I was pleasantly surprised when I googled it and saw this page. My Dad is the man on the far left with his hand on his hip). Anyway, yes he loved writing. Thinking deeper, aside from his love and passion for writing itself - he knew he was a good writer, but I'm feeling that deep down inside, he loved it also because he looked up to his dad (my Grandpa )very much and strived to be much like him. He worked very closely with my Grandpa when the Midland Courier was still theirs. Later on, my Dad set up the Cordillera Post which eventually closed in 1991. Growing up, I was used to the smell of the press - the ink, the paper. With the introduction of technology, my Dad chose to stay away from it and stuck to writing his articles using his reliable typewriter and would proof read and lay out the paper the old traditional way.

Dad always reminded me of what I could be - because I guess that's what he also did to remind himself of what he could do - and how good I could be with what I could do. He cared greatly for the people he loved and even for the people he did not know. I remember once he came home with no money left and he told me and my Mom that he gave it to this young boy who dropped by their art gallery but who was very poor but had great potential in painting. He loved his family. He was a good man.

I still hurt and wonder why he had to leave a bit too early. He was only 55. But again, as I think deeper, I am thankful for what he has left me. A big part of who I am is who he was - I think. We're both uptight people. Yes, especially in a crowd of strangers. Often times, I find it hard to relax and find some things funny at once. We both like things planned. Although lately I have been trying to be this spontaneous "let's go on a vacation in an hour" type, it is difficult. We find it difficult to adjust to abrupt / sudden changes. Obviously, we both love writing but I am not such a voracious reader as he was. We struggle with wanting to be the best, with pleasing other's yet still not losing ourselves in the quest to be so. And we both are very emotional people. We hurt and when we do we wallow in it. That's it, I got it from him. When there is something inside of us, there is a need to bring it out. But in this aspect, I guess I am able to do it a bit more easily.

With the things going in my life today or decisions made, I often find myself thinking and asking such like "Dad would have thought... Dad would have said... Dad would not have wanted..." I know it shouldn't always be that way, but probably for now that I am still in the very early stages of my life where I am completely trying to be an independent person, thoughts like that do help me.

This afternoon, I heard 2 excited boys and the sound of the typewriter keys. They found my Dad's typewriter in the storage room. It was a pleasant sight. A warm one in fact. And I was again reminded that my Dad will live through my boys as well.

I am still at a point where I am trying and wanting to define who I am, but nothing will change the fact that I am my Dad's daughter.

What The Pen Can Do

The son of an Ibaloi woman who belonged to a prominent family and a Japanese overseas worker who came to the Philippines to make a living, Sinai Hamada had big dreams - he went on to become a lawyer while he continued to write his short stories. But his biggest dream may, if I may just presume, came true when on April 28, 1947, the Midland Courier was born.

It was, in his best interest to provide a local newspaper for the city bearing in mind to always be FAIR, FEARLESS, FRIENDLY and FREE.

To quote: (As written by my grandfather when the 1st edition of The Midland was published):

We are born. This we announce humbly. We enter the fourth estate with no misgivings about our mission, believing we have one, or of our destiny, granting we have any. We aim to go somewhere, quite resolutely, but we do not beat our breast saying so.

As in most father and sons, my father Steve, looked up to my grandfather. Although he did try to level up to my grandfather, he just never did because, as one of his friends put it, "Steve tried to climb Mt. Sinai, but instead, he climbed his own mountain."

Sometime after Martial Law was declared, my father decided to give up his struggle with the corporate world and go back to his roots - to do that which he truly loved -- to write. He joined my grandfather and together they wrote for the Midland Courier.

As greed can often consume a person's heart and turn it as black as can be, the Midland Courier was ruthlessly grabbed from my grandfather by his own brother. Thinking he could carry on my grandfather's legacy, he tries his best but to no avail. Today, the paper which was born out of my grandfathers blood, sweat and tears is slowly going to the dogs. One day it will bury itself -- consumed in greed and ulterior motives. Completely forgetting why it was born in the first place. But revenge is not for us -- I believe in that Greater being who will take care of them in His own time.

As part of a family project, my Aunt came up with the wonderful idea of printing all of my Grandfather's column from 1947 - 1987 side by side my father's articles when he joined in the 1970's. Together with my cousin, we will maybe contribute our own ideas and thoughts - the inner most feelings found deep in our hearts to hopefully come out with a wonderful publication.

In the end, they will be vindicated.

This is for you Dad.

The Person That I Am

I left the office 30 minutes before 6 - 30 minutes before the event. Rain greeted me when I stepped out of the building, I hailed a cab and headed home. I had no idea what I was going to wear plus, there was another pool of mixed emotions going on inside of me the whole trip home.

I took a quick bath and just decided to wear nothing really special. I, Jet and my 2 aunts all went to attend the ceremony - my grandfather was to receive an award too so my Aunt (their eldest) was to receive it for Gramps.

As I entered the hall, the smell of alcohol greeted me. Media men were standing around the bar and sipping their scotch or whisky or brandy, chatting away - a common practice amongst the media men of our city. As one journalist stated it - "alcohol begins to sharpen the brain and loosen the tongue, or the other way around. ." And suddenly this GIGANTIC, really HUGE knot formed in my throat. Jet and I took a seat in the back row. I looked around and observed and saw a lot of Dad's fellow media men. One of them passed by and I greeted him - a very close friend of Dad. He asked me why we were not getting any cocktails and I just replied by saying "Oh if Dad were here, he would have been at the bar since forever." To which he replied "Oh, you know your Dad." I wanted hug him and cry.

The event started a good 1 1/2 hours after we arrived. They started with the awards for media men who have, as my Dad always termed it, "have gone to the great newsroom in the sky." Seriously, I was surprised at how many of them have already gone. Sad. And when they called my name to receive the award for my Dad, I totally felt I was going to breakdown. Given the chance, I would have grabbed the mic from the host and would have given a short speech. Control is what took over me. I walked up the stage and got received the award from the Mayor. A few names after, they called my Granpa's name and I found myself clapping very loud. Damn proud.

Before we left, I approached one of Dad's best friends (one of the 2 people we called to the hospital when Dad was dying because Dad did not want ANYBODY to see him on his dying bed). Uncle Ramon is his name. I said my hello's and how are you's but felt he wasn't warming up that much. Before I left, I whispered in his ears "Uncle don't drink too much anymore." And that's when he held me very tight. Oh god, again, I wanted to embrace him and cry. I didn't. I told him to take care.

When we got home, I cried it out. I was happy and proud and lonely. And I missed my Dad terribly. I sorta started to talk to him (my Dad) - I do that sometimes. As if he were there with me in the room.

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What are such occasions for? I wonder. And I realize. When people are alive, they are lucky if such recognition is done - to make it known to them that what they are doing is truly appreciated. Is truly loved. Is truly important. But such are done when they are long gone. When their human ears are no longer around to hear them. When their human hearts are no longer pumping with passion eager to feel that their passion has touched the lives of others. It is a sad fact. And often times it fills one with guilt and regret.

The living can only look back and fondly remember- as it warms our living hearts.

If I may say, my father venerated my grandfather. I look up to my mine with reverence too.

As my eldest put it 2 nights ago, "Mom, I wish Grampa Steve were still awake." I do too, I do too.

Below is the eulogy my Dad's best friend delivered during Dad's funeral.

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Dacawi: For Steve By Ramon Dacawi

MIDWAY into our seasons in the sun, Steve Macli-ing Hamada, my editor for over a decade, and I paused from beating deadlines and sobered up to the inevitable. We discussed how each of us would want to go, something many people don't talk about. We ended up with pact: Whoever stayed longer on this mortal plane would not deliver a eulogy or write an obituary for the other.

That deal was never brought up again. Not until April 7 last year when Steve suddenly reported to the Supreme Editor. As news of his passing on spread, some colleagues in media started asking me for an obit. It was understandable as Steve and I worked together for more than a decade bedding the Baguio Midland Courier and, later, the Baguio-Cordillera Post. But I was out of my bearings, confused and groping to make sense of the sudden transition.

I made a mess of myself with booze.

Steve understandably didn't tell his wife Lulay and daughter Lu-an about the unusual pact. Given the morbid thought it would evoke and the hurt it would inflict on those dearest to us, I, too, didn't reveal it to Becky and our kids Beng and Boogie, or to anyone until Domcie.

On the second night of the wake on a Maundy Thursday, Lulay saw me without a jacket. She immediately took out Steve's favorite and had me wear it against the evening cold. She asked her daughter if she remembered me. Lu-an, the toddler I saw now grown into a comely 22-year-old answered, "Of course, he's the uncle who fell from our roof while trying to gather guavas!"

Lulay asked if I could say something after the funeral mass, before Steve was to be laid to rest beside his father, the venerable Sinai Carino Hamada, at the city's public cemetery. The Baguio boy that he was, and is to us, Steve, I thought, would understand why I had to accede. A funeral is also for the living, for those who mourn, and a word or two won't hurt but help console. After all, Steve, with whom I shared secrets of the soul, relished narrating how he tried, and failed, to follow the rule of silence in a spiritual retreat he underwent in childhood. "After two days of silence, I went to the priest-in-charge and confessed I had to utter a word."

The worst (or best) punishment you can mete media is to make them silent. They speak out their truth, even beyond the regular broadcast or the printed page. Here in Baguio, we speak our pieces late into the evenings, not in unison but often at the same time, especially when alcohol begins to sharpen the brain and loosen the tongue, or the other way around.

We learned to speak our pieces, sometimes with lips frothing, through the bullhorn in college. Willy Cacdac, Joe Dacawi and the rest who preceded us in the parliament of streets, did the live broadcast of those protests that they actually helped hatch for us. In the wake of their coverage, they lost their jobs and eventually joined the establishment, in the same rut I'm in right now. Steve came home from a promising but highly competitive career with IBM advertising to help live out the four guideposts of community journalism that his illustrious father established - fair, fearless, friendly and free. He inherited a staff in Oswald Alvaro and my brother Joe. He found the two friendly and struggling to be fair, fearless and free.

He took me into the Courier in 1980, a cub reporter expected to earn his wings. He saw through my burden of having to fit Joe's shoe and guided me on, despite putting up a front of being tough and stern, as editors are known to be. Later, I realized he was in a more unenviable position. In the words of younger generation newsman Frank Cimatu, Steve struggled to climb Mt. Sinai, whom he venerated.

We discussed and argued a lot, before, during and after press work. Curiously, I can't remember now any of those things we debated on. What I can't forget was that time we fell asleep on our desks and woke up to a nightmare. Without waking us up to proofread the editorial Steve had labored on with his antique Underwood, the printer ran almost all copies of the opinion page. The editorial, which was set on linotype, was garbled beyond any sense. Steve was visibly aghast, only to be devastated when the printer turned into a Job's comforter. "Saan ka kadi nga madanagan, ading Steve; ammom met nga awan to agbasbasa ti editoryal (Don't worry, ading Steve; you well know nobody reads editorials)," the printer offered to console him.

In 1985, Steve, with nary a stripping knife or table, much less a printing machine, started out on his own and launched the Baguio-Cordillera Post, another weekly. He took me in to the Hamada home in Camp 7 where we labored within the limited givens. We had his mother, Ma'am Gerry, wife Lulay, sister Briggs and even nieces Dooly and Tanya as our cooks. I also had him as my driver aboard his brother Lionel's 4x4.

The Post folded up after more than five years, but not after serving as the training ground for Rene Acantilado, Norris Falguera and other younger journalists molded by Steve.

Steve later wrote a column for the Sun.Star Baguio Daily, served Baguio in other capacities, including being director of the local water district. Together with Peppot, Willy Cacdac and Gerry Evangelista, he ran for the City Council and the four newsmen lost.

Steve repaired back to Camp 7 and turned to painting while serving as nurse to his grandson, Joshua, now three.

With this, I've broken our pact again. (mailto:rdacawi@yahoo.com for comments)
(April 11, 2005 issue)

It's Been Three Years, Dad.

I remember that day, that day you decided to leave for the Great Newsroom in the sky. How has it been? How's Mom?
Things have been doing fine since you left. Shortly after you left, I graduated. Yes Dad, I finally did! I cried that night because I knew how much you wanted to see me receive my diploma. And I wanted you to see me knowing that, that simple accomplishment would ease a little bit of the pain in your heart that I caused you all those years. Also, Jet found a job. And yes he did buy that first can of milk you always told him to buy as soon as he received his first paycheck. And he did feel so good about it.
Right after you left, I decided to take the time to stay home with Mom. Jet, Josh and I moved in with her by the way. So the first few weeks after you left were spent doing general cleaning around the house. Mom offered us your room (I hope you don't mind) and she moved into my old room.
2 months after you left, I found a job. I have been working for the same company since.
10 months after you left, Mom was diagnosed with cancer. Lung cancer by the way - yes caused by her smoking. I know. I'm sure she told you all about it. But anyway, I want to tell you all about it from my point of view. SO she was diagnosed and Tita Fe and the rest of Mom's siblings decided that treatment in Manila would be the best option. She went for 6 cycles of chemotherapy. It was a difficult time Dad. But I don't know how you would have taken all of it if you were still around. I am thankful things were orchestrated the way they were because in a sense you were protected from the pain. Anyway, as true love dictates, from my understanding, Mom could not bear living without you. So 1 1/2 years after you left, she decided to leave too and follow you.
11 months after you left, Josh started pre-school. Oh it would have been such a blast for you to hear the stories he had to share after coming home from school. And guess what, for the 1st few weeks of school, he would always eat the food of his classmates. I know! So far he has grown into an inquisitive little pre-schooler. He starts PrepI this May 2. Oh Dad if you could see him right now, he has grown so much.
2 years after you left, your other grandson came into this world. Yep, yet another boy. I know! You would have been thrilled. I know. Well this little one seems to have taken after me - I think! We call him Dash by the way.
Oh gawd Dad, I know I am not much with words when it comes to opening up to you. But I miss you so so much. You always protected me and a lot of times I still find myself looking for that protective someone who would do the same but no one will ever compare to you. I remember the embrace you would give me right after every one of our talks. Our talks where you would reprimand me for something I did but in the end you would always always forgive me. No one will ever compare to you.
I'm sorry for hurting you Dad. For not exerting effort to understand you. For taking you for granted. I miss you so much. I still find it hard to move on, I guess I never really will. I am sorry for those times I disobeyed you and disrespected you. When I think of it now, I want to take all of those times back.
It's been three years Dad and I still think of you everyday. I miss you.
I Love You Dad.
---
Check these out:
Dad's Website

Steve

Their Love Story

Found this picture of Mom and Dad, circa 1970's.

(all hippie and flower power-ish)

Mom's dad, my lolo (grandpa) was a doctor and Mom's mom, my lola (grandma) was a pharmacist. My lolo had his own clinic and my lola had her small pharmacy at the bottom of Session Road, the main commercial road in Baguio City.

Dad's dad, my gramps (as I always called him), was a lawyer and writer/journalist and Dad's mom, my gramma, was a social worker.

Both families were old timers of Baguio City and both families knew each other very well. Mom and her siblings went to a private catholic school for elementary while Dad and his siblings went to a public school. Come high school, Mom and Dad went to the same school. Funny thing is the siblings of Mom and Dad were batch mates and ended up being classmates in high school.

When Dad was younger, he used to sell newspaper and shine the shoes of my lolo. Little did my Dad know that Lolo would be his father-in-law in the future.

Mom and Dad were high school classmates. According to my Mom, she had the hugest crush on Dad for the longest time but Dad being his quiet, reserved self, never paid much attention to Mom. Come college, Mom studied in Baguio while Dad went on to study in Manila. During the semestral break, Mom would ask their family driver to drive past the Hamada residence along Kisad Road in the hope of catching a glimpse of Dad. There were times that they would drive past Dad's family house without a sign of Dad anywhere but there would be times when Dad would be standing in the driveway. Mom said that when this would happen, she would hide in the backseat and carefully peep out the window trying her best to hide from Dad but still catch a glimpse of him. (Geez)

So anyway, finally, after having their own girlfriends and boyfriends and after the longest courtship in the world, Mom and Dad tied the know when they were 33 and 32 years old respectively.

Mom and Dad loved each other so much. They would fight yes, but they loved each other. Mom meant the world to my Dad and Dad stood as Mom's strength.

Mom had 3 pregnancies. One before me but she miscarried when she was only a few weeks on the way. Then she had me. She had to be on complete bed rest when she was carrying me. And then she had one more after me. I was 4 years old then I think. But she miscarried again.

I admire the relationship Mom and Dad shared. They made decisions together. The argued about a lot of things. Although never said, they taught me the value of keeping the marriage sacred.

I remember what Dad told Jet one time : "Jet. this is what my Dad always tole me, the most painful thing to see is to see a woman cry."

One of Mom's last wishes was that she be cremated and a part of her ashes be out "right on top of Steve's heart." Dad was buried at our family plot.

Their story is one I hold in my heart dearly and will share with my boys as they grow up.

My Dad, My Hero

While on the way to work this morning, the song "Butterfly Kisses" (by Bob Carlisle) began playing on my iPod. Whenever I hear this song, an enormous lump begins to form in my throat. This was my wedding song. When you hear the lyrics, it is all about a father-daughter relationship and how a dad is just about to give his daughter away.
I know I haven't written much about my dad because I still feel it to be a sensitive topic --for me,that is. Although he went ahead of Mom by 1 1/2 years, I still am very much affected by his death.
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As mentioned, dad was a drinker. According to my Aunts (his sisters), they noticed Dad's transition from social drinking to alcoholism when he started working right after college. And I do remember that Dad's drinking was a problem ever since I was born. Yes my Dad was an alcoholic but he never hurt me or my Mom physically, he was not a womanizer, he was not a gambler. In fact come to think of it, my Dad was a happy drunk. The worst my Dad would get when drunk was irritating. I love my Dad terribly. Although we had our own share of debates, arguments, fights and misunderstandings -- I love my Dad.
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On April 5, 2004, around lunch time, while I was at work, my husband called me up and said that my dad collapsed at home and that they had just rushed him to the ER. I panicked. My shift that day would end at 3PM so I was debating with myself whether I should leave work and risk a flunked evaluation (at that time,I was tutoring ESL to Koreans while finishing my last semester in school) or finish my shift and go to the hospital right after work. My co-workers saw how anxious I was and they advised me to leave work instead since I would not be able to concentrate anyway. So leave work it was. When I got to the ER, Dad was there, fully conscious. I held his hand and he squeezed back. I asked how he felt and he said "It's very painful." I didn't ask what was painful anymore. I knew that everything inside must have been painful. And for my Dad to say that he felt pain really meant that IT WAS PAINFUL. They continued doing tests on Dad. Also, that day, I was to pick up my hard bound copies of my thesis from the printing press so that I could submit it in time for my graduation on the 22nd of April. So after I saw that Dad was being taken cared of in the hospital, I told him I would run to the printers first to get my hardbound thesis. Boy, you should have seen the smile on his face. So a little after 5PM, I went back to the hospital and by this time Dad was already in his private room. Mom was with him the whole time but you could see how scared and worried Mom was. When I entered Dad's room, I showed him my thesis and all he could do was look at me. I asked my Mom why Dad couldn't talk and she said she also didn't know why, she was still waiting for the doctor. Jet and I had to leave the hospital becasue Josh was waiting for us at home with my Aunt. Josh was only 2 years old then.
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On the way home, I didn't know what to think. What was happening? What would happen next. I sent Mom a message on her mobile and I told her to keep me updated. Later during the night, Mom called me up. She said Dad wasn't waking up anymore and that they were going to transfer him to the ICU. Both Mom and I were crying. I didn't know what to think. I said I would be in the hospital first thing in the morning. Later that night, Mom texted me and told me that things didn't look good.
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The next day, April 6, 2004, I went to see Dad. It was their 23rd wedding anniversary with Mom that day. He looked terrible. He no longer had control of his eyes. But when I started to talk, he started to wave his hand in the air as if looking for where I was. So I took his hand and held it tight. I reminded him that it was their wedding anniversary with Mom and he squeezed my hand when he heard me say that. -So now I'm crying- He had all these machines attached to him. According to the doctor, he had liver cirrhosis, hernia, gall stones and his kidney seemed to be failing. I was like God what is this, 2 days ago I was talking to him and he seemed perfectly fine and now my Dad cannot even see me. My head was spinning. My asked me to do some errands and get clothes for her and Dad as she too was going to the bank to withdraw some cash.
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And then Mom called. She just got a call from the hospital. They put Dad on the respirator. I didn't say anything. I just put down the phone and cried.
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Dad never admitted to his alcoholism. He never complained when he was in pain. He never went to see a doctor. And the last thing he would want right now would be for his friends to see him in the hospital. But I felt that it was time to inform his 2 bestfriends. Uncle Mon and Uncle Joe. Dad was a media man. After leaving a career with IBM in Manila, he decided to come back homw to Baguio and work with his father (my grandfather) at our local newspaper which our family owned. There he met Uncle Mon and Uncle Joe. I called Mom and told her to get in touch with both his friends.
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When I arrived back in the hospital, Dad was on the machine and both his eyes were covered with patches. According to the doctor, he no longer could close his eyes on his own. He was scheduled for a CT Scan as it seemed that he had a stroke. At this point, Dad really looked like a gonner. I felt that what they were doing to him would no longer have any effect on the condition he was in. But Mom and I just told the doctors to do whatever they could do. CT Scan results showed swelling on Dad's left brain. It looked like a massive stroke. By this time, Dad was already in a coma. Tired, Mom told me to go on home. My Aunts and Uncles and all other relatives were also in the hospital. So Mom said she would be ok that Jet and I better be home with Josh.
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Later that night, Mom arrived. She was supposed to stay the night in the hospital but all her friends saw how tired and drained she was that's why they convinced her to come home. My 2 Aunts volunteered to night watch.
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The next day, April7, 2004 I was in the shower getting ready to leave for the hospital. I heard one of my Aunts call Jet. And then Jet came in the house. I had just gotten out from the shower. He quietly says, "Dad's gone." I go wild. I become hysterical. I throw my clothes, kick the chairs and I remember I just kept shouting " I don't have a Daddy anymore." Jet tried to calm me down but he couldn't and then he hugs me tightly and I break down.
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I go up to see my Mom. She was smoking. I embraced her and then we cried. She told me that we were to choose what Dad would wear. We looked thru Dad's suits and decided that he would wear the mocha brown suit he wore when he and Mom got married on April 6, 1981. We packed his things and headed off to the hospital to settle the bill and bring Dad to the morgue. On the way, Mom and I started to text the family and other friends about Dad's passing. A few minutes away from the hospital, my Mom gets a call from one of her close friends who happens to be a doctor in the hospital and saya that Dad was revived. WHAT!?!? Jet steps on the gas. When we get to the hospital, Dad doesn't look any better. It's just that he was revived. They were able to resuscitate him. The doctors tell us that he can go into a cardiac arrest again anytime. I told Mom to sign the DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) form then I stayed by Dad's side. Mom and I agreed that with my Dad's condition at this time, resuscitation should no longer be an option. My Aunts who were there told me to just keep talking to him. I did. I kept saying sorry to him for all the hurt I caused him, I told him I loved him very much. I was crying. I embraced him and held him tight. Mom was there. She leaned on Dad's chest. Everyone was crying by this time. I was watching Dad's monitor, he was about to go into another arrest. So I told Mom to keep talking to him. We just kept telling him how much we loved him. And then toooooooooooooooooooooooot. Flat Line.