Home 
Oct. 9, 2009, a stormy Baguio morning, the last few days of ?Pepeng.? I was happily preparing for school; I didn?t know that back in Dad?s place, rescuers and volunteers were struggling to retrieve his body. It was then that my cousin Kim called from London: ?Heather, alam mo na ba ?ung nangyari sa Buyagan? Gumuho ?ung bahay ni Lolo, andun sila Ate Ning, Kurt, Kuya Joel sa loob. Andun rin si Daddy mo.? I was too shocked to answer. My Mom, taking over the phone, told Kim she?d find a way to go there.
On the way, I thought that my trapped relatives just needed somebody to rescue them. When we arrived at the place, however, the house was nowhere to be seen, there was only thick mud in its place. The wind was still blowing strong, the rain pouring hard. All I could do was pray for a miracle. There was no time to cry.
The first landslide fell right at the back of my cousin Ning?s house. They went down to Dad?s house, the house that was built by our Lolo Sammy, because they thought it was a safer place to stay. Dad rescued a neighbor and brought her to the hospital. He even summoned firemen and other volunteers to help him. When they went back to the place, they saw that my cousins also needed rescuing. They were able to rescue Ivan, the little brother of my nephew Kurt. What they didn?t know was that there was another landslide coming.
Someone called for my mom to follow the ambulance. Upon arriving at the hospital, I thought that the rescuer would bring us to the ER, but the car stopped at the back of the hospital where the morgue was. Three bodies were on the floor?Ate Ning, her husband Kuya Joel, and my little nephew Kurt. When I saw them, my body felt numb. I was in shock. I had lost not just one relative but three, and Dad wasn?t yet in the count.
I cried hard for the 5-year-old little boy who used to call me ?feetee,? his own way of saying ?pretty.? He was still holding his stuffed best friend. I cried hard for Ate Ning and Kuya Joel, because they were such good parents they could?ve raised good kids. I felt pain upon seeing Ate Ning?s purple face, which was so different from her normal happy face. I was hurting for the little boy they left, Kurt?s brother Ivan, because young as he was, we didn?t know how to explain to him that he had just lost his mom and dad and his brother too.
When my cousin in London called, rescuers were already doing retrieval operations. They found Ate Ning and her family at around 8.30 a.m. I thought Dad?s body was soon to follow. An 18-year-old?s worst problem is supposed to be her love life or her ?farmville?; at that moment, the only thing I wanted to see was my father, even if I thought he could be dead.
It was at around three in the afternoon that the priest called Mom to tell her ?Adan, Juliet.? (He?s here, Juliet.) We then proceeded to the morgue and saw two bodies. I immediately recognized, by instinct, the guy in white boots. His arms were raised?in a winner?s pose, so said Mom. His mouth was open with teeth showing, like he was smiling. His head was almost severed from his body which was covered with cuts and bruises. I cried hard because of the pain that he must have gone through. I didn?t want to touch him because I didn?t want to believe that it was him, I was even asking him to wake up. The rescuers who found him happened to be his friends, so they were able to find some of his belongings: his wallet, full of IDs and a P500 bill; his mobile phone, his ring. They even handed me two of his certificates for his Karate promotion. One of the certificates had his picture, and another had a picture of a smiling little girl who, beneath the mud that covered it, turned out to be me. I remember those certificates hanging on the wall of his room, but I didn?t know that a picture of me was on it. I didn?t know that every morning when he woke up, he?d look at his certificates and the picture of his little girl, the little girl who?s now a grown-up, the little girl who had to wait in the morgue for her dad.
My parents were separated and I live with my mom. I grew up without my father; so the idea of him dying should not affect me as hard. But now that he?s truly gone, I realize the difference between dead and absent. It?s harder to say ?my dad?s dead? than to say ?my dad?s not around.? I felt the transition from being a strong person who can live without a dad to being a pitiful 18-year-old who just lost a father. Maybe he felt that he?d be gone, because during these past few months, we felt him letting go of us. Dad lives near Mom?s office, so he sees Mom more often than me. During the last time we were together, I saw him hug my mother tight, I saw him kiss her on the forehead. He had been doing that for quite a few months. My sister is currently in the United Kingdom, but Dad barely contacted her because he knew she hated to be disturbed. During our last walk together, he took out some bills from his pocket, and held out half of it to me. It must have been the only cash he had. While we were walking, his hands were heavy on my shoulder. I hate it when people put their hands over my shoulder, but now I realize that maybe it was his own way of saying goodbye to me.
My father has done many roles in life?a civil-sanitary engineer, a karate blackbelter, a university teacher, a law graduate, a blood donor. When we were in the morgue, I asked his Karate sensei (teacher) to get him a uniform for his ?final attire.? I wanted Dad to wear a karate uniform because I wanted him to be remembered as someone who harbored a fighting spirit developed from the martial arts.
During his wake, I was surprised to see his coffin wrapped in a Philippine flag and a man in uniform standing by his casket: it was only then that I learned that he was also a military reservist. He was a very jolly person who found a friend wherever he went. His death in a landslide was for me the worst way for him to die. His face was really broken, his body damaged. Who would want to die uglier than ugly, anyway? But maybe, it was the only way he wanted to die: doing his job, saving people. He died so valiantly, so selflessly, something I never expected of him. He died with such a big heart. He died living.
Dad, I never called you any other name but Dad, I barely spent time with you, because I barely wanted to. But for what you did and for everything you have done, you earned my utmost respect; you earned the love I never gave you. I realize that you?re watching over me as I write this, that time has moved for everybody else, and mine will undeniably move slower than usual, because you?re still my dad no matter what, and now, you?re gone. Osu, sensei, Dad, you will always be remembered.
(Heather Grace Piluden Dulnuan, 18, is a biology junior at the University of the Philippines in Baguio.)
