In the home of my parents in Cebu, Philippines…7,700 miles away from my life in California. My father struggles to find ease and comfort after his last bout of congestive heart failure. He reaches for the oxygen for some help. Lightly touches his stomach, moaning a little at its queasy, nauseating feeling. All the various medications are playing havoc on his weakened system. His arms are thin and frail-looking. He sits, as if waiting for something…not sure what. My heart breaks open — again.

I had arrived four days ago with both great excitement and great trepidation. Eager to be of help, be a source of comfort, be the good serving daughter. They were excited too, and so happy I had come home to be with them at this time. I was relieved to see my father looking healthier than how I had imagined on the 16-hour flight over, given the reports about his weakening heart and his labored breathing and his challenged kidneys. And to see my mother holding up her own, feisty and active as ever.

Like a fresh wind coming through their bedroom, I set up overseas video Skype calls between my father and each of his other children, all still in the US and unable as yet to come. Papa would always put on a nice shirt before the camera would come on. And it was always a good time. My siblings would comment on how good he was looking. On good days he would tease and say, “Did you say I looked good, or that I was good-looking?” We would laugh and go on to talking about the surprising economic upturn in the Philippines and his theories on why that would be so or about the last match of the famous and beloved Filipino world welter weight boxing champion Manny Pacquiao. On not-so-good days, he would say, “I am hanging in here. Hanging on straws. I hope the stem cell research moves forward, now that Obama has lifted the ban on funding for this. It would very much help many of us with debilitating brain, heart, and spinal cord diseases.”  To this, we would squirm and both lightly and seriously say, “Let’s hope the straws become stems soon, Papa.” And we’d move on. Papa would always feel buoyed and energized by those calls. Sometimes, after, he’d be exhausted and go off to sleep.

But, as the days started to unfold slowly, in the quiet ticking of the hours of being with both of them, separately and together, I began to notice an uneasiness. It became heightened when I would help out with things like switching out an empty oxygen tank and replacing it with a full one, or handing out medications, and other seemingly simple things like this. Papa would give out detailed instructions and wanted every single thing to be just so. “No, not that way”, he’d instruct. “Move it to the left, a little bit more, a little bit more, no too much. No, that’s not right.” And my mother would respond with a tiredness and irritation in her voice…and then, I began to notice it in my reactions as well — though mostly unvoiced. An “Oh, what’s the use” or “I was right the first time” or “It always has to be your way” kind of pattern had begun to take on some life. It was an old pattern I’d grown up with and only knew too well. This was –ugh- not good…and I knew immediately that, left unattended, this would very quickly be an untenable situation…for all of us.

Then yesterday — I forget what had stimulated it – perhaps just sitting there flicking through one of my mom’s magazines, I looked up at my father sitting on the side of the bed. Quiet, hardly moving. Somehow, for the very first time since I got here, I REALLY, REALLY looked at him….looked and took in what was going on with him. His movements, his breathing, the way he bent his head. And, I realized that before that moment, I barely looked or touched him. I mean, yes I kissed and hugged him, but there was a layer of something — a bravado, a put-on-a-hopeful-face, a it’s going to be alright, or a feistiness – that though they were more pleasant than doom-&-gloom, they also shielded us from seeing what we needed to see. I had separated myself from both of them for fear of what I would learn about his condition and their life. I was afraid of how I’d feel or if I would crumble under the sadness of seeing them both in a state of need, depletion, perhaps fear. How would it feel if I truly let it all in? What if the veil were to slip away and I’d no longer be able to protect myself?

So, yesterday, sitting alone with Papa while Mama was upstairs in the attic, somehow, that guarded film of denial, fear, whatever, slipped off and I saw him and took him in — and my heart just broke open with love and compassion for him. For, no matter how difficult and domineering and controlling he has been and can be, he has also been and is so loving and generous and accepting of all of us, and while he used to be strong, fast, agile, he was now also weak, hurting, slow. It’s as if the whole past slipped away and just brought me to this present moment…and to the whole and beautiful being he is — gifts and flaws!

I knew the only way I could survive this time with them, and be of real service to them, is to let it all go. To come to this time and embrace it for the sacred and the Grace there is here. To listen deeply from my heart for the needs, the requests and move with deep gratitude for this chance to be of help in some way. To let Papa — and Mama, too — say EXACTLY how they’d like it to be and not argue with it or defend myself against it. To do so in as whole, complete and graceful (as I can muster) action.

This is my calling, my meditation, my practice at this time. And I know I will stumble, my ego slipping back in place (it truly is quite dastardly and conniving, our egos), but I also know in a way I never have before, that whether I’m right or wrong or did it right or wrong or how good a help I am or not, IS NOT THE POINT. It’s what can I do and with how much love can I do it with to have them feel I’ve truly heard them, seen them, honor and respect their needs and wishes and move to act with grace and love. The least and only thing I can do is love them with all I can…and be glad for the opportunity to experience such a love.

For in the end - I bow to the wisdom of this - I’d rather be feeling the sadness and rawness of every moment I have, am, and will share with them than the deadening feeling of being safe, contained and strong…and apart. That night of the first day the veil started to slip, I crawled into bed, exhausted, and cried and cried myself to sleep. Woke up in the middle of the night and cried and cried again. My heart breaking — open. And it will break again and yet again. Its well is deep and vast.

Thank you, Papa and Mama, for this time.