Father's sitting on the hospital bed, dazed,
scribbling away on a paper, attending calls.
His swelling legs
appeared like logs of rosewood.
They took him to a room— one with many beds,
patients lying with their feet lit up by the glaring light
with severed toes that didn't ooze blood.
With helpless eyes,
the old lady nearby stared at me
and the only comfort I could afford to give
was hold her up as she left in a wheelchair.
They told my father he was fortunate,
for, they'll only cut open his leg,
fix it and stitch it up, make it invisible.
I wished if it was that easy
to fix someone who feels their existence is tainted.
I remember I was only a little kid
when they took me to a hospital
in the guise of a vacation.
Doctors, paperworks—
It's atrial septal defect, they said.
They knew I was a strong child,
capable of adapting to bad news
yet they lied to me, they lied.
I've learned now, somehow,
that once you are deceived,
you no longer live, but survive.
Van Gogh said that orange is the color of insanity,
but what of the color white— the one that blinds us?
What of the hospital rooms that shrink onto us,
that make us wretch out of nothingness.
What of the shades of delirium,
the hues of loneliness that's inflicted upon a family?
Every hour,
every minute we spend between these white walls,
sleepless, checking the dripping medicines,
I wonder if he thought of the distance
that mom and I keep from him,
of all those times he raised his voice, his hand
and failed as a father, a husband.
Yet, familial love is terrible—
At times when one suffers,
you care for them more than you ever did before
only in hopes of brighter days,
never forgetting how they caused you pain.
Feb 26
Feb 26, 2026 at 12:02 PM UTC
Father's sitting on the hospital bed, dazed,
scribbling away on a paper, attending calls.
His swelling legs
appeared like logs of rosewood.
They took him to a room— one with many beds,
patients lying with their feet lit up by the glaring light
with severed toes that didn't ooze blood.
With helpless eyes,
the old lady nearby stared at me
and the only comfort I could afford to give
was hold her up as she left in a wheelchair.
They told my father he was fortunate,
for, they'll only cut open his leg,
fix it and stitch it up, make it invisible.
I wished if it was that easy
to fix someone who feels their existence is tainted.
I remember I was only a little kid
when they took me to a hospital
in the guise of a vacation.
Doctors, paperworks—
It's atrial septal defect, they said.
They knew I was a strong child,
capable of adapting to bad news
yet they lied to me, they lied.
I've learned now, somehow,
that once you are deceived,
you no longer live, but survive.
Van Gogh said that orange is the color of insanity,
but what of the color white— the one that blinds us?
What of the hospital rooms that shrink onto us,
that make us wretch out of nothingness.
What of the shades of delirium,
the hues of loneliness that's inflicted upon a family?
Every hour,
every minute we spend between these white walls,
sleepless, checking the dripping medicines,
I wonder if he thought of the distance
that mom and I keep from him,
of all those times he raised his voice, his hand
and failed as a father, a husband.
Yet, familial love is terrible—
At times when one suffers,
you care for them more than you ever did before
only in hopes of brighter days,
never forgetting how they caused you pain.
