Not having the opportunity to share a drink with my dad is one of the few things that come to mind when Father's Day is just around the corner.

I grew up in a neighborhood where drinking on a whim somewhat meant "you're there" or "you're all grown up," and hearing the interesting
conversations my childhood friends had with their dads that were the fruit of both intoxication and joy, was like a ceremony, the passing of the torch to the future fathers of society.

My father was not a heavy drinker. He would only take the "light" version of beer and should he take some more potent stuff, he'd come home
nauseous, and vomit. Being a rebellious teen growing up, I was no stranger to the after-drinking vomiting scenario when I started earning. One morning, my father probably fed up, sat on the bed with me and talked to me calmly about my vomiting so bad the night before.

"Huwag na sanang maulit yan (I hope that never happens again)," he told me.

What followed was a long discussion about a bad future if this kind of habit of mine went on, along with the health repercussions. However, growing up I came to realize that I was drinking (apart from my enjoyment) to somehow gain his approval, to show that "I was there" or that "I'm all grown up" to partake in mature conversations.

But that day never came. He was always too busy to avoid drinking scenarios with me and my brother, perhaps he was too afraid that we'd go down the wrong path and develop vices we could no longer walk away from.

Then he fell ill just as the covid pandemic rolled in. During his initial recovery, I even joked about us having a beer when he's all better. But that joke did not sit well with him. I wonder if it was his normal self or a result of his brain operation.

"Wala na tapos na ko diyan. Bawal na sakin yan (No, I'm already done with that. I can't have that anymore)," he told his close friends who also came
to him with the same joke.

That drink with him just went further away. As his meningioma slowly enveloped his brain, making him weak again, he had this moment of
clarity one day, before he would forget our names and where he was.

"Tingin ko naman aabot pa ko. Aabot pa ko sa birthday ko (I think I'll still get there. I'll get to my birthday)," when we asked how he was feeling.
Then he asked us individually what we would do with our lives going forward. I forgot what I told him but what I only remember was him asking my older
brother to always take care of our mom.

After a few weeks, his lungs gave out. I was there holding his hand, whispering to his ear, "Pa, okay na kami. Kaya na namin" (Pa, we're okay. We can take it from here)", telling him he could let go as he struggled to gasp for air. It was fate I guess, for a storm did not allow us to bring him to the hospital.

So as Father’s Day rolls in this year, I think, that if we'd have that chance to drink, well, perhaps I'll tell him that I've been assigned to the Senate, the
interesting people I currently work with, the places I've been to, the food I've tasted, and everything else new. I always ask myself how these experiences could have felt if he had been around and I could share them with my father.

More importantly, I'll tell him how he should have been more transparent with his health before it was too late. Then I wouldn't have this imaginary drink with him. I do hope that fathers out there would not have to act very tough and hide their health condition just so their families wouldn't have to worry.

Wherever my father is, I want him – and other fathers too— to know that the lack of vulnerability doesn't have to be a sign of strength, nor the presence of being vulnerable be a symbol of weakness.