On that first night, I prayed,
I was 9 years old,
The day didn't turn out as pleasant as I'd hoped.
It all started as usual, with me and dad,
Sitting by the TV, watching our favorite sitcom on AIT.

I can't recall the exact hour, but it was between 9 to 11 pm.
It was the regular Mexican/Philippine series they showed at that time.
Our TV was small and square-shaped,
But it was like a family member, especially until I was 13.

Those were precious times with dad.
We were glued to the TV; I only got up to grab water,
And I didn't even want to go to the bathroom because it felt like a marathon to get there,
Since it was separate from the house.

Then, something seemed odd.
My dad was like a robot, frozen in place.
At first, I thought he was just engrossed in the movie like me,
Until I called out to him. He didn't respond.

I felt a mixture of frustration and concern,
So I touched him. It was as if I had touched a wooden log; he was stiff.
Panicked, I called for my mom.
She came running as she was still awake (she always was).

"Dad isn't moving," I said.
She called him, but there was no response.
She knelt beside him, shaking him, trying to make him budge.
His hand fell limply on the chair, and his lower lip seemed to be trying to speak but couldn't.

I grew more worried, and my mom instructed me to go call my uncle.
It was a family compound, but only one of my uncles lived with us.
I sprinted to his door, and it felt like an eternity before he answered.

I told him dad was sick, but he seemed unbothered.
I didn't understand then, but I do now.

They laid my dad on the mat, and my mom applied some kind of oil – I think it was palm kernel oil – to his body.
She was still crying, and it was the first time I saw her cry.

It was not a pleasant sight, and I've disliked seeing people cry since.
I didn't know what to do or say, so I hugged myself and fell silent.

The urge to cry overwhelmed me,
So I stepped into the bathroom.

In the bathroom, the light always bathed our compound in a beautiful glow,
But that night, I couldn't appreciate its beauty.
I closed my eyes and sobbed as I prayed.

It wasn't the usual prayers my parents taught me to a God I barely understood.
This time, I prayed to a nameless God, the one who could answer.
"I don't know your name, but if you exist, please keep daddy alive and well.
Not for me, my sister, and brother, but for my mommy because she loves him so."

I cried some more and washed my face to hide my tears.

When I returned, some neighbors had come to help, and they placed him in a car.
My mom whispered to me, "Nne, go to sleep."

I wanted to follow but wasn't sure what to ask anymore.
She left, and everything fell silent.

My younger sister and brother were still asleep.
I waited on the couch that my dad and I had sat on,
But eventually, I dozed off right there.

I woke up around 7.
I can't recall if it was a school day, but I certainly didn't go to school.
My older sister asked what had happened, but I couldn't find the words to explain.

I said nothing until my mom returned without dad.
She didn't look too happy, and I was scared.
I approached her and asked, "When is dad coming home?"
She reassured me, "Soon, he's okay. He'll come home."

A week later, dad returned,
But he was partially paralyzed.
He had started a peculiar diet.
I later learned it was a stroke, and he had diabetes.

He's still with us, although blind now.
But I'm grateful that God answered my prayer back then,
And I believe He'll continue to answer.


This is a true story, as far as my memory goes; one of the two I can remember when I was a child.
© camvickbone