Good night, sweet prince

My uncle, Tito Dondi is dead. He's been struggling against cancer for two years, and to all accounts, until yesterday morning he was getting better... then afternoon came and he began deteriorating and his condition, according to the doctors, was irreversible. His doctor recommended that he be put in the ICU. But that was something he never wanted.

So he decided... to not fight anymore. He kept saying that he was 'tired'.
Finally, at 8 p.m., he decided to remove his oxygen. It was so hard seeing him like that, when he was so robust months ago.

He died.... peacefully surrounded by the people he loved, he died his way, he didn't die with tubes stuck on his body, in an ICU unit where he had to be alone.

I was so shocked, I only went to the hospital because I was supposed to have my blood screened so I can donate blood to my uncle. When I arrived in his room, I stopped. My grandmother and aunts were all around his bed, crying. For five minutes I couldn't process it. My uncle looked so gray, and he could barely keep his eyes open.

Then my godmother, Ninang Chona, asked for my dad's cellphone no., my dad is in the states, working, and she called my dad, pressed the phone to my uncle's ear. He managed to gasp: 'Bye, kid, bye. Love you.'

I can only imagine what was going inside my dad's head. He was the only one who wasn't there. He was actually booking his flight for saturday, he thought his brother could hold out for that long. We all did.

My uncle's girlfriend, his wife in spirit, was beside him all the time, she never left his side. She supported his wish to die... even if she didn't want him too... The whole family supported him. We knew how much pain he was in.

Before he removed the oxygen mask, he asked for the date, and we all replied, June 11. A day before the Philippine Independence Day. Moments after, he removed the oxygen mask, raised his hands and waved to us, and gasped out: 'Bye, love you all.'

We told him we loved him, we held his hand, kissed him and told him how much of hero he was, that he was an inspiration, and he fought a good fight. And my grandmother, to whom he promised he would get well in six months for, kissed him on the forehead, said. 'It's alright, we're all okay. You've fought so much, its time for you to rest.'

His brothers and sisters all encouraged him, crying, that it was indeed his time to rest, and that 'Dad is waiting for you.'

We began praying the rosary, and in that crowded room, holding him I watched as his breathing became more erratic, watched as the intervals became longer, holding my breath as I thought that each one was the last. It got so painful, that right after the prayer, I went out of the room, and sank on the hospital chairs.

I keep thinking about my dad, and how he's desperately trying to get home, in time to say his goodbyes face-to-face... but it wasn't meant to be. Fifteen minutes later, I could see people begin to drift back in the room, and a feeling of anxiousness settled in my stomach. Someone had brought up an i-pod and began playing his favorite classical music, I approached his bedside, touched his arm and watched him. He looked so blue from the lack of oxygen, but his heart kept on beating even if it took half a minute before he inhaled... in the midst of this, my family, who really are a jolly bunch began joking, quietly about people he might meet on his way to heaven. I think I was the only one who saw him stop breathing. I held on to him arm, then the doctor came, he checked the monitor, his pulse was going down to 55... then he quietly checked for Tito Dondi's pulse... and shook his head.

My uncle's girlfriend, Tita Ota, saw his gesture, and she said in this sad, lost voice. "he's gone?"

The doctor nodded, and it was like watching a movie, she was sitting by his head, she kissed the side of his head, and broke down, saying,: "No. No."
Then my grandmother followed suit. And seeing them sobbing just broke me, and I started sobbing.

And tita Ota just can't let go of tito Dondi, but apparently the last thing he said before losing the ability to speak was, 'Love you, darling.'

I didn't know who to comfort, how to comfort, I ended up hugging my mother, who was also sobbing.

Tito Dondi died at 9:00 pm, on June 11, 2005. He fought a good fight, and now he's free from pain and suffering and he's at peace, dying the way he wanted to die, with family and friends around him, his favorite music on the background. He died the way he lived. His way.

There was no better way to die than that.