FATHER’S DAY: The miracle behind the scars

Part of a series on dads—and being a dad—for Father's Day.


Being a reporter, I am required to be calm under duress, and to maintain composure even under the most volatile circumstances. On several occasions, I have been in the midst of alarming news, and relied on my experience and training to deliver it to the public without being swayed by emotion.

On April 3, 2009, I realized that the situation was totally different when the news was being delivered to me, and when it directly concerned my family.

I was in the middle of a hectic coverage that day when I received a call from my mom. Despite her moderate tone, I could immediately sense that something was wrong. "Mariz, it's about Papa," she began. Unconsciously, every muscle in my body began to tense, fearful of what she was going to say next. "He needs to undergo a triple bypass operation as soon as possible."

Even as the words came to me, my mind was racing to make sense of them. Triple bypass operation—I knew enough about the procedure to know that it involved grafting the coronary arteries in order to circumvent severe blockages leading to the heart. I also knew that it was an exceptionally delicate and complicated surgical operation, which now was inevitable for my dad.

This last thought caused a feeling of numbness, before a wave of overwhelming fear coursed through me. Up to that point, I was well aware that my dad's heart was no longer functioning at a hundred percent efficiency. Thirty two years earlier—curiously in the same month of April—he suffered his first heart attack at the surprisingly young age of 36.

He told me the story several times of how he was on his way to the Food and Drug Administration office in Sta. Cruz, Manila from his office in Mandaluyong. Without warning, he felt as if something solid had hit him squarely in the chest, and he began to have trouble breathing. When the pain became unbearable, he pulled over at a gasoline station in Dimasalang Street and literally crawled out of his car, barely able to ask for help. Fortunately, some good Samaritans carried him up and brought him to their home. They immediately called my mom, and she came rushing from Novaliches to bring my dad to the Philippine Heart Center.

I remember that during his ten-day confinement, my mom had to sneak me inside the hospital because they would not allow a three-year old child to be brought in. I was too young to understand the implications of his confinement then, but I knew that I wanted to be near him, and felt his sheer joy whenever I would come and visit.

It was much later on that I recognized God's fingerprint firmly impressed upon that day. The attending physicians repeatedly emphasized that if my dad had arrived even just a few more minutes after my mom brought him to the emergency room, it was very likely that he would not have survived.

Many times, I have reflected on how God set things in perfect motion that day, considering the endless variables and parallel scenarios. What if my dad had not decided to stop his car? What if he ended up in a different place? What if the people who helped him had not been there, or chose not to help? What if he had been caught in traffic? I thought about the travel time between Novaliches to Manila, and then to East Avenue, Quezon City and realized that several miracles happened that day.

Now, history was repeating itself, and amidst anxiety, I found myself thinking that if my earthly father once again needed a miracle, my Heavenly Father was the one true God who could provide it. "Work as if eveything depends on you, and pray as if everything depends on God," was one of the sayings that our family adhered to. I knew that we had all done our part to ensure my dad's health—including, of course, the fact that he was never a smoker or a drinker in his entire life. Now he was in the hands of expert doctors, and all we could pray for was that God would guide them and bring him back to us.

As it happened, my dad's triple bypass operation was scheduled for April 11, 2009—a day after Good Friday. Every year, I made it a point to attend the Veneration of the Cross and the procession in our Parish, the Sacred Heart of Jesus. On that year, however, I found that I would undergo my own procession, carrying a figurative cross from station to station. I needed to go to different hospitals to collect blood, in order to replenish the blood taken from the Heart Center to be used for my dad's operation.

Before he was wheeled into the operating room, I held my dad's hand tightly and assured him that the power of prayer would see us all through this. I knew right then and there that if my father's heart was physically weak, mine would have to be strong in faith.

It turned out that during the procedure, the cardiologist discovered that my dad's peripheral artery was likewise occluded. Therefore, instead of a triple bypass operation, he underwent a quadruple bypass.

Three miracles were not enough for a man who had lived a life of integrity, generosity, and principled values, so God decided that a fourth miracle was in order. The quadruple bypass was a resounding success. Less than two weeks after the operation, he was discharged.

Whenever a miracle takes place, a ripple effect happens. More than six years after my dad's quadruple bypass surgery, life-changing events are still taking place for me.

As a daughter, I learned to value him even more. I learned to love more and to cherish the role that my family has in my life.

As a reporter, I became more passionate in the stories I cover everyday, knowing that as events unfold, real-life people are affected.

As a Catholic, I realized that just as the hardest steel is borne from the hottest flame, the strongest faith comes from the most intense trials.

Nowadays, whenever I see the scars on my dad's chest, I am reminded of the fear and anxiety that our whole family went through. More than anything, however, I know that underneath those scars—and deep within his heart—lies a miracle.