What My Dad Taught Me About Strength By Losing His
As a child, I believed my father was invincible.
“Even in weakness, he was strong” are the only words I remember saying during my father’s eulogy.
The week of his funeral was a blur, and my mind blacked out on the words I scrambled to say to honor his life. But if you asked me to describe my Papa when I was little, “strong” would definitely have been my answer.
He stood tall in church, broad-shouldered and commanding, easy to spot in a crowd of Sunday worshippers. At home, he’d make me flex my skinny forearms as he’d grip my elbows and hoist me up in the air — both of us laughing at our little weightlifting show.
He was the handyman who could fix and build anything, turning a fallen tree in our yard into a beautiful bench with his bare hands. It’s been decades, but that bench still stands in our house, beside a window looking out onto the street.
One night, we heard a prowler in our neighbor’s house right next to our window.
Papa’s deep voice alone — a threatening “Psst! HUY!” — was enough to send the intruder running. For a split second, even I was frightened by his voice. But then I felt relief in remembering it was a voice that protected me. As a child, I never imagined my strong father could fade. Old age seemed impossibly distant from the man who could lift me into the air with ease.
It wasn’t until years later that I’d understand strength had many forms.
While chaos swirled around him, Papa stood calmly at the center.
In Papa’s prime as a TV commercial director, people called him “Direk” — a title that followed him years after he left the industry. In all-night shoots, he was always the last one standing when crew members could barely keep their eyes open.
While chaos swirled around him — assistants running around with clipboards, actors waiting for direction — Papa stood calmly at the center, speaking just loudly enough to be heard.
He never yelled at crew members. In an industry where barking orders is the standard, he commanded respect through quiet confidence and a clear vision.
“We’ll get this in one more take,” he’d say.
As strong and commanding as he was, Papa’s true strength lay in his gentle spirit.
He taught me kindness in unexpected ways. Once, when I criticized a poorly made film, he scolded me. “Think about all the hard work that people poured into that movie,” he said. Having worked in production himself, he understood the struggles behind the scenes.
He always chose his words carefully, speaking only when necessary.
When he didn’t speak, you knew he was dreaming up ideas or analyzing things in his head. On evenings, I’d look out at our pitch-black garage and find Papa sitting on his bench — deep in thought, a flicker of light from the cigarette in his hand.
Despite his calm demeanor, he made my boyfriends nervous by simply looking at them.
Papa’s kindness remained intact even as his body failed him.
I was in college when Mama rushed Papa to the emergency room for kidney failure. From then on, he needed dialysis twice a week. The dialysis center became my parents’ second home. White fluorescent lights overhead, the constant beeping of machines, floors that smelled of detergent.
A nurse would insert a needle into Papa’s arm, connecting him to tubes that drew his blood into the dialysis machine and back into his body. Despite the clinical setting, my parents created warmth in that space. I’d walk into the clinic after work and spot them cozied up in their station. Mama sitting on a plastic chair facing Papa in his treatment chair, both finding light moments in the routine.
His tired face would brighten when nurses checked in on him, never letting pain dim his warmth. He kept his humor, even with his routine injections. He dubbed the largest syringe—with a needle as long as his index finger—the “Lolo (grandfather) needle.”
Each dialysis session ended with nurses weighing Papa, ensuring excess fluid had been removed from his body. Even then, he found ways to lift everyone’s spirits. He made a game with the nurses of guessing his post-dialysis weight.
“70.4 kg,” the nurse places her bet while setting up the weighing scale.
“Hmm? Let’s see,” Papa says, as another nurse pushes his wheelchair onto the platform.
He playfully shrugs upon finding out he’s lost the bet, making the nurses laugh.
Mama hands out the sachets of 3-in-1 coffee they promised to whoever guessed right.
Papa’s kindness remained intact even as his body failed him.
Where many might have lashed out in bitterness at their declining abilities, Papa chose grace.
As years passed, his body shrank. He might have shrunk smaller than me at 5'1". But I couldn’t bear to pay too much attention to that change. He needed my mom, or my sister and me, to hold his arms when transferring between the wheelchair and bed.
Once, when I didn’t get a proper hold of him during a transfer, he lost his balance and nearly slipped.
He yelled out in pain.
“I didn’t mean it!” I said defensively, overcome with guilt.
But minutes later, in his soft voice, he assured me, “I just got startled. I’m okay now.”
Where many might have lashed out in bitterness at their declining abilities, Papa chose grace.
I wondered if seeing his aging musical hero reminded him of his own mortality.
During dialysis or when he and my mom would get home, he watched action movies and kept up with Game of Thrones. He stayed engaged with life even through a small screen.
He loved The Beatles, so when Paul McCartney’s carpool karaoke episode came out, I insisted we watch it together. As Paul sang ‘Hey Jude,’ with white hair and hollow, tired eyes, I noticed Papa’s eyes welling up. I wondered if seeing his aging musical hero reminded him of his own mortality.
One afternoon, while I sat with him at the dining table, he paused mid-conversation. His gaze drifting somewhere beyond our kitchen wall.
He said, “When I was in my 20s, being old felt so far away.
Then it felt like I blinked, and suddenly I’m this old man.”
His hair fully gray at that point. The veins in his upper arms bulging from years of dialysis needles.
His strength showed — not in muscle, but in spirit.
The day before Papa passed, I held him up as he transferred from his wheelchair to his bed.
“Thank you, baby,” he said. He still called me his little girl even if I’d already been working at my second job. Those were his last words to me.
Up until the end, he was gentle and loving. His strength showed — not in muscle, but in spirit. I wish I’d reassured him then, in the ICU, that he was still the strong Papa I’d always known. That his strength had simply taken on a new form. He showed me that real strength comes with grace. That resolve can deepen even as the body fails.
Today, at 32, I’m six years older than I was when Papa passed. My own body has begun showing subtle signs of change. A stiffness in my knees, tightness in my finger joints, extra pounds that have settled on a once-skinny frame. Around me, time also leaves its mark on everyone I love.
My mom now climbs stairs one step at a time, her knees giving in to the weight of aging. My siblings approach their 40s and 50s, the age my parents were when I was old enough to notice. College friends’ faces pop up on Facebook, memorial posts I did not expect to see this soon.
Papa was right. You blink, and you’re older. As I face my own mortality, I find comfort in what I learned from him. That strength and joy don’t have to fade like the body does. What once lived in muscle lives on in kindness and humor. And the quiet dignity in the presence of our limitations.
