Thirty Percent Chance of Being an Earring Holder

Notes from the Front Lines of Caregiving, Mistranslations, and Mice

It's been 48 years since I was born, and somehow I've become the person who knows which insurance forms need the pink copy and which need the yellow. Five Filipino women are surrounding my father’s hospital bed, all speaking Tagalog with the occasional xie-xie thrown in—thank you in Mandarin, but with that unmistakable Filipino lilt that makes it sound like a question.

They're transferring him from bed to wheelchair with the kind of gentle efficiency that only comes from doing this dance a thousand times before.

Dad is eating this up. He’s smiling—actually smiling—for the first time in weeks, basking in all this maternal attention from women who call him “Papa” and fuss over whether his blanket is tucked in properly.

This is the same man who, when I was in college, pulled me aside to warn me about spending too much time with my Filipino roo…