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AS far
back as I can remember, my life has been touched by
death.
My first
brush with it was when I was about six or seven years
old, and one of my favorite grandaunts—a well-loved
school teacher—passed away after an illness.
I don’t
recall most of the details surrounding Lola Nena’s
death, as I don’t remember anyone among my immediate
family weeping nor visits to the funeral parlor for her
wake. I figure I was probably shielded from much of the
family’s grief because of my young age. It probably made
no sense to me then, but all I remember was being told
my Lola Nena was already in heaven.
As I
grew older, Lola Nena was followed by her other
siblings—Lola Lily, Lola Ching, Lola Cely, then, lastly,
my mom’s mother, Lola Ding. In between them, there was
Lolo Ñing, Lola Ding’s beloved. Lola Ding lived with us
in our old bungalow in Sta. Mesa Heights and cooked all
our meals. Lola Ding probably would’ve outlasted any of
us if only she didn’t have that accident which put her
right leg in traction.
Lola
Ding was pretty much hale and hearty all the way into
her 80s, but quickly deteriorated after that accident.
Coming home from school one afternoon, my father
matter-of-factly greeted me at the gate with the news
that my Lola had already gone to meet her Maker, as if
he had been expecting it. Lola had been sleeping most of
the time since the accident, with all her meals brought
to her. Then she didn’t wake up anymore. She left us
exactly on February 11, the Feast Day of Our Lady of
Lourdes, whom she was named after.
Later
on, I would find among her personal effects love letters
from Lolo Ñing during his travels abroad. The letters
were so excruciatingly romantic and heartfelt that to
this day, my eyes mist up just reading them. It warms my
heart to know how much he loved my Lola, even though
they could not always be together.
I
suppose having been surrounded by family members coming
and going out of my life has made me quite accepting of
death. While I grieve like the rest of my family over
each one who has left us for the Great Beyond, I’m not
given so much to public displays of bereavement and
loss. It’s not because I don’t feel sad, because I do.
Maybe it’s because I get lost in the stories in my head,
trying to remember the times I spent with the one who
has departed. Whether good or bad memories, I’ve learned
to treasure every moment spent with the ones who’ve
passed on.
I find
it comforting that during wakes, people tell stories
about the dead. I usually only remember and tell the
funny ones, maybe because I don’t like to see too many
serious faces or people wailing in grief. When people
die, the tears shed by the living are usually not for
the dead, but for those they left behind. They weep
because they feel sorry for themselves. It is over a
sense of loss, over an uncertain future without those
who’ve passed on.
Maybe
that’s why I don’t really cry even if the ones who’ve
gone on are close to me. I would like to think that
they’re keeping the Lord company; in my pop’s case, I
would like to think that he is probably drinking scotch
with his two sons—my brothers—and the siblings who
passed on before he did. I’m sure Saint Peter’s around
as well to share a glass or two.
Speaking
of amusing stories, I recall my brother Eugene—who was a
real mean foodie—telling his officemates that he was
tired of eating steaks. He wasn’t boasting. You see,
when our Lola Ding passed on, my mom, the trophy wife,
had no choice but take over the cooking chores. At that
time my mom had yet to find her inner chef, so whenever
she couldn’t think of what to feed us, she would panfry
us some steaks in butter. (This is also the reason I
generally don’t like eating steaks at restaurants.)
Anyway, my brother’s friends thought him odd for saying
that.
My
favorite story of my other dead brother, Monching, was
the time he complained, during a drunken stupor, that
our father never brought him camping. It was during one
of those stupid fights he had with my parents, but which
we laugh over until now because we thought he had been
watching way too much Brady Bunch!
With my
pops, who just left us in May, there are a lot of
stories to choose from. Not all of them are funny, as he
was quite the serious guy, but they are endearing
nevertheless. I recall him laughing over an episode of
Spongebob Squarepants as we all sat glued to the TV set
while vacationing in Subic. We, in turn, laughed at Pops
for being able to relate to what we were watching, a
kid’s show, considering his usual dour demeanor.
My pops
also had this way of joking with my mother even though,
as they grew older, they were constantly bickering. Out
of nowhere he would just blurt out, “Love you, Mama!”
This would always crack up my mom and make her respond,
“Love you, Papa!” Of course, privately, it thrilled me
whenever I would hear this exchange, but I would usually
snicker and then shout, “Yaaak!”
I
usually never dream about our dead family members but
there was one night I dreamed about Pops. I don’t know
what it was about and where we were but I remember
getting angry at him for being at some place he wasn’t
supposed to be. I told him to go back behind some wall
or to one corner.
As I
reflect on it now, I guess I was expressing my own
vexation at him for leaving us unprepared for his
passing. None of us had an inkling that he was going to
die. While he led a sedentary life, he would still get
in his car and drive it to buy his lotto ticket or get
his cigarettes at the grocery. Yep, Pops smoked ’til the
very end! And, no, he never won the lotto grand prize
but, still, he kept on buying those tickets. Hope
springs eternal. I miss my pops.
This all
Souls’ Day, as we remember our dearly departed, I offer
a silent prayer to all of them, that they may rest in
eternal peace and continue to enjoy our Lord’s
friendship and devotion. I also thank the Supreme
Almighty for giving us the chance to be touched by their
lives and experience His grace through their love. |
