by Pam Pastor
So I went out and bought you croissants. All kinds of croissants. I don’t know why, we’ve never eaten French anything together except for fries, but I just did.
And then I bought juice. All kinds of juice. When in reality, what I wanted to do was have a beer with you.
I went to the hospital and being alone in those old halls scared me. The elevator that wouldn’t close scared me. The crazy-looking girl who tried to help me find the way scared me. The padlocked doors scared me. The thought of accidentally walking into the morgue scared me. The possibility of ghosts scared me. Knowing I might not be able to stop myself from crying when I saw you scared me. But what scared me the most was the thought of losing you.
One of our friends texted me earlier that day, “I can’t imagine the world without him.” Him, meaning you. And yes, I can’t imagine the world without you.
But I didn’t cry. At least not in your hospital room.
741. I knocked on your door and your mom opened the door to greet me. She was almost cheerful, as cheerful as you can be under the circumstances.
I walked in and it was funny that it took you a while to recognize me because a mask was covering my face.
We all had to wear masks, we had to protect you from our germs.
You had other friends visiting, and I sat quietly so I can wait for my turn to talk to you but you stretched out your right arm in an attempt to reach out to me. I sprang up from my seat so I can hug you. It felt so good to hug you.
Your friends had a lot of stories to tell, and you kept sending me little apologetic signals to show me you were sorry for making me wait. I didn’t mind, not at all, because I had the chance to talk with your mom. I didn’t mind, not at all, because the truth is I would have waited for hours.
When they left, we spent a bit of time talking. About your condition, about TV shows, about how bored you get in the hospital, about our friends, about random things, the kind of things we talk about even when you’re not in a hospital bed.
You’re a little thin but you still look and sound like the person we all love, you had that same crazy grin, brandished the same dry wit.
I told myself my visit wouldn’t be complete if you didn’t tell me the two words I often hear from you—“Leche ka!” I’m proud to say I heard those words—when I told you I actually considered bringing you coloring books to keep you entertained at the hospital.
You were getting a little tired, I noticed, so I said I would leave. But I didn’t want to.
I walked away from the hospital feeling more hopeful than I was walking in. And that’s a very good sign.
You have to get better. You have to get better. You have to get better.
Because I love you, I really do, and I want all the time in the world to be able to show you that.
September 13, 2010
Fuck you, tumor
I had fallen asleep in the car and when I opened my eyes, I saw him looking out the window.
“Why don’t you sleep?” I asked. It was a long ride, the traffic was horrible, and we had just finished an exhausting shoot outside Manila.
He couldn’t sleep, he said. He was excited because his break from work was about to start. He’d have weeks to spend with his wife and their two adorable little boys, and he couldn’t wait.
It was one week before Christmas.
We were getting our nails done when Jill’s mobile phone rang.
This was her side of the conversation: “What? No way! No way!”
He was calling to say he was sorry, he couldn’t join us for dinner. He was in the hospital, he said. They found a tumor in his brain.
It was January 5, Jill’s birthday.
We walked into his hospital room, cupcakes in hand.
He was his usual self—relaxed, funny, playful. If you didn’t see the bandage on his head and his IV line, you wouldn’t guess that he had just come out of the ICU.
We made jokes, we laughed. We had a reason to—his tumor was benign. The doctors were letting him go home.
There was another tumor, he said. But he was still waiting for results of the biopsy.
He didn’t sound worried. We weren’t worried. He seemed fine. We looked forward to the good news.
It was January 9.
I received a text from him. “Sorry, I couldn’t make it to your book launch.”
My reply was quick. “Huy, next week pa ha.”
We found that hilarious—that he got confused about the date.
“Sorry naman,” he said.
“That’s okay,” I said. “You’re excused. You just had brain surgery.”
We laughed.
It was January 21.
He was calling but I couldn’t pick up, I was at the salon and the hair dryer was too loud.
He texted. He couldn’t make it to the book launch, he had to be at the hospital at five thirty.
“More tests?” I asked.
“Yup,” he said.
“Keep me posted,” I said.
“Save me some pins,” he said.
It was January 28.
We were in the car when Jill picked up her phone and called him.
This was Jill’s side of the conversation: “What? No way! No way!”
She sounded almost exactly like she did when he called on her birthday.
Only worse.
She mouthed the dreaded word to me. Cancer.
And she lifted her right hand to show me three fingers. Stage three.
My heart sank.
This was today.
Brain cancer. Brain fucking cancer.
Old people get cancer. People on TV get cancer. People in movies. People I don’t know. In some other place. In some other time zone.
Not here. Not my friends. Not people my age. Not him.
Brain cancer. At thirty-two.
Fuck.
I’ve been trying not to fall apart over this. It would be stupid if I did. Because he has brain cancer and he’s holding it together. And his wife is holding it together. And they’re staying so positive. He’s cracking jokes, he’s telling people to smile, he’s been reaching out to people, he’s been celebrating life.
And that’s what I’ll do, too.
I will hold it together. I will stay positive. I will celebrate life.
And I will do everything I can to help him fight this.
We can’t let cancer win. We won’t let cancer win.
“Walang bitawan to!” he texted me.
Wala talaga.
February 2, 2011
Dear Amy
Tonight I made a grilled cheese sandwich.
I slathered butter onto two slices of wheat bread—“slathered” being almost a lie because the butter was frozen and therefore hard to work, and “wheat” being a truth because I am pretending to eat healthy. There was a huge hunk of cheese in the pantry but I couldn’t use it because it was bad. I didn’t think cheese could go bad. Isn’t cheese bad milk in the first place? Isn’t cheese like wine? The older it gets, the better it is? Apparently not. The hunk of cheese was bad, it turned bad last May, so I had to use cheese from a bag, cheese that was meant to be pizza topping, cheese that ended up not fulfilling its purpose because it ended up between my slices of bread.
I wasn’t supposed to use the grilled cheese press because it was dirty. They tried cleaning it once, twice, three times but it still had gunk from the last time someone used it. But the gunk was invisible so I didn’t mind.
My grilled cheese broke in two like it’s supposed to. It was still hot when I started to eat and it burned my tongue. I stood there, by the stairs, eating my grilled cheese, enjoying the mozzarella. It wasn’t a big moment, it was a tiny moment when you think about it, but I felt so alive.
I felt so alive while you are dead.
I still can’t believe you’re dead.
Countless people have said that no one should be surprised, that you had it coming, that you brought death upon yourself, that it was expected. I did not expect it. Beca
use even as I watched your downward spiral again and again and again, I had hoped you’ll get better. That you’ll finally find love that wouldn’t lead to nights spent roaming in London wearing blood-spattered shoes. That you’ll find peace.
Maybe you have. Now.
My heart still hurts when I think of you, when I play your songs, when I watch your videos. It sounds stupid to be mourning for someone I’ve never met, someone I’ve never seen, someone I never really knew.
But I do not need a beehive and a drug habit to relate to you, a funny, stubborn girl who wanted mad, passionate love, who chased after her desires with wild abandon. On some days, I am you.
Amy, Amy, Amy. Tonight I made a grilled cheese sandwich. Then I thought of you.
July 29, 2011
Laughing at a bunny funeral
(Do not proceed if you do not want to read about poop, diarrhea, death and a lot of crying. You’ve been warned.)
I will admit, it was my brilliant idea.
“Why don’t we give her a rabbit?” I said to Jill, as we planned her niece Jinna’s Christmas gifts this year.
She was reluctant at first, but I regaled her with stories about Brucey my bunny, and we talked about how this might be a good way to teach Jinna about being responsible. She caved.
Numerous phone calls to different pet shops resulted in nothing—strangely, they had all run out of bunnies. But we were told we might find our answer in one place—Tiendesitas.
“We sell them in pairs. Because if not, they get lonely and die after three days,” a lady at a sad little pet store told us.
We went to a different pet shop manned by a guy with multiple piercings. He was willing to sell us just one bunny but we decided to get two—we didn’t want a lonely bunny. It took a long time and a lot of cuddling and cooing before we finally made our choice. We picked two boys—a beautiful white bunny with gray markings and a fat little bunny with very pale brown-gray fur and the most incredible dark brown nose.
We cuddled them on the way home, we were worried that the car ride would stress them out. We kept talking about names. “Amy and Adele.” “Michael and Jackson.”
Finally, Jill decided. The white and gray bunny would be called Ash. And the brownish gray one would be called Smoke.
Ash and Smoke.
They were playful bunnies, funny little creatures who liked exploring.
On New Year’s Eve, we finally introduced Jinna to her new pets. She adored them and was gentle with them, petting them and feeding them.
During the day they were allowed to run free and play; at night they slept in a cage in the bathroom. They were comfortable, they never ran out of food and water, they always had toilet paper cores and boxes to play with.
But after a few blissful days with the bunnies, diarrhea happened. Smoke was the first one who got it. Research told me that it wasn’t actually diarrhea—that the explosive mess we were seeing were unformed cecotropes. Following instructions from bunny experts, we made changes in their food intake and carefully cleaned the rabbits, the cage and their bowls. The next day, Smoke seemed to be getting better but Ash had diarrhea, too. Again, we cleaned them up (it was a very messy process—you know it’s true love when you’re touching someone else’s poop), tried to hydrate them and make them comfortable. Smoke was still playful and constantly eating, but Ash wasn’t as energetic.
He didn’t seem extremely sick. He didn’t seem like he was going to die.
At around three in the morning, Jill checked on the bunnies and started yelling, “Ash is not moving!”
My heart started beating triply fast. I looked at Ash and started crying. He was by the cage door, completely still. What was scary was how thin he suddenly looked. He looked normal just a few hours before. But his ears looked alert and his eyes were wide open.
Maybe we could still save him.
I ran to my computer and tried to figure out what we can do. “Let’s go, let’s get him that water solution a girl used to revive her rabbit,” I said to Jill.
“He’s dead!” Jill said.
“No he’s not!”
“He’s dead.”
We went back to the cage in the bathroom. I clapped my hands. Ash didn’t move. I moved the cage. Ash didn’t move. I called his name. Ash didn’t move.
Ash was dead.
Jill and I were crying and crying and crying. Smoke was still in the messy cage and we wanted to get him out. But getting him out meant opening the cage door Ash was leaning against. Neither of us wanted to touch Ash. I didn’t want to feel him cold and lifeless. I wanted to remember him as the beautiful, warm, grumpy furball that he was.
We thought of calling Manang Amy to ask her to help us but it was four in the morning.
We left the bathroom, sat on Jill’s carpet and continued to cry.
“You do it.”
“I can’t.”
“I can’t either.”
But I knew I had to set my fear aside. Smoke, who was probably terrified and confused, needed to get out of that cage. And Ash needed to be put to rest.
I walked back to the bathroom, still crying. I knelt by the cage, took a deep breath and opened the cage door. There was a part of me that was hoping Ash would move when the cage door opened. That he’d still be alive.
But he was dead.
I took another deep breath and reached out for him. It was like picking up a stuffed animal. It was like he was never alive. I put him in a box. His gray ears stuck out. I put the lid on the box and turned to Smoke who looked sad, really sad.
I wanted to make sure he was okay. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t on the verge of dying, too.
Smoke hopped over to me when he heard me open his bag of food. He was so hungry he started climbing all over the bag. To our relief, he started eating. And eating. And that was a very good sign.
Smoke returned to his cage for the night, looking sad. I knew he was missing Ash.
The next day, Smoke seemed fine. His poop was looking better, too. But he was sad. So incredibly sad. We let him out of the cage and he stayed in one corner of the bathroom. We gave him toys, he ignored us. We gave him food, he ignored us.
Manang Amy dug a hole by Jill’s mango tree. The four of us—Manang Amy, Jill, Jinna and I—held a quick bunny funeral.
Jinna showed me a flower she had picked from the garden. She carried Ash’s box downstairs, placed it in the hole and put the flower on top of the box before Manang Amy started shoveling dirt to cover it.
“Jinna, lead the prayer,” we said.
She smiled sheepishly. “Umm … ’di ako ready.”
“Sige na, pray ka lang,” we said to her.
And she started praying.
“Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.”
The prayer before meals. At a bunny funeral.
I couldn’t help it. I started laughing. And I couldn’t stop. Tears streamed down my face, tears for Ash, but I also couldn’t stop laughing. Jill couldn’t stop laughing either.
It was a crazy funeral, short, funny, sad—just like our quick roller coaster ride with our beloved Ash.
January 7, 2012
Shrapnel
After reading a horrific article about World War II, I called Lola Charit because I knew she and my other grandparents lived through it. They were in Manila where they all grew up.
When I was a kid, every year, we spent November 1 at the family mausoleum at the North Cemetery which was just a couple of blocks from our house. I’d point to each name, especially those who passed away before I was born, and ask how they died.
It was Soly’s story that had always stayed with me. She was just seventeen, pregnant and married to Lolo Dick, my Lolo Osing’s brother. It was 1945, at the height of the Japanese war. Bombings and gun battles were a regular occurrence and Lola Bibay, their mother, thought it was safest for them to sleep in their garage. So there they were that night, sleeping in total darkness—Lolo Os
ing, his parents, his siblings and Soly. Soly was sleeping beside Lolo Dick but in the middle of the night, he realized she was no longer beside him. While they were asleep, shrapnel had pierced through the garage, hitting Soly in the stomach, killing her and her baby. The force was so strong that it blasted her away from her sleeping husband.
There was no way to give her a proper burial, Lola Charit said, so Lolo Dick and his siblings made a makeshift coffin for his wife. They found a spot under a tree in the North Cemetery and buried her there.
Lolo Dick was so heartbroken that he left for the United States.
Years later, after the war, because his brother was already thousands of miles away, it was Lolo Osing who tried to search for Soly’s remains. He looked for the tree where they buried her. He found remains, claimed them and gave them a proper burial. It was only today that I found out, after talking to Lola Charit, that he wasn’t sure if it was really Soly he found. The bones in the crypt I had been pointing to as a child could have belonged to another victim of the war.
Lolo Osing and Lola Charit were still in the early stages of their courtship in 1945. Lola Charit’s family was luckier than Lolo’s. It was a tough time, she said. They didn’t have a lot to eat, her mother cried every day but at least they all survived.
Lola Charit’s brothers liked going outside to watch what they called “the dog fights” between Japanese and American planes. One day, shrapnel hit Lolo Rogie and Lolo Aling as they watched a battle. Shrapnel had to be taken out of Lolo Rogie’s leg and Lolo Aling still has shrapnel in his lungs but they’re both still alive today.
In later months, things became better. Lola Charit’s mom started selling halo-halo to their neighbors and to American soldiers who were everywhere. “’Yung mga sundalo, walang ginawa kundi manligaw ng mga babae,” Lola Charit said.
