Happy Birthday to You (Yes,YOU!)

I've always thought of my birthday as my very own personal Academy Awards Night I would welcome each greeting as a personal validation (i.e. Sally Field winning her second Oscar going, "You like me; you really, really like me!!!!").

I must have been doing some serious growing up recently because for this birthday, I realize with the most liberating clarity that I don't need one day of the year to get my regular fix.

In a world where there is so much uncertainty and despair, I know that joy, love and friendship also exist. On a daily basis, you reaffirm my faith in the human race and assure me that things
will be alright , that WE will be alright.

So, today, on the eve of another birthday I am happy celebrating the day YOU were born. Yes - YOU whom I've known since childhood. YOU, from the group that I met other day and YOU who came into my life sometime in between.

I am glad YOU are here in this world. I am so much the richer and better for it. Thank you for making me part of you life.

I'd like to share with you this translated text from Gabriel Garcia Marquez, one of my favorite authors. He says what I feel much better than I ever can. Think of it as my birthday gift to you because YOU ARE MY FAVORITE :-)

=================

If for an instant God were to forget that I am a rag doll and gifted me with a piece of life, possibly I wouldn't say all that I think, but rather I would think of all that I say.

I would value things, not for their worth but for what they mean. I would sleep little, dream more, understanding that for each minute we close our eyes we lose sixty seconds of light.

I would listen when others talk, and how I would enjoy a good chocolate ice cream! If God were to give me a piece of life, I would dress simply, throw myself face first into the sun, baring not only my body but also my soul.

My God, if I had a heart, I would write my hate on ice, and wait for the sun to show. Over the
stars I would paint with a Van Gogh dream a Benedetti poem, and a Serrat song would be the serenade I'd offer to the moon.

With my tears I would water roses, to feel the pain of their thorns, and the red kiss of their petals...

My God, if I had a piece of life... I wouldn't let a single day pass without telling the people I love that I love them. I would convince each woman and each man that they are my favorites, and I would live in love, with love.

I would show men how very wrong they are to think that they cease to be in love when they grow old, not knowing that they grow old when they cease to be in love!

To a child I shall give wings, but I shall let him learn to fly on his own. I would teach the old that death does not come with old age, but with forgetting. So much have I learned from you, oh men...

I have learned that everyone wants to live on the peak of the mountain, without knowing that real happiness is in how it is scaled.

I have learned that when a newborn child squeezes for the first time with his tiny fist his father's finger, he has him trapped forever.

I have learned that a man has the right to look down on another only when he has to help the
other get to his feet.

From you I have learned so many things, but in truth they won't be of much use, for when I keep them within this suitcase, unhappily shall I be dying.

GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ

Manang Spends the Weekend.

I haven’t had much to write about since the year began. 2009 is supposed to be a year of change and transition so I’m sure I can make up for the lack of recent posts as the year progresses

In the meantime, in an attempt to keep this blog updated, let me share some pictures from my Manang’s recent visit.

She shows off her new teeth – my Christmas gift. She wants lip collagen implants for her birthday. Kidding. But, she actually gave me a lengthy answer explaning why she's not, when I said she should look for a rich husband - which suggests to me that somewhere in her mind, anything is still possible. Good for her.



She gets her Pancit Palabok fix from Jolibee. We love. Unfortunately, there's no outlet in her village so this is a must-stop for her whenever she comes to the city.



She poses beside my car to show off to her posse back home. She jumped off her seat when the sun roof opened up. Adorable.



She’s awestruck with the choices in a city supermarket





This one isn't from her vist. But I look good in the picture and it's my blog and I can post whatever I want. So, here.

My Sixth Sense

I was going through my archives and I realized that, without necessarily meaning to when I started this blog, a recurring topic seems to have emerged.

I write about dead people.

I don’t want to be the person who can’t move on from losing his mother, father and one sister. But, at the same time, I don’t know how I can separate the loss from the person that I am.

Every experience is somehow diminished by the knowledge that it can no longer be shared with them. Christmas and special occasions are specially difficult.

Reliving the memories is often a source of comfort and inspiration. Sometimes the memories cause pain so sharp it's almost physical. But, as in life, you can't take one without the rest.

I know that I can share new experiences with the people who are still present it in my life. And I do. I have a close circle of family and friends who are my life-savers.

I know that I should go ahead and create new memories. And I do try. That's what they would have wanted. More importantly - that's what I want for myself. There is so much left to do and try and taste and see.

But the fact remains – they’re gone. And I miss them. And I don’t want to relegate their presence in my life to the past.

I write about them because this is a way to keep their memories alive. I write about them because I want people to know that they lived, that their existence mattered.

I write about them because their influence in still very much apparent in how I now live my life.

I write about them because I know I write well. And I want to use that gift to honor them.

That's the way it is.

Try to Remember the Kind of December and Wallow..wallow...wallow...wallow

I’m homesick. I want to go home for Christms. I want to go back to my Dad and my Mom and my Manang and my sisters.

I want to have one more Sunday lunch with the entire family sitting at the narra dining table.that my parents bought even before I was born.

I want one more morning when my Mom surprises my Dad on his December 24 birthday with his favorite breakfast of corned beef shaped into a heart on the plate.

I want my Dad to drop by my office again. This time I’m bringing him out to lunch.

I want one more ride in our old brown Izusu Gemini car with my Dad driving and my Mom beside him and my sisters and I singing carols at the back.

I want to nap on our old rattan sala set with the faded slip-covers that my Lola got tired of and handed down to us.

I want our 10-year-old white, dusty, plastic Christmas tree with the red poinsettia Christmas lights that my sister bought.

I want to go back to dressing up for Christmas eve and staying awake for Manang’s arroz caldo before we open our presents.

I want to go back to stressing-out looking for the perfect Christmas give for everyone and having it all worth it by seeing their faces light up as soon as they tear open the wrappers.

I want to open up all the cabinets and drawers to let all the good luck in on New Year’s eve just like my Mom said we should.

I want the familiarity and comfort of my Mom’s smell back – that mixture of perfume, lotion, powder and lipstick that is so closely attached to my memories of her.

I want to go home. I want things to be just like they were before.

Everyone is gone. The furniture has been given away. Nobody else remembers the old brown Izusu Gemini car.

I go on alone.

This is totally counter-productive behavior but what-the-fuck, you know?

Wala Lang

Today is my Mom's 2nd death anniversary. I totally forgot about it. Manang had to remind me this morning.


Coincidentally, last night, I was out with the same group of friends who kept me company the night she died.

Some things change. Some things stay the same. Life goes on.

I'm sad. I feel left behind.


I'm hoping that prolonged staring at my miniature Christmas tree collection will cheer me up. Not working so far.

.

Frances Grace Taruc Gets Her Wish

For a college assignment - she must have been 17 or 18 - my sister Grace wrote this essay:

If among us, there are those who wish to be remembered as people who have, in a simple way, given what little they have to make this world a better place – I would like to be one of them.

Many have dreams of doing something significant and momentous – making them remembered by generations to follow.

I only wish to be remembered with fondness rather than awe, respect rather than fascination and love rather than admiration by those who have known and been with me.

Tomorrow, November 28, is Grace's 18th death anniversary.

She did get her wish.

In a parallel universe, maybe somebody could play matchmaker and Grace and Wyatt could go out together or something. What do you think? :-)

He, Claudio

I’ve known Mang Claudio for most of my life. He was my uncle’s chauffer.

I look at Mang Claudio as a member of the extended family. Because of the nature of his job, he’s been there for a lot of our family milestones.

He’s retired now but he still does odd jobs for the rest of the family . He drives for me from time to time. I haven't heard from him for awhile.

I got a text message from him earlier today. The message was “Asan ka na? Kumusta ka na?” (“Where are you? How are you?”).

The blues make me sluggish so it took a while for me to reply. I thought he was asking because he needed something from me.

I texted him back to say I was in Manila and I was okay.


A few seconds after, he sent back another short message, “Alam kong mag-isa ka lang sa bahay, kinukumusta lang kita kung okay ka” (“I know you’re alone in the house, I’m just checking on you to make sure you’re okay”).

I have angels watching over me. I feel really blessed

Do you believe in signs?

I got an email from my childhood friend the other day. We go a long way back. Our families have known each other forever. We’re even distantly related.

We’ve kept in touch but not regularly. So her email was a surprise. She dreamt about my Mom. In the dream, my Mom was about 50-ish years old, wearing a yellow dress and carrying a Kelly bag . It tells you about my friend that there's a Kelly bag detail in there :-) but my Mom was very particular about her bags being roomy with plenty of compartments.

Anyway, in the dream, my mom was on her way out from church but came over to my friend. My Mom whispered to her to tell me to take it easy and to let me know that she was worried about the pace I was currently taking.

That sounds exactly like something my Mom would have said.

My friend is not prone to emailing me about her dreams (first time its happened in 20+years) and I’m not one to go about looking for signs. But, when something like this comes out of nowhere, you get to thinking.

This is the trajectory my thought process has taken:

I think that our parents never stop watching out for us. I think that their love for us is so deep and strong and abiding that - even in death - they will find a way to reach out to us.

This, in turn, reminds me of a letter my Dad left for us. I found in it in his briefcase a few days after we had buried him. He must have have written it just before we brought him to the hospital for the last time.

---------------------------------------
My Dearest Mama, Jun Jun, Grace and Gina:

I feel that I may not last very long as I feel this weakness every day. I want you to know that I love you very, very much. I could not ask more from a wife and as a Father from his children. You have made me a very happy husband and father. Thank you. I could not thank the Lord enough for giving you to me.

Love and help each other always. Give glory to God in everything we do. Remember those who have been good to us……Ninang Liy, Joseph and family, Mike and Lily. Do not forget Juliet and Nonoy. Help Vina when you can.

Most of all, stay close to each other and love each other always.

Make Mama happy. She has suffered enough for all of us.

Tell Lola Mi and my brothers and sisters that I love them. Do not forget Lolo Di.

I am sorry if I have not been a very good father to you. What I know is that I love you dearly and did my best.

Papa

P.S.

As to where you want to keep my remains, I leave that to the best discretion of Mama...to a place convenient for you and you will incurr the least expense.

-------------------------------------------
I hope my nephew and nieces are able to read this so they know how special their grandparents were.

As to my friend's dream - yeah - Ok, Mom. Got that. Say hi to everyone for me.

Happy Birthday, Gina!

November 2 is my sister Gina’s birthday. She was born in 1970. She lives with her husband and three kids in Chicago.

Gina and I are different in many ways. Sometimes, you have to wonder how people raised in the same environment could be so different from each other. For one thing, I’m much more anal and prone to sweating the small stuff. But we’re alike in a lot of ways too. Family is both important to us. I guess we just show it in different ways.

A friend once told me that sentimentality is a luxury for those with extra time to spare. I know that life in Chicago is not easy especially without a support system to rely on. But she and my brother in law are doing what they need to do.

I’m writing this post to let my sister know that I’m proud of her. And that I love her and her family very much.

Her Name is Lola

My grandmother is 97 years old. She has survived her husband, her two eldest children and several grandchildren.

Her father was an American soldier. I don’t know anything about her mother. Come to think of it, I've never asked.

She lives by herself in Los Angeles in a senior citizens’ condominium. Her children want her to live with one of them. She prefers to live by herself. She visits with them every now and then but, after a few days, she always asks to be brought back to her apartment.

Her apartment is full of pictures of her kids and grandkids and the dolls and stuffed animals she collects. The apartment smells of perfume and powder.

A Guatemalan lady comes in everyday to clean up, run errands and occasionally do her nails. But, Lola pretty much takes care of herself. Whenever there’s something special she wants to eat, she goes out to the market to buy the ingredients and cooks it herself. I hope she's still able to do that.

On other days, when she wants to socialize with the other seniors in the dining hall downstairs, she makes sure that she first does her hair, puts on her make-up and dresses up before she goes down.

Lola loves dogs. Her succession of pooches had names like Juanita (only she would name a dog after herself), Snowball and Queen. She loves to dance. She loves to dress up.

On the day my Dad was buried (in 1990), grief-stricken, as she was, Lola came to church wearing huge dark sunglasses, this long, black, high-necked, long-sleeved, billowy dress with a huge cloth flower in front.


Anyone who was there to see it, could probably describe the dress as well - it had that kind of impact. Walking beside her, I could hear her mumbling something incoherently. Leaning close her to offer consolation, I finally understood what she was saying - I was stepping on her dress. She wanted me to take my foot out.

All of her children and most of her grandchildren take after her vanity. Lola has probably won every senior citizen beauty contest in her building.


But, she also puts up her feet and eats with her hands, especially when she gets access to contraband guinamos. I hope that we are all also as down-to-earth as our grandmother.

She was an English teacher for most of her life. One of the best compliments she could ever give anyone outside the family is to say that the person was “well-educated”. But, Lola breaks into her native Visayan whenever she wants to get a special point across.

She used to write long, chatty letters full of Bible verses and stories about people we both love who have gone on ahead of us. She used to remember all her grand-children’s birthdays, would always send a card and, when she could afford to, have a few dollar bills inserted. I would still receive the cards with dollar bills even after I had started working already.

The last few letters from her were repetitive and her handwriting was already difficult to read. She doesn’t write to me anymore.

She never addresses me by my first name but calls me “June Love First Born Apo” , stringing the words together like they were one long hypenated name.

Her name is Lola. She loves to cha-cha.

We should all be so lucky.

I love her. I really should call her more often.

Secrets of the Yaya Motherhood

If you’ve had a yaya in your life, you might be able to relate to this.

When I was barely a year old, my Manang came to live with our family. She was 22 and had never before travelled outside her small village in Negros Occidental. She stayed for 43 years.

With my one other surviving sister living with her family in the US, Manang is the closest that remains of my nuclear family. I sometimes think about her life and how she might think of it herself.

As a young girl, she must have had her own dreams and hopes and aspirations. She once told me that all she wanted when she left her village was to ride a big boat and see the lights of the city. Did she imagine that her life would be devoted to serving our family?

She was third-runner up in a neighborhood beauty contest when I was growing up. What did it feel being belle-of-the ball and then coming back to our house to her chores and duties?

While taking care of my dad, mom and my sister thru long sicknesses, did she resent not having had the opportunity to do the same for her own parents since she was far away from them and with us?

She has always been very smart but did not have the opportunity to finish high school. Did she feel frustrated when we discussed topics she could no longer relate to? My Dad once said that if Manang had the opportunity to finish school, she could have been a lawyer. The context for the statement is forgetten but it’s something my Manang recounted over and over again.

We were her children as much as my parents and she took care of my sisters and I as such. When I first left home for college, she would pack care packages in my luggage – little things I didn’t ask for that she thought I would find useful (like nails tied to opposite ends of a nylon rope to hang my laundry on).

When my sister, Grace, first discovered that her hair was falling off from the chemo, it was Manang she screamed for in fear and panic to come and help her. It was also Manang who was with my sister Gina when my eldest nephew was born and the first in our family to hold the baby.

She fought our battles, sang us to sleep, nursed us thru minor scrapes and major illnesses. She would jump up and down with joy whenever one of us brought home a medal. Did Manang feel left out when all those family pictures were taken without her?

Less she begins sounding like one, Manang is no saint. She could be loud, opinionated, obstinate, petty and vindictive. She once danced around the living room when she found out that somebody she particularly disliked was diagnosed with a sickness. During the later years, she would boss around my Mom and lord it over the house like nobody's business. Was this her way of venting her frustrations and regrets for everything she thinks could have been for her, had she taken other paths in life?

She would drive me crazy if we ever lived in the same house again.

But - no matter how strangely she manifested it - she loved us unquestionably. She loved me best of all. I was the baby she came to take care of and have the sweet baby face to show for it :-). Until recently, she would still run after me to wipe the sweat off my back with the handy white towels she always had around. Here's your visual - I'm 5'11" about 150 lbs (ok - 190; ok, ok - 200; shut up already), she's barely a little over four feet tall.

Manang has been retired for 2 years now. She is back home in her village in Negros – which has grown and changed as much as we all have over the last 45 years. Given the norms of her hometown, she must have come back in “triumph” - lugging with her the spoils of our now defunct household – bits and pieces of our former life. Of couse, she blew all her money on a big welcome home party for herself.

I guess – by some counts - I’m doing right by her. She will be provided for during her lifetime. I try to help out materially in other ways when asked for. She is surrounded by nephews and nieces she had helped send thru school over many years (how productive and grateful they are is another story all together). I know she is better off financially than the siblings she had left behind. Even better off than she might have been if she didn’t leave the village those many years ago.

On other counts, I’m not so sure. When we talk on the phone, she annoys me with her stories of even more relatives in need and her long-winded stories of how she spends her days. One of her favorite topics nowadays is how much her neighbors and relatives tell her how good she is for having sacrificed her life to serve our family and how lucky she is to have me supporting her.This goes on and on with minimal variation, if I let it. I try to make the calls as short as possible, sometimes being curt and dismissive - always feeling guilty afterwards.

But, I had a flash of an insight recently. Other people, under different circumstances, might talk about the bridges and buildings they had built during the day, the awards and recognitions they have received, the places they’ve seen - all attesting to a life well-lived.

My Manang has no bridges or buildings to speak of. No degrees. No awards. She had us. We are her life's work. We are the witnesses to her life well-lived. And she deserves to talk about it all she wants.

I blog. She brags to whoever will listen. We both could benefit from some editing in our chosen media. Seen in those terms, I guess she and I are no different. She raised me after all.

I love my Manang.

-end-

Sidebar(s):

a) If my life were made into a movie, Aling Dionisia Pacquaio, in her introductory movie role, would be Manang

b) Sharon Cuneta's Yaya Luring supposedly is a Gold card member of a major international bank - meaning she has an 8-figure bank account, aside from being a media personality herself.

c) The picture accompanying this post was probably taken just a few months after Manang came to live with us. The handwriting is my Dad’s. Jun-jun is me. To understand the Filipino penchant for nicknames, see this.

b) Manang has visited me a few times. I posted another blog entry from her last visit here.

Ang Past Ko at ang Pasko

Christmas is just around the corner (ok, a long corner). I was passing through the mall yesterday and noticed that the decorations were already up and the sound system was blasting carols. It’s a Filipino thing – we start preparing for the season as early as September and the commercial establishments are only too willing to cooperate.

But – I digress – this isn’t about how consumerist Christmas has become. This is what I’m thinking:

Christmas for me has always been about family. All my associations – the food, the traditions, the memories – are linked to people who aren’t around anymore. Apart from 1 year when I was studying in the US and 2006 when I couldn’t care less because I was too tired from a funeral – last Christmas was my first time without a place to which to come home.

No, this is not meant to be another post about dead people either. However, with everyone else gone, retired or not around – what’s a mid-lifer supposed to do about Christmas?

This brings me to my point(s).

1. Whatever Auden says, life goes on. You have to create new traditions if you have to. My friends’ “adopted” me into their family for the holidays (with a standing invitation for all holidays thereafter). Their Christmas tradition (having also been orphaned many years ago) is for everyone - wherever they are in the world - to vacation together in some exotic place every year.

Slathering myself with oil and lying under the sun isn’t exactly part of my Christmas lexicon (yet) but – what the hey, there are worse things than sunbathing in Bali.

2. The human spirit is more resilient than we think. Life gives us lemons. We make lemonade. We adjust to our new circumstances. Eventually, we may even thrive on it. While respecting and honoring the past, it should be possible to live in the present and look forward to the future.

3. There are families created from the womb. And there are families created from the heart. I’ve been very fortunate on both counts. However, while the womb can only produce so much (unless you’re that woman from Pensylvania with twins AND sextuplets, and then again you have towonder if she can do it again), the human heart is expandable. There is always room to take in new people into its folds.

This year is going to be as exotic – New York (exotic to me, I’ve travelled quite a bit but I’ve never experienced snow).

I no longer believe in Santa but I am looking forward to a Merry Christmas with my extended family this year.

Stuff I've Learned (Learnt?). Ok, Stuff I Know Now.

1. Cheesy but true - just because someone doesn’t love you the way you want doesn’t mean that person doesn’t love you the best way he or she knows how. And that should count for something.

2. No matter how much you work for it and how good your intentions are, there are things that really aren’t meant to be. When you’re sure you’ve given it your best and won’t look back with regret, just move on.

3. Listen to everything but take as much time as you need to make your own opinion. You’re accountable for all your decisions so you better make sure you’re making the right ones.

a. Corollary 1 to the above Most of the noise in this world is the one from our heads. We can’t hear because we’re too busy second guessing while somebody else is talking

b. Corollary 2 to the above. Not making a decision is not an option. You should stand up for what you believe in. I’m going to have to borrow from Alghieri who said, “the hottest part of hell is reserved for those who, in times of moral crisis, stand back and do nothing.”

4. Everything is temporary. We should enjoy what we have while they last. but shouldn’t expect that we’ll have them forever. So, make the moment of enjoyment worth it.
a. Corollary to the above – and borrowed from a dear friend – while we remember the past and make plans for the future, let’s not forget to live in the here and now.

5. I can be like the calm blue ocean: vast, serene, nourishing, symbiotic, nice to look at.

6. I can also be like the raging, dark, murky, slimy, freezing sea. But at the end of the day, I'd rather not.

7. Positive energy generates more positive energy. Negative energy has the same effect. We can choose what kind of energy to surround ourselves with.

8. I am more like my Dad than I thought I was.

9. A person who is angry or violent or vicious is - more often than not - just crying out for somebody to listen to him/her.

10. Staring at your bike doesn’t count as exercise.

11. Having a dream is a beautiful, noble thing.

12. I am blessed with good friends, a childhood happier than most, many happy memories, the ability to recognize the humor in the absurd, the ability to empathize and style to spare.

13. People come and go in our lives but some have the power to leave us with everlasting pain or joy - long after that person's face/voice/smell fades into memory.

14. Whether I like it or not, some people have given me the irrevocable power of causing them great joy or great pain. I have to remember that and be careful about what I say or do.

15. Never underestimate the power of a smile or a kind word. Or, for that matter, a careless remark or action.

16. I like being with people who take their work but not themselves seriously.

17. I can’t change the world but I can change myself and the people around me.

18. It’s not unusual for people to stare at me as I walk by. And I don’t mind.

19. I figure prominently in some people's sexual fantasies. And I don’t mind.

Requiem (from a letter to family and friends, December 2006)

Dear Family and Friends:

I was asked to give a short talk during my Mom’s internment mass. Please let me share it with you.
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When my dad and sister passed away 17 years ago, a very good friend shared a poem about death and letting go. I don’t usually go for the maudlin stuff but somehow it struck a chord. Grief does that to you :-). Unfortunately, over the last few years, I’ve had many opportunities to share the same poem with other friends and family members hoping that it could provide them with the same measure of comfort at their time of loss.

When we laid my mom to rest, the poem came back to mind for two reasons:
1. I realize that our sadness over death is not so much about the departed, because they are off to a better place; and
2. My dad, mom and sister Grace showed us countless times, by words and example, that even during our lowest points we should never be inconsiderate of other people.

The poem is entitled “I’m Free”. Think of it, as I do, as my Mom’s way of reaching out to us for one last time to make sure that we are alright.

I'm Free
Don't grieve for me, for now I'm free
I'm following the path God laid for me.
I took His hand when I heard Him call;
I turned my back and left it all.
I could not stay another day,
To laugh, to love, to work or pray.
Tasks left undone must stay that way;
I found that place at the close of day.
If my parting has left a void,
Then fill it with remembered joy.
A friendship shared , a laugh, a kiss;
Oh yes, these things, I too will miss.
Be not burdened with times of sorrow
I wish you the sunshine of tomorrow.
My life's been full, I savored much;
Good friends, good times, caring hands, a loved one's touch.
Perhaps my time seems all to brief;
Don't lengthen it now with undue grief.
Lift up your heart and share with me,
God wanted me now, He set me free.

When we were children, my Mom taught us that if we were to give something at all, to make sure that it is something that is of value to us. To give away something that we do not like or care for, negates and makes meaningless the spirit of giving. My Mom had many imperfections like all of us. But, in her life, she gave us the best of herself and we are all the better for it.

Thank you and God bless us all
-----------------
-end

Jun and Kikay, the Dynamic Duo (from a letter sent out to my high school email group, 2008)

Here's a question - of all the things that you've learned from your parents, what is it that sticks out the most?

As is my wont, I'm asking a question so I can answer it first :-).

From both my parents, I learned generosity of spirit. Here's a Kikay and Jun Taruc story. When we were growing up, my Mom used to go to church every morning. One day (I must have been 15 or 16) , she saw a lady in one of the front pews crying. Something about the lady must have caught my Mom's attention because she (mom) went up and asked the lady what was wrong.

This story needs a visual. The lady looked like...uhh...a hospitality worker in one of the night spots (there was an American military base where we lived) but ..uhh...past her prime :-). Those of you who remember my Mom can imagine the contrast.

Anyway, the lady told her that one of her parents was sick in the province and she didn’t know how to help. My mom brought the lady - her name was Dory, I remember - home and when my Mom found out that she had taken a beauty course(talk about career changes), my Mom asked her to be her regular manicurist (you get home serviced for everythng in the Philippines) so Dory could have extra income .

One day, Dory was in our house around lunchtime so my Dad invited her to eat with us. After that, every week-end for about a year, Dory was a regular at our Sunday family lunches and because my parents treated her decently and like a member of the extended family, everyone else did as well.

Dory died in a car accident about a year after we met her. A few years after when my Dad and sister Grace were sick - my Mom would tell us to pray and ask for Dory's intercession because she was sure that Dory was in heaven.

From my Mom (who passed away December 2006) - I learned that to be true to the spirit of giving, you have to give away something that you like not just something that you're ready to discard. It's very easy to give something that we're ready to throw away. But my Mom always told us that true generosity y is to share something that remains of value and use to us. Whenever there was a charity or clothes drive for example, my Mom told us not to donate the pinaglumaan (what we had outgrown) toys or clothes that nobody could use anymore but the ones that we liked and could still use.

From my father (who passed away in 1990) - here's something I wrote to family and friends a few years ago which I saved in my yahoo sent box
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A few months before he died in 1990, my dad started a correspondence with a 12 year old boy studying in Antique (a province in the Philippines where my Dad spent a few of his growing-up years.) It started as a English-subject project for the boy. His teacher was an old classmate of my dad.

They would write regularly and my Dad would always look forward to his letters and he would reply promptly. I had already started working at that time and, after a while, I got bored with his regular updates about the correspondence.

It was one of those things my Dad liked to do. He corresponded with a lot of people, kept in touch religiously and filed all his letters systematically.

If he was that way with the people he wrote, you could imagine the way he was with us. There was never a day where he failed to show me – in whatever way - how much he loved me and my mom and my sisters and how proud he was of us and how happy we made him by ....just being.

My dad kind of embarrassed me in that way. I always thought he was too sentimental, too emotional, too attached to the past and had difficulty moving on. While I loved my Dad, I would always tell myself that I would be different. Where my Dad wasn't successful, I would be. Where he was weak, I would be strong.

Something strange happened to me today. It started like any other regular work day...you know, the usual stress and problems and back to back meetings. Mid afternoon, I was told that I had a visitor. I had some time before my next meeting so I had the visitor brought in.

It was the 12 year old boy. Except, well now he's a 24 year old man. He had graduated from college. He had moved on from Antique and he said he's been trying to look for me over the past few years. He tracked me down from an old press release about my company.

At first, I was suspicious - "what does he want?". He didnt want want anything. He wanted to know where Daddy was buried and he wanted to ask my permission to visit Daddy's grave. Just that. Nothing else.

I didnt know what to say. So, instead, I listened. He told me how much my Dad helped and inspired him. How much interest my Dad showed about his plans and dreams and aspirations. About how Dad would tell him about how proud he was of his wife and children, of his brothers and sisters, about how much he loved all of us. About how he waited all these years -to finish school, to work, to get to Manila - so he could visit my Dad's grave and honor him.

When my Dad was already sick, he was more emotional than ever. I thought he was being clingy and needy. I guess we could all have paid him more attention. I guess we could have spent more time to just sit down and talk with him and tell him how much we appreciated and loved him.

I guess having this boy he never met meant a lot to my Dad. Somebody who sought his advise. Somebody who responded to his stories. Somebody who showed a genuine interest in what he had to say.

What my Dad must not have realized was how much he meant to this boy. But my Dad was like that - he would love and share unconditionally and not expect much in return - just the privilege of being able to give what he can. All of us who knew him know this.

For the longest time, I thought my Dad didn’t have a successful life -the kind of life I've tried to build for myself.

But this afternoon, I realized that my Dad is one of the most successful men who ever lived. He touched people. He is not forgotten. He remains alive in the memory of this boy, this man, he met only through letters many, many years ago - so alive that a driving force in this boy's life after so many years was to be able to visit his grave and honor him.

How many men can claim that for themselves?

I am proud to be my Dad's son. I am proud to share his name. I am proud to count myself among those whom he loved and touched in his lifetime. I wish I could live the rest of my life like him. I'm not sad as I write this - my Dad would not have liked that. I write this to celebrate his memory and his life.

This isnt a sudden realization. As I've grown older, I've been realizing more and more how much I have in common with my Dad and how much I miss him and how I wish he were here to share in what I have now. This afternoon just put everything in place in the most wonderful, clearest way.

Dad, wherever you are, I love you. We love you. You are not forgotten.

-end-

One Day in 1990

My sister Grace died on November 28, 1990. She was 23. I made an album for her shortly after we buried her – bits and pieces of her short life kept in laminated pages. The album is still with me. I bring it out to read every now and then. The handwritten notes on it and the pictures are almost faded. It makes me sad to think that no one else will ever get to know my sister. I would not want that. For my first blog entry, I’m rewriting a page from my 1990 diary which I had torn off and put in the album. At that time, my sister was in remission but she was showing signs that the cancer may have come back. She passed away 10 months after this diary entry was first written. She would have been 24 in three months.

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My sister is worried. She’s been coughing again, the way she used to when she was sick. It’s been two years since she got well but it’s supposed to take another three years more before the doctors can say for sure that the cancer is gone.

My sister says she doesn’t want the cycle of treatments to begin all over again. You cannot imagine how distressing her chemo treatments were. She would get really sick and nauseated. She had to stop studying for a year. Her hair - one of her greater vanities - fell off.

My sister was very brave though. She didn’t fall to pieces the way I might have. She tried not to show that she was depressed or worried. On hindsight, I realize that this was for her family's sake.

Nobody ever mentioned the word “cancer”. We all acted as if her cancer was just a temporary inconvenience. My sister would even go around the house without her wig on making a joke about it. Our running gag was that if our famous relative Luis Taruc was HUKBALAHAP, she was HUKBO LAWA :-) (cause she had no hair). Or we would kid around about her neck having to be amputated. Our family has a really weird sense of humor.

If anyone of us had any doubts or fear, we just didn’t talk about it. Not to her. Not to each other. I don’t know if that was good or bad. But, that’s the way it was.

It was probably because taking about it would acknowledge the sickness. It was like dealing with the sickness beyond the necessary (like somebody had to take care of my sister when she was throwing up) would have made the sickness more real. To have acknowledged the possibilities would have been really, really difficult to deal with.

During that entire period – it was just my sister and I going through everything. Our mom had to work. Our dad had also just recently had a stroke leaving him partially paralyzed.


I accompanied Grace to all her treatments. We were living in Laguna. Her doctor was in Makati. We would take the two hour bus trip every month for her chemo. Even before we began the trip, my sister was already sick with trepidation. She hated her treatments. In the bus, she would hold on to me with cold, clammy fingers.

When her treatment was done, she would leave the doctor’s room looking like the blood had been sucked out of her. She’d rest for a few minutes and then we rode the bus back home again. One thing I remember from those trips is that we were worried that her wig would slip from her head exposing her baldness to everyone. Or – because we both had a flair for the dramatic – we imagined somebody pulling the wig off her hair and passing it around to all the passengers in the bus :-). Fortunately, that never happened.

But all that time, while I never heard my sister complain or pity herself out loud - I don’t think she ever got over hating the treatments even after she was declared in remission.

And now, this coughing all over again. Our friends from the church tell us we must have an expectant faith. So, I claim – even now – my sister’s complete and absolute recovery.The Lord only has to will it and it will happen.

There, that should make things alright.

-end-