The Strength of my Father

At 64, my father can still walk up and down and across MMDA's infamous narrow and tall footbridges. This after nary a sleep when we attended the wake of my aunt last weekend. At 5 AM, I asked him if there was a McDonald in the area and he, like a boyscout, readily snapped in attention and told me there is one right across Munoz Market. I was oh-so-wanting brewed coffee. Only 3-in-one's were being served in the wake and I didn't want to burden anyone by asking for brewed.

Father invited three of his elder nieces and a grandchild to join us for early breakfast. My treat, of course.

When we reached Munoz, I was dumbfounded to see the footbridge which we had to cross to get to McDonalds. It was made of steel, narrow, tall and long. Some people in their mid-thirties would surely complain walking the stretch. And I have with me cousins in their 50s and my father who is now in his mid-60s. But before I could voice my doubts, they were all trooping up the overpass. All of them walking and telling stories of people they have not met in a while and stories of their own which the others missed due to time and distance. I eventually ended up walking ahead of them as I didn't want to eavesdrop gossips I'd rather not know. How I hate family gossips!

When we reached the other side of EDSA, I looked for a sign of fatigue in the elders' faces. None. Although my father was breathing a millisecond faster, I am definitely sure he has done better than many 30-year olds. I am impressed!

The other day, some news on a research study stated that children who were raised in less than perfect environment and who were reared by less OC parents are less likely to suffer ailments later in life. Well, my father was raised in the province where pigs and chicken play with kids and where mothers let their young eat what the young have dropped on the floor.

But more than that, father has seen the world - its gory and glory, its fame and notoriety. This man has the strength of the mightiest general. And when all the generals have fallen from their excesses, my father will have started to enjoy his due.

Random

I know how you struggle with the things most difficult. You take comfort from the fact that God understands, God forgives. Over and over.

Most times, I pray for something selfish. And God tells me, "why dare second-guess what i deem selfish." And i recoil. And I feel most unworthy, most undeserving. I sigh the big sigh. For all eternity, God knows what I can never start to comprehend in my very short while on earth. I am ambitious to try to know what I need only feel and believe.

Yesterday was the Immaculate Concepcion day. Her birthday. I went to the Padre Pio Sanctuary in Libis. She was there in all her glory, manifested in stone. I walked to where her image stood. I held her with both hands, one in each of her own. I prayed the prayer of the old, of women represented by my age. In that instant, I saw and felt for the nth time that there is something greater than the universe, than our sins, than worldly love.

And i cried the longest time, the freshest tears of the one blessed, of the one loved, of the one cared for, of the one being looked after. And I wondered again, why do we ever doubt, why do we ever feel afraid, why do we think we are alone.

A Guy asked Me Why I Don't Have a Boyfriend

And here's my reply:

I've given up ever finding the right guy NOW. I have also given up dating NOW. Yes, there are guys around, even guys from my high school, the crush ng bayan back then who wouldn't even throw me a second look. But now, they give me the attention. Big thanks to our batch reunion that I got to meet them again. Indeed, good job has its rewards. You get to look good because you're not stressed financially. You get to do anything you want and it makes you a bit happy. But strip all those away, and you're still the old you. The same person from high school or college who just got by.

As regards the fear of "what people will think," I really don't see myself going out with a younger goodlooking guy down the hall. The world has, in fact, stopped worrying me a long time ago. I'm confident enough to say that I am wanted and needed and loved, maybe not by some random man of the world, but by my family. At this time, no love can ever match the love I feel when I hold my 1 year old nephew in my arms, or when I see my parents make fools of themselves like kids of old, or when I'm with friends and there's not a care in the world.

When a man finally finds me, he will find me happy and without baggage. He will not find me wanting and needing. He will find me WOW and AMAZING and EXCITING.

Thank you for your message. I enjoyed reading it.

More of the Early Days

(Click the pics for bigger views.)


With Ed at the Shrine of Lapu-Lapu in Cebu. No, he wasn't my boyfriend. We were just fooling around in the pic. Ed was a co-teacher, also teaching English at CSA. The guy from Baguio who always brought us strawberry jam and peanut brittle and ube jam. Yum! Yum! (The jam!)


At a beach in Cebu, with a co-teacher whose name I already forget. Sorry. So sexy! :P


Another scene at the beach, this time in Cavite, with the MCC boys, my boys (because I was the only girl in that IT company). From the left are Sir Bob, Edwin, Mwah, Norman, Discher and Eki.


Oh, this is my first and last bride's maid stint. Never been followed with the same or anything similar. Do I still hope to become a bride? Hmmm. Still waiting. Doesn't matter how long it takes. Huh?!

The Early Days

I couldn't sleep the other night and I was about to start counting sheep when I saw the pile of photo albums on top of my dresser. Hmm...I wonder if those pictures will remind me of better days, of less stressful time, or days worse than today to be happy about and thankful that I made it through and that I'm better off these days.

And the memories astound me.

(Click the pics for bigger views.)


College was difficult, but I managed to get a job at PNU's personnel office and was able to afford (well, barely) to stay at Normal Hall. That's my corner, the last to the window and those were my bed and cabinet.



Looking high schoolish, I was already teaching High School students in this picture. A teacher bored, too young to be stressed.


My co-teachers. To the right is Teacher Zshyle (I hope I got the name right. And may she rest in peace. She succumbed to cancer in late 90s). Extreme left is Adelfa, another co-teacher. She has become one of my bestfriends. I used to go to Lucban, her province, several times in a year. These days, we still text once in a while and I still get invitations to Lucban. I am, in fact, going to Lucban this weekend with another friend. I am Ninang to her only son.



My first plane ride. Aboard Cebu Pacific with my co-teachers from Colegio San Agustin, Dasma in Makati. We went to Cebu for a summer getaway. Thanks to CSA. To the left is Rowena, the girl who loved, loved, loved Gone With the Wind and everything about it. To my right is Ruben, another co-teacher. These are the only ones whose name I remember. I'm such a bad person!


At a Guitar Store in Cebu. Now this is another challenge. I can only remember three names here. To the left is Cele, Physics teacher, a doctor now. She was one of my buddies at CSA. Of course beside me to the right is Rowena, a buddy, too. Behind Rowena is Neil, a Biology crush-ng-bayan teacher.

Mancom in Baguio

Here are the pictures of the Management Committee where I work. The conference was held in Baguio from February 5 to 7, 2009. (Click the pics for larger views.)

Under the glorious sun: Charlyne, Mia, Mwah and SIB.


Back Row (L-R): Pilar, Kat, Charlyne, Roldin, Mardi. Middle Row (L-R): COS, Annie, Mia, SIB, Mwah, Annie-Vi, Ma'am Lina, Malou, Regie, LAR. Front Row (L-R): Mariliz and Jalvi


Faces and names same as above. I'm such a lazy bone!


You know the clue!


Aha! A stolen shot by our CEO who is a sworn-in, full-fledged photography savvy. Never had a picture taken like this. Thanks, boss!

Death of a King

I promised that I would only blog about Michael's death after I have shed long gushing, pregnant tears over his passing. And I just did.

Michael Jackson died two weeks ago. At age 50, he was both mocked and revered by the world. He lived a full cycle of life. As a child he aimed to please. As a young man he lived to belong. As an adult he lived as he deserved. In his death, he unified the world.

The world loved him for his music and genius. Not for the color of his skin. But he was too human not to be drawn to the vice of the age - beauty. The world made him believe that white is beautiful. That pinched and high-bridged noses and thin lips are the only acceptable shapes for those. It is the same world that Karen Carpenter believed in when it said beautiful is thin.

Of course, we cannot second-guess the reasons for his actions. Could it be a matter of cutting off one's nose to spite one's face? Hurting yourself to hurt those you cannot?

We hated that his wax versions look more human than his real self. We cursed him for hanging his own child down the balcony of his house. We were repulsed by the news of his child molestation. We detested his pseudo marriages. We doubted that he could father a child, much more three children.

But where did those hatred and revulsion come from?

We read the news and we hold it as the sacred truth. We look at his distorted pictures in magazines and internet sites and we criticize him for his vanity. But this man was not supposed to be just looked at. He was born to be listened to. God sent him to sing to us, for us, of the love we can give, of forgiveness we need to dispense, of healing the world, of loving the world, of minding that there are people dying who need our helping hand, telling us that love needs expression, that we are not alone. God sent him to sing for us because priests and pastors and popes and ministers of the world can never put across the exact meaning of praises and love and hope and prayer which are all beyond words. Because these cannot just be limited behind pulpits and churches and chapels and cathedrals and mosques. Because when something is beyond words, we need angels as translators.

You need only see him sing and dance, yes, even that seemingly scandalous Billy Jean moonwalk and crotch-grabbing dance, to appreciate God's grace to bestow power that does not need to destroy to be called strong. One needs only see and hear Michael Jackson sing and you get the idea of heaven when angels sing.

MJ is dead. And the king is now with his King.

Bad Manners Choose No Language, Place and Time

It was the first time I was sleeping in a hospital ward. It was my first time I was sleeping in a hospital - period.

I was the only person fit enough, single enough, independent enough to look after my sister overnight in a hospital. My mother has become sickly. She wouldn't do. My sister-in-law had to take care of Khristian who, of all the days of his 11-month existence, contracted fever. The men in the household wouldn't do. They couldn't be coerced to look after a patient's toilet needs. And my sister would definitely have the worst kind of seizure if we force the idea.

I never thought sleeping in a hospital ward would give me numerous insights about people.

A. Functional Literacy Doesn't Mean a Thing

Education does not guarantee breeding. Neither does it make people behave properly. Nor does it make people considerate.

We were settling my sister into bed to sleep (Remember she took Valium for that purpose. I know how Valium works. I took one a couple of years ago and I remember being asleep for 3 days. No kidding! And I remember, too, that a few seconds after I took it, I was already in Z-land.) But 15 minutes past since the nurse popped the drug into my sister's mouth and my sister was as awake as David Letterman of the Late Show.

But that was not my concern at hand. The patient next to my sister had his whole clan and all employees in his department all a visiting that time. It sounded like the whole barangay cramped itself to fit into a 1.5 x 2.5 meters bed space. They were all laughing and cracking jokes and telling stories and eating! Man, I thought we were in a stag party not in a hospital where people try to get well and live! And for awhile I thought I was right. Not to compromise my sisyer's well being, I marched to the Nurses' Station to complain. One of the nurses hurriedly followed me and went straight to the bed in question and reprimanded the hospital-party-goers that some patients need to rest and sleep so they had to keep their tone down.

For 5 minutes, the party-goers (mostly men) hushed their voices. But like a malignant desease, the itch to merrymake persisted. They went about their boisterous business for 2 hours until all guests left one by one.

I didn't bother to return to the Nurses' Station to complain the second time. Good people don't need to be reminded to be sensitive to other people's needs the second time. Heck! Good people don't need to be reminded to be considerate. Fact!

So you may ask, what kind of people are they? Oh, they had the air of the bourgeois. They sounded like call center agents - the fad these days. They had the borrowed American accent and nuances. Oh, I resent saying they seemed to have come from good universities. Functionally literate, I meant.

B. Pinoy Henyos

Obviously, we survived the first night.

The bunch of merrimakers left the next day. According to my sister-in-law who took the day watch with my sister. I went home to sleep. For awhile, I debated againts staying home and not reporting to work. But hey! I'm not superwoman! So I took the day off. Besides, I was still assigned to keep watch later that night.

A new patient was admitted in the afternoon and took the third bed from my sister's. We didn't have to guess whether the company of the new patient was as noisy as the ones they replaced because as soon as they entered the door my sister and I knew it would be another era before we could sleep. As noisy as the previous group, this flock of female seagulls (with apologies to seagulls) brought their brand of merryment. If the previous night was dominated by the bourgeoisie, tonight would be the revenge of the proletariats.

As night moved on, the noise increased - decibel upon decibel upon decibel. I always had to ask my sister if indeed we were in a hospital and had to remind myself that I am a level-headed person and it is not my style to engage in murderous acts in a hospital ward when I'm annoyed. And "annoy" is such a meek word for that.

After dinner, the band of sisters and their friends, came up with an idea. Pinoy Henyo! Culled from the 30-year old noontime show that showcases rehashed antics and corny jokes Eat Bulaga, Pinoy Henyo is a guessing game similar to Charade. But unlike Charade, Pinoy Henyo does not make use of mimes but instead applies question and answer strategies between the guesser and the guessee. A word to be guessed is stuck on the forehead of the guessee while she asks questions to the guesser whom can only answer "oo", "hindi" or "pwede." This game is fun and wacky at parties but not, for crying out loud, in a hospital ward where people could be dying!

And the girls led by a bi-girl laughed and shouted without any care in the world. They were having fun so screw you all!

Where the fcuk are the nurses??!! Couldn't they hear this insanity? Oh, they did, but could not be bothered in their tasks. We did understand that there was so much in their hands without them still acting nannies and school principals to misbehaving children. But where is justice in the world?!

And before I forget, laughter is NOT the best medicine ALL the time!

C. Ring Tones and Cellphones

If you think ring tones which aren't coming from your cellphone are irritating, place the scenario in a hospital ward.

Imagine hearing Eddie Peregrina singing halfway through "What Am I Living For?" every five minutes. In a hospital ward. Surely half of us will end up in an asylum. Good if you land in an asylum Spellbound-style where Ingrid Bergman is the doctor and Gregory Peck is your wardmate. Not One-Flew-Over-the-Cuckoo's-Nest inspired nut-hut where the head nurse is the ultimate nutcase and Jack Nicholson the dangeorus and anti-social mental hero.

Do we judge people based on how they act in the company of stangers? No, we don't judge, we just get mad. When we talk to friends about it then we judge. When we blog about it, we get even.

Why are seemingly educated people behave inconsiderately bad, as bad as those who appear their opposite? And why bad manners choose no language nor dialect, place nor time?

My take I will keep to myself. Or will be written on the next blog.

This Time, the Strongest People Are Women and Small Men

My sister Cynthia was rushed to the hospital last Sunday.

It started with the chronic migraine, bad bad migraine. Too bad that she would throw up like it was the end of the world and that throwing up was her only salvation. She would throw up until there was nothing to throw out of her body. Nothing from her stomach, not even air, not even gas, if that was possible.

Sunday morning, we sent her to the clinic across the street. The doctor said it had something to do with her eyes. She gave some pain reliever which we would soon realize was nothing to the mercurial pain my sister felt. She recommended that we send her to an opthalmologist. Around 3 PM in the afternoon, we decided to send her to an opthalmologist for the way she writhed in pain had become unbearable to witness. Then the scariest thing happened, scarier than when the late Tio Sio was fighting for his last breath (which reminds me I have to blog about that, too.). The length of Cynthia's arms to her hands and her lower body from the waist down went numb and yet painful all at once. How does one reconcile numbness and pain happening at the same time? And the word hit me! Paralysis! Cynthia was crying and my mother trying not to. My nephew Khristian was giggling innocently at what was happening to us adults. He must have thought it was a game we were playing to amuse him. And he was simply an angel playing the part of the amused. There were only the four of us that time and the only male in the company was Khristian. No way can an eleven-month old child carry his aunt to the clinic. I called Bengbeng, our neighbor, who was playing mahjong at their house to help us. Given that she is on the heavier side, I thought she could help. But then she, too, could not carry Cynthia. Instead, she went to the clinic just across the street to fetch the doctor. But the doctor wouldn't come. Imagine that! So I was forced to go back to the mahjong players and ask the males to help. Two men came. However, only one of them had the guts and courage to get inside the house and get past the three snarling adult dogs we have. Mang Val, short and thin, carried Cynthia, a 35-lb, 4'11" petite girl-woman, to the clinic. There was no way he could have carried her in a normal circumstance.

Mother and Bengbeng followed them to the clinic while I stayed behind to mind Khristian, the house and the dogs. About a couple of minutes later, I felt I couldn't stay put. I had to be there, too. I locked the house to keep the dogs in and carried Khristian to the clinic. I was already at the door when my mother called to tell me the doctor wanted to talk to me.

I found Cynthia lying on what looked like an operating table. She had a brown bag stuck on her mouth and nose, conscious but not moving.

My mother didn't want to hear the bad news so she volunteered me to talk to the doctor. After running some blood tests on my sister, the doctor told me to take my sister to a bigger hospital immediately because she had very low hemoglobin and she needed blood transfusion (if she had to live, the doctor wanted to say but chose not to, to avoid putting us all in panic, I reckon.). She then asked me to sign a disclaimer indicating what she had just instructed me to do.

Just right on time, my brother and sister-in-law, Khristian's parents, arrived. My brother Lilet carried Cynthia to the car and took the back seat with her. I drove the car while my mother was doubtlessly praying beside me at the passenger seat.

We decided to take her to a hospital at the nearby village. We didn't want to waste time sending her to a bigger hospital in the city. Evangelista Specialty Hospital, according to my friend Joan who is a nurse, is a decent private hospital, the most decent we could ever have during emergencies like this.

Not even half-way through the next village, Cynthia was already shouting in agony caused by the pain in her limbs. It was a searing pain coming from the bones of her legs down to her feet. Her flesh couldn't protect her. The flesh that was supposed to shield the bones from harm had became useless. The bones were causing the inhuman torture, nay, an invisible round metal with mutiple sharp edges hammering the bones endlessly with unexplicable anguish were causing the pain. Cynthia was shouting, crying, begging! Then suddenly - silence... That minute silence took hold of our heartbeat - mine, my mother's and Lilet's.

Lilet shook Cynthia to consciousness, telling her to keep awake and not to pass out. I blew the horn like a madwoman, cursing in my mind vindictives I couldn't let my mother hear! My mother joined Lilet in shaking Cynthia to wakefulness. A few seconds later, Cynthia opened her eyes and mouth to speak: "Ate, hindi naka-lock mga pinto mo." WHAT?!

A few minutes later, we reached the emergency room of the hospital. With a thermometer in hand, one of the nurses approached us. I told him my sister didn't have fever (Are all emergency cases now related to AH1N1?), but that she had her lower limbs paralyzed! That took everyone to their toes to carry my sister in. Cynthia appeared to be in the worst condition among those in the emergency ward that almost everyone else left their patients and tended to her.

A few tests later, the hospital coordinator told us that Cynthia had to be admitted into the hospital. She was in that bad a state. The first attempt to puncture her vein with a needle to carry out the intravenous water solution infusion (Dextrose, as most of us know it) broke the vein in her right hand. The nurse had to do it the second time with Cynthia's left. She then was given Valium to sleep.

Because of the AH1N1 scare, all private rooms in the hospital were occupied. (This is just an assumption, of course.) We took Cynthia to one of the wards at the fourth floor. There were three other patients occupying three of the six beds when we got there. Cynthia was given the bed closest to the door.

A lot of things happened in between definitely but the scare of a lifetime was over. The next two nights and days were spent learning more lessons about life.

Love in the Afternoon and More

My tear ducts are definitely ultra sensitive (as opposed to "super" sensitive. Now, I have the abomination towards the use of "super" as an adverb. Big thanks to the "board sport icon." Ugh. Read my blog on the men and sports to get the drift.) I cry even over a TV commercial.

In Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961), I cried with Holly Golightly (Audrey Hepburn) in the cat in the rain scene.

In Roman Holiday (1953), I cried at the scene where Joe Bradley (Gregory Peck) drove Princess Ann (Audrey) home for good after her Roman Holiday as an ordinary girl. It is the don't-follow-me-and-drive-away plea that wrenched my heart. The real princess that she was, Ann was just too much for the often-broke journalist Joe. Joe showed up the next day to Princess Ann's press conference before she went home to her country, maybe hoping she would change her mind. But her head sat securely above her heart. She acknowledged her love for him, but she had duties more important than herself.

Now, Love in the Afternoon (1957) is one very unlikely movie that you would think would draw tears even from a crybaby like me. It is about a philandering playboy Flannigan (played by Gary Cooper) - yes, he's that much of a womanizer I have to be redundant - who was saved by Ariane (Audrey Hepburn), daughter of the detective hired by the husband of Flannigan's lover. The duped husband, learning about his wife's infidelity plotted to kill Flannigan. Ariane heard about the plot and she decided to save him. She saw Flannigan's picture while snooping among his father's detective paraphernalia. She was immediately smitten by Flannigan's good looks and air of "suave brutality" - to borrow a line from Gone With the Wind, a description drawn for Rhett Butler (played by Clark Gable in the movie version). Hepburn, though virginal, claimed to be living in with a man and had been having affairs with multiple lovers of various kinds, color and culture. She had to level with him to be noticed by him, she thought. And she fell so deep she suffered the worst case of "tulak ng bibig, kabig ng dibdib" disorder. The final scene at the train station left my ducts buckets of tears wanting.

Here's that scene:



If you want to watch the whole movie, just go to youtube.com and look for it. The movie has been divided to 13 parts by the angel who uploaded it.

My Two Nephs: John Michael and Kristian Lloyd

What's with the double names? Please, don't ask me. I'm just the aunt.


John Michael, barely one, in my room, colorful.

JM and Fries

JM faces camera squarely.

Kristian Lloyd, the teletubby. Cute! Cute!

Three gents from three gens: Tatay, Chen-Chen, Lilet

Halata bang mag-ama yung nasa kaliwa at kanan? Hairline na hairline pa lang...! :P

Michael Bublé: The Clark Gable, Gregory Peck and Cary Grant of My Time

Because there is so much to say. And words are not enough. Nay, because I'm not good enough to write about what I want to say.

Because Bublé...

Chow Yun Fat and Jose Rizal: The Men I Almost Married Had Fate Not Interfered

You know that someone is your friend when she or he can tell you who your men had been and how crazy you were about them. You can forget. Your friends don't.

It happened when I confessed to Ana about my current infatuation, nay, addiction to anything Michael Bublé. I told her he is the man I want to marry. Right now. That I love his wit, his humor, his good looks (Oh, how can this century produce a man whose charm can match that of Cary Grant, Gregory Peck and Clark Gable!), his stage presence, his charm, his singing voice that both melts the ice and ignites fire.

And to hell with his womanizing ways and pretty ex-girlfriends and current Argentine lover. Oh to hell with his money and fame and fortune! What I know is that he adores his family, his grampa and his gramma Yolanda! Oh what a co-incidence! Yolanda! OK, I have just been shot dead!

"You know what, you're just like that with your two ex-fantasy boyfriends - Chow Yun Fat and Jose Rizal!" So she reminded me.

Chow Yun Fat in early 2000. My one-way love affair started with Anna and the King. Hence, I read all articles I could find in the net about him. I even asked my Hongkonese friend about him. I was told he was the Prince to the folks in Hong Kong and China. Knowing someone who had actually met Chow Yun Fat at that time was humanity's gift to me.

Seven years later, Jose Rizal rose from the dead. I was asked to teach Rizal in school as there was no one else available. And because I had to cut operating expenses. And because I had to do something else to keep me sane where I work, I agreed to teach Rizal. Being the professional that I was, I had to be prepared. So I read three history books on Rizal and bought and read three books written by Ambeth Ocampo, THE certified Rizal scholar, and read as many articles on Rizal in the Internet. I taught about the life of Rizal so passionately I made some of my students cry, literally cry when I discussed in exalted admiration the causes of his death and how wasted his sacrifices had been because now, we regard him only as the head embossed on our almost useless peso coin or simply a name of a street or a town or a bank or a bag of cement. For 14 weeks, I lived, breathed, ate Rizal. And I came to love him. Loved him enough to almost join the Rizalistas.

Then came Bublé.