Coping

I’M ALWAYS GRATEFUL to God for orchestrating the course of my life. I excused myself from this afternoon’s Pabasa to sneak off to home and get myself a jacket before the Spiritus Hall airconditioning freezes me like a Magnum popsicle. There would be no going back. I asked my wife Myrna if she is all right to be in the company of our son Alex and his adoptive pickle buddy Aeron; she retorted that she is often left by her lonesome, therefore, my concern for a companion for her meant zilch. It doesn’t hold water, then, that she still insists Aeron keeps her company at night when she can always have the doors/gates locked. I never subscribed to her fear of basically nothing. To let the issue rest, I messaged Ate Isa I won’t be able to join the concluding hymns and closing prayers.

It was a serendipitous excuse. With a quick resolve to focus on vespers instead of joining the collective invocation back at the Hall, I thought a brief checking of my inbox might cheer me up. It did not, but the first message that greeted my internet visit was GenDong’s advice that Jess, my kid of a brother I endearly monickered Ading, died at dawn today. It was a jolt, because his wife, the beautiful Rheena, died of cancer two years ago and their 3 children are now orphans. My devastation was soothed by the fact that the only time I was with them was during the Christmas Fellowship. It was tendered by the One STG Band for the Admin Staff and maintenance crew of the HOA which included the village security detail and Kasambahays of homeowners who registered for the windfall that was distributed at the gathering. Add to this the fact that, at the bazaar in that same venue, Ading Jess disappeared for a while and, when he returned, surprised me with a black hoody he bought from a UK stall. It was not only very timely during that cold evening but also appropriately emblazoned in the back with the words that described the wearer as an animal lover. How apt, I grinned inwardly, from one animal to another, a lover both, at one time or the other.

I refused to imagine the shock of the three children who are now left with their old grandma. Papa will no longer be able to drive them one by one to their school and fetch them all again later. My contumaceous mind persists.
There was no mention of the cause of death. But GenDong later posted that a brother has agreed to an investigation thereof. If that relieved a little of the family’s grief, it is expected to answer a lot of questions of his friends like yours truly who are muted by mourning for dear, kind, loving, thoughtful igsuon, a Cebuano word meaning sibling. I thought it meant neighbor and was heartened to note that the corrected perception was closer to what I felt for Ading, thanks to a part Cebuano friend, Karen Mae, whose grief was mutual to mine. And to all his friends in the village, particularly the One STG Band members.But back to serendipity. I was thankful to be among the first of the boys (of the girls, only KM, and Ates Conn, Grace, and Darlene got wind of the tragic truth) to know but not as thankful to realize that I will no longer have a friend to save me from walking whenever there is a meeting among the SINAG editorial team. He was the faithful friend who would always ask if I needed a lift, as if I needed asking. The lift is always a great relief for my neuropathic feet.
But the serendipity did not help any when it precluded the surprise Doc Joey had for me in the morning of March 31, the birthday of my last surviving brother Sunny. A happy event even if it was displaced by an earlier news of Sis Virgie’s death, another dear friend, also at dawn. Her death, I was sure, crushed husband Kuya Alex more, since before the night we visited her suite at St. Luke’s Hospital, he cried unabashedy to a priest when he crossed paths with him and the latter asked him how his wife was.

It is true what we say to the bereaved that their departed loved one is in a better place already. I particularize this instance when I recall how Sis Virgie looked on her St. Luke’s suite hospital bed; she was in pain, I cannot soften this fact when I knew from the tubes and wires attached to her body why she could not even open her tired eyes nor attempt a smile during the time we were there. I prayed silently, “Lord, ease her pain.” Else why would her husband lose all his bravado of the past when we would visit them in their beautiful home and he was all bluster helping her out in accommodating our presence.

And her beautiful wife would be all over us. With her earnest hospitality and sincere efforts to make us feel at home with her snacks and take-home surprises. My fellow SAD visitors still savor the star apple salad she prepared for them the last time that they dropped by to check on her. Kuya Alex recalls that, because they liked the salad so much, she requested him to buy more star apples for their next visit. The fruits must be frozen by now.
Doc Joey’s surprise was an answered prayer, Patricia Evangelista’s book, ‘Some People Need Killing,’ which I have long wished for some two years now, which he eagerly promised delivery of. They used to be neighbors in NCR; he must’ve dialed her number and, soon, he was in front of my gate with the $27 paperback. I did not hide my euphoria when he handed it to me. And wasted no time in perusing the New York Times bestseller.
Later, in-between having dinner and drafting this narrative, I posted on viber an exhortation for the One STG Band to get together in a tribute of sorts for Ading Jess, an imperative since the hiatus of the group must have eased their energy for singing and rock-and-rolling. What better, noble, gesture to a dearly departed than a jamming to the max. A tribute of sorts, I called it. Until it reaches the gates of heaven as he enters.
While I was praying my vespers tonight, I made sure I did not forget entreating St. Joseph (and in my 6th decade of Hail Marys) that Sis Virgie and Ading Jess be spared of a visit to purgatory and may an angel guide them directly to the bosom of God. I never question prayers that seem to be preempted by death because I always have alternatives to them. It’s just hard to deal with the difficulty of not being able to see the departed loved one anymore.

I asked Doc Joey, in our little chat by our front gate, if he is agreeable to the tribute/reunion; he has Tuesdays and Thursdays free so will be available on those days. I posted the plan on the band’s viber chat site and expect an eager flood of hearts. (We were supposed meet in the afternoon of Easter Sunday to discuss the plan but events overtook the plans which miscarried naturally.)
Good Friday, no sooner was the Seven Last Words finished than Bing posted the shocking news that Fr. Roberto Custodio Jr. passed. The third in the series of (my) tragedy. He was the bright, young, erudite, promising priest whose guesting in HSP Masses was always looked forward to. His homilies were crisp, audible, and penetrating without pontificating. He was well-versed with homiletics but not sounding like he knew it all. He adopted the surname Pavone as a variation of the St. Lodovico Pavoni Parish of Antipolo City of which he was a member. His title has an FMI in the end, which means Filles de Maria Immaculé (Sons of Mary Immaculate) which evidently manifests in his heart for the Legion of Mary, especially the youth-inhabited Tower of Ivory.
Superstition does not sit well with me. Therefore, it did not surprise me that a real old friend from my Department of Labor past, Marie (we called each other partner when we were in former Secretary Nieves Confesor’s staff) succumbed to a heart attack. This is a sad fact because I have no one to ferry me to her wake. So I consoled my grief with prayers for her soul’s repose.

I haven’t the foggiest idea if having my white head of hair tinted has anything to do with grief. My mourning happens to be personal, albeit shared by fellow Legionaries (in Sis Virgie’s case), STG members (for Ading Jess), the parish community (who knew Fr. Robert), and the ILS friends, family, and thunders who cannot not know Partner (and ILS legend) Marie. But I am grateful to be disabused of the confirmatorily biased cliché that death comes in threes. Even if one of its origins, the soldier that was killed by a sniper (because he was the third who lit a cigarette from a single match), has a fairly acceptable impact. Although never for this perennial cynic when it comes to old wives’ tales.

I attribute the decision to a previous article, ‘Preparing,’ where I enumerated several of the countless reasons for being ready when my Maker calls me. I may have been healed of some of the many ailments that emerged during my three-week confinement in a hospital, but my medicines have dwindled to a number that has yet to be confirmed necessary by laboratory tests held hostage by an administrative hospital policy. And help would not be forthcoming. Not from a charitable surrogate parent who hinted of difficulty. Certainly never from a family member that has pledged a measly monthly maintenance amount. Therefore, my ultimate recourse is preparing. If not with a physical health, because I have no means of ascertaining my medical makeup, at least a body that will not be talked about during my wake. At least, I felt lighter the second time I went to the barber and suggested coloring that did away with my white side wall.

Because I have no time or patience for grief anymore. When I can instead pray and mourn and meditate. Which is the better, more solemn, spiritual manner to respect the departed. Making it certain that they are really and truly in a better place. I shed my tears afterwards for the golden buzzer moments and other tearjerking reactions of talents who knew they were good but did not mind being confirmed by contest judges. It was a good cry, bereft of the pain in the heart I dread finding in burials, and other inevitable send-offs, a sad euphemism for parting that has no promise of a reunion, except in resurrection.
The afternoon plan to discuss with fellow One STG Band members Ading Jess’s eulogy/tribute never materialized. Therefore did not garner plus or minus points for the current color of my hair. Neither did it affect my change of heart. Contrary to my past principle of looking my age, I decided to stay my altered, colored course. Although I definitely missed Ading Jess’ salute to my switch.

Before I kick the bucket, my only guilty vanity would be a concession to looking good inside a box. And I am confident because I practiced before a mirror, with my eyes closed, and I saw my sleeping facsimile clearly perfectly. Even if my wife and I already agreed to be cremated.
(I decided to return my hair to its natural white side wall. And felt prepared.)

It is Easter. I’m an Easter person. Attested to by articles in the past, including one particular poem. I’ve reached the end of this narrative. The tomb is empty once more. We are saved anew, and resurrected with Him. Hossana to our King.