A Christmas Mourning

There she was again, standing still in her own small compartment. Looking at me with those blue unusually big eyes crowned with thick eyelashes. I always wondered how a cute little face could hold such huge eyes. Her rosy cheeks pulling up to emphasize the permanent smile plastered in her red lips that were curiously smaller than the bottom of a pen. Her right hand suspended in the air in that stationary wave.
It was a look that would engage every child; captivate every kid.
She was Mimi, a life-sized doll—every little girl’s dream. But it was not that smile I wanted to see; not those eyes I longed to look; not that hand I wanted waving at me. To me, that countenance only haunted.
It never failed: a glimpse of her sent shivers down my spine. Not the kind of shiver one might feel watching a horror film. But one that accompanied anxiety, regret, the sense of loss.
In another time, that portrait could have delighted a child. A child who might not have been able to resist those eyes. The child would have run to her and hugged her close never meaning to let go. The child would have played with this inanimate being as if it were a sister.
Christmas was looming. Soon it would be here again. And with it would come the pain--of remembering, of losing.
It had been five years now since I had Mimi Doll.
Two weeks before Christmas, five years ago, I saw Mimi on a shelf at a toyshop. I took one glance at her and I knew she would be perfect. Little Kat would love her. Kat had been longing for a little sibling to play with. She was excited when Derrick came. Except that she couldn’t play with Derrick yet. Not the way she wanted to. Derrick could not yet talk properly, let alone walk. He was, after all, only a-year-and-a-half old. Yes, Mimi would fit the scene perfectly.
I had bought the huge doll but hid it from Kat. I wanted to give it to her on Christmas. I wanted to surprise her. To see the childlike glee in her face and the spark in her eyes. To hear the joyful shriek in her voice as she hugged her new playmate. On Christmas morning. If I had only known better…
Mimi would be an ideal playmate for Kat. This huge Blondie might not be able to talk back to Kat, but at least, our little girl could talk to it and do whatever she wished to do with it without fear of hurting it or being hurt by it. And with Kat’s special condition, she should never be hurt in any way.
Kat had been diagnosed of ALL—Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. It is a kind of cancer in the bone marrow that commonly hits children. She had been undergoing chemotherapy for six months.
We were so excited since she was supposed to be given her last shot in December. But two days before that long awaited date, Kat complained of much pain in her stomach. It got so painful; her mother rushed her to the hospital despite the rain. We thought it would be just like her usual visits to the hospital. But we were wrong.
When Kat’s mother told us the news that the doctors would perform a surgical operation on Kat, we were all shocked. We wanted the doctors to tell us there were still some other ways—ones that wouldn’t put our little angel in more pain than she had already been suffering.
But there seemed to be no better option. And we were afraid of what might have happened if the surgery wouldn’t be performed.
For hours we waited for the operation to finish. Outside the operating room, we chatted freely, trying to pacify the tension within. As if doing so would make us forget… would bring Kat back to us in her usual bubbly self. We wore a calm façade, trying to foil the turmoil deep down inside, pushing away the nagging thought that the worst might happen.
And when the operation did end, although the doctors had warned us about it, nothing could prepare us for what we saw: the Kat we had never seen before. Her limp body lay in bed, a large tube inserted in her mouth, and some other smaller ones pinned to her limbs. Her eyes closed. We listened intently as the doctor spoke. Hanging on to every word, we waited for that one phrase of assurance that never came. Not one in the family spoke.
But no word was necessary. No tear could express what was inside. We all felt the pain, the fear. But among us, one person bore it all—Kat’s Mommy. She felt the most pain. And then the sob…and the uncertainty. “My daughter will be fine, won’t she? She will be home for Christmas, right?” Her voice and sobs echoed through the thick walls of the hospital. Oh, I would never forget that look in her eyes.
Still we clung on. Hoped. Never gave ourselves chance to think of the worst. Never once did any of us thought all would come to this. Even when the doctors had said it was Leukemia, we all had thought this would come to pass.
It was four days before Christmas—Kat’s favorite time of the year. We thought…hoped Kat would be home by then. I could imagine the look in her eyes when she would see Daisy Doll. And she would see Mimi Doll. She should.
But it was not meant to be. On Christmas Eve, while the city buzzed with the spirit of the season, the house was deafeningly silent. For the sake of the other children who were anticipating merriment, the family celebrated the holy day as normally as possible. But even the children could pick up the tension, the anxiety. Even they knew something was missing—someone was not there with us. Kat’s absence was too tangible to be ignored.
And while the rest of the family was in the house, celebrating Christmas, at the hospital, Kat’s mother didn’t sleep. Her heart doing somersaults, not with excitement but with anxiety and fear. While the rest of the city went bustling for last minute holiday shopping, or simply merrymaking, Kat’s father hustled around the city for available blood to be transfused into his only daughter. On Christmas morning, the children gathered round the tree, excited to gather the gifts that bore their name. After the gift giving, there was a pile of gifts that were unopened. It was too much of a reminder that someone was not there.
Thus, Christmas came to pass. We hoped the New Year would fare better. We hoped we all would be together the way we had always been during such a time.
But again, it was not meant to be. December 30, over ten days since Kat was first brought to the hospital: after seeing how bruised Kat’s little body had been, we finally let her go. The doctors had tried to revive her, pumping life into her small body until Kat’s Mommy could stand it no longer, and screamed for them to stop hurting her little baby.
Thus, Kat left. It was surreal. Could it have been possible that the first to go in this family was only a six-year-old girl? Mommy’s ‘bestest’ friend, gone? Who would receive the gifts under the tree? The gifts with the tag “For Kat”? Who would embrace Mimi now?
New Year: a time when families should be together. The whole family was together, but not as we had hoped. We were all at the funeral parlor, with Kat among us--lying in a metal box.
That had been five years ago. Now, Kat’s no longer with us, but her memory remains.
It’s time to let her go. Kat’s already happy with her Maker. And it is time for us here to move on. And it’s time to let go of Daisy, too. And the prospect saddens me.
Somewhere, someone will smile at the sight of Mimi Doll. Even if it won’t be our Kathleen, she will have the smile that we will no longer be able to see from our one dear girl who once was. The twinkle in her eyes wouldn’t be that of our Kat-kat’s. But it will be a twinkle of anticipated joy.
The girl will be happy. And Kathleen will be, too.
Goodbye, Mimi.
So long, Kathleen.

My Uncle Manong

I can’t remember anymore the first time I met him. But my memory of him consists of huge smile, loud voice, and big bills.

Mama called him, ‘Manong’ so I would call him, Uncle Manong. At first, I really didn’t know what his real name was. I just took it for granted that his name was Manong. It wasn’t until high school that I realized his name was really Cresencio. But by then, I got used to him as Uncle Manong. Besides, Cresencio was a mouthful.

When he’s in the house, nobody could fail to notice him. He was usually loud—talked out loud, laughed out loud, even his whispers were like stage whispers. Even in sleep—his snores are loud. But there was never a dull moment when he was around.

We would be excited and always looked forward to his visits. And why not, he would never leave without giving us an orange (P20) or pink (P50) bill in our hands. Our parents never gave us any amount more than one peso coin. To us, he was like Santa Claus.

When I was growing up, he struck me as a very active healthy individual. I never saw him grimace in pain or heard him complain sick.

When I became a teacher, I would bump into him in some conferences and athletic meets—at age 60 at that. Beyond that age, he would be present during special occasions of any clan gathering that he would be informed about—funerals, weddings and reunions. Even when he started being forgetful, he was still his old active self.

Oh, he was very energetic that kept us younger generation wondering if we would ever be as active as he when we reach that age, or if we would ever reach that age.

Then, in the middle of this year, he came stayed with us while seeing a doctor about a lump in his nose that interfered with his breathing. He even demonstrated, “O, lain na ako tingog tungod aning naa’y gabara sa ako ilong.” Indeed, his voice was different.

A series of tests confirmed he had an advanced stage of cancer that had possibly spread to some parts of his body. He had one session of chemo and we thought he was actually going to get better. But then, one night he had a fever and we took him to the hospital where he stayed for a month.

After a month or so of being poked by needles and tubes my Uncle finally cried enough! He complained he was tired, and insisted he go home to Mangagoy. His children and his wife couldn’t do otherwise but obey his wishes.

He was then taken home and cared for by his children. After a month, his children bade him good bye.

It was both a sad and joyful moment. Joyful because he would no longer be suffering. And sad, because we are surely going to miss this loud jolly energetic Santa Claus. Why do you think it took me over a month after his passing to write about him?