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?

In the line of cancer

There are only three of them left now. The other three passed on. One because of sickness--diabetes and all its complications; the other two, because of sickness--of people who think they are not worthy to be kept alive.

While my mother is trying to keep herself cancer-free, my uncle is in our house trying to recuperate from his own cancer. He has just had his first chemotherapy session with my mother's doctor. Just then, my cousin got in touch with me telling me the sad news--her mother, my Ma's sister, who had just undergone a surgery on her thyroid, was found with a lump on her neck. After the biopsy, it turned out to be cancerous. Her doctor advised radiation. It was a sad news amidst something good that is happening to my cousin. She was due to go to Canada in the middle of September. But then, the doctor just gave my Aunt some medicine first and scheduled her radiation in November yet. My cousin left as scheduled, though with a heavy heart, for leaving her mother in such state.

So now, the three remaining siblings fight the same battle, although in different degrees, and different ways. The upside is that they each have a family who love them and support them in the middle of all this.

Parallel episode

“Aguy! Kasakit sa akong tiyan.”
My head snapped up to the owner of the pained voice. Time seemed to stop. My heart beat wildly; my breathing was nonexistent. I went cold.

“Maó man siguro ni ako kamatyan.”

That was my Uncle who has just been diagnosed of nasal cancer. He’s 72, and until now, was leading a very active, very healthy lifestyle. After having been diagnosed of cancer, he was prescribed a lot of medicines including prednisone.

Hearing those pained words, I was transported back in time when the same words (well, almost, since it had been said in Tagalog) were uttered by a girl of six with fragile body who had also been diagnosed of cancer—acute lymphoblastic leukemia—and was also given a lot of medication including prednisone.

“Mommy, ang sakit-sakit ng t’yan ko,” she used to cry to her worried and helpless mother.

She used to have stomachache all the time. It occurred to me that if a 72-year-old strong and able man could not stand the pain, how much worse could it have been to a little girl in such a delicate shape?

I still remember that fateful afternoon. It was raining hard. Her Mommy hailed a taxi to take her to the hospital. I expected her to be there for a day, then she would be home for Christmas. But that was not meant to be. The doctors decided to do a surgery on her stomach to see what was bothering her. My sister, trusting the doctors, and thinking of nothing but only the best for her only daughter, consented. My sister brought her crying child to the operating room, waited outside for what seemed like an eternity, only to see later her only daughter come out of the room with tubes all over her. Her daughter was not able to talk to her again. Ten days after, we lost her totally. Her frail little body couldn’t take the assault of the knife.

It was practically the stomachache that actually took my niece from us.

Now, hearing those same words, witnessing the same reaction from another person—an adult—left me cold. It occurred to me that the pain must have been caused by the medicines introduced into her very young body. My mind raced, and just when I thought I had forgotten and forgiven, all the pain of losing someone I love came back. And then, the anger.

It is a pity, really. I am not a mother, but I am so much affected. Every time I remember my young niece in that state, I still cry even after five years. I can’t imagine what it is like with her mother who was also her best friend.

If there is one thing this experience has taught me, it was never to give my full trust to a doctor: certainly, never to rely too much on him. Even if he is the most expensive doctor in the most expensive hospital in the city.

One has to be equipped with all the details. Exhaust all the alternatives, study possibilities, research about the possible consequences of a process, listen to the patient. After all, she or he is the owner of that body. The doctors want an immediate result, for a lot of different reasons--from showing the care givers that they are doing something, shutting off the insistent parents, getting big amount (which they get regardless of the result of their operation), to maybe sincerely wanting to help.

What I feel was wrong with the system at the time my niece had her ailment was that doctors didn’t exhaust all other alternatives. And a worried Mommy couldn’t think clearly when in distress. That is why the people around them should be doubly alert. If possible, be a devil’s advocate. Sometimes a villain is necessary in a scene so that other possibilities can be explored, and probable consequences examined.

It’s no use crying over spilt milk, so they say. What has been done can never be undone. The dead couldn’t be brought back to life. But then, there are still many who are experiencing what we have experienced before. And I just hope they could come up with what they feel the best decision—and one that they won’t regret later on.

And for this family, I hope we can finally find it in our hearts to forgive and forget and move on with the rest of the living.

Her Passing

Before we even have the time to absorb the news about my Uncle having cancer, we have received news that my Auntie, who has just finished her chemotherapy for breast cancer, passed away this morning.

I contacted my cousin to find out the truth, deep down hoping this was all just false alarm. Maybe some gossip that is misunderstood and not properly relayed. But then, all my hopes fly out the windows when my cousin confirmed it. She said it was all so sudden. Her Mama just had difficulty breathing, and then she passed. My cousin said her Mama did not seem to suffer much. She just lay there, and went to eternal peace.

I am hesitant to tell my Mama about her. Auntie came to my Mama after the former had had her mastectomy to ask who Mama's doctor was. She had known Mama had breast cancer and had finished her chemotherapy. So she went to the same doctor that treated my Mama. They had the same treatment (at least, I think they did). But she had to travel hundreds of kilometers from Agusan to Davao City to have her chemo.

One time she traveled alone, and she felt nauseous in the bus. She panicked. She didn’t know anybody in the bus. It was a blessing that one of her former students was also a passenger. After that, she didn’t dare go to Davao all by herself.

She finished all her six sessions of chemo despite some delays. Her doctor prescribed tamoxifen. The last time I saw her, she was up and about, talking about her plans of traveling and other stuff. And that was almost five months ago. So I was utterly stunned when my sister told me this morning that Auntie has passed away. Of course, I was afraid, too. She had the same disease as my Mama, she had the same doctor, the same treatment, and now she’s gone.

I’m really going to miss her. She was very accommodating, very thoughtful, always smiling. Every time I got stranded in San Francisco, Agusan, it was with her that I would stay. With her gone now, there’s this big empty space she is leaving behind. I could say maybe this is best for her. But there will always be emptiness. I can just imagine how her children might be feeling.

So to her family, my prayers of peace and healing.

And to Auntie, rest in God’s eternal bliss.

And Then There’s Another

First, it was my cousin’s cervix, then, my niece’s bone marrow, then, my Mama’s breast, my Mama’s cousin’s breast, and finally, (or so I thought), my Papa’s brother’s colon. And just when we thought the shopping was over, my Mother’s brother’s nose came next.

Blast it! My uncle has got cancer—and one that is rare—nasal cancer. And he is 72 years old, for goodness’ sakes! Grabe na jud ni!

He had difficulty breathing. He could not eat properly, because swallowing the food was an effort. So, together with his wife and his daughter, he traveled all the way from their place to Davao to see his doctor. There was a mass in his nasal cavity, and the doctor performed a biopsy. The result: tumor. Malignant. His doctor advised surgery and then cobalt. They start clearing him for the surgery. He’ll be observed for a week to find out if his lungs and heart are up to it. And in a week’s time, they will dig.

I had always seen my Uncle as strong, agile even restless. At 70, he was still actively involved in the school he used to manage. He still taught, and was a member of the Board of Directors, and an insurance agent on the side, not to mention his activities in the church. He still traveled for business or pleasure or both. He was very healthy. Until now, that is.

I could say maybe it was old age. But then some live to be 90 and they don’t have cancer. Well, I guess, we all have our own way of dealing with old age. Or is it the old age has its own way of dealing with us? But then, their environment back in their place is also a suspect. When I think of their place, I think POLLUTION. Everywhere you go in that place, you smell no fresh air just fresh factory smell. At any time of the day. It is a pity really since that place is considered the most “progressive” in the province. When I go there, I could not prepare my respiratory system enough for the onslaught. So I would have to do quickly with whatever business I might have and then go.

On the other hand, they say cancer has no known cure yet, and there is no certainty as to its real cause.

I just hope my Uncle can deal with this ordeal the way he has faced all the other trials he had to face before.

And God bless him and his family.