I DON’T’ remember the first time I learned about the concept of death. I do remember the first time my daughter surprised me with a question about it as we were in line at the cashier in a Zara boutique. She was 3.
The concept of mortality has evolved for me through the years. I was always brought to wakes when I was a child. Maybe because I followed my grandfather wherever he went. Wakes were times to spend with our first and second cousins. I remember one time staying almost half a day at Funeraria Paz on Recto Street helping to fold “money” paper.
Chinese wakes would always have that strong smell of incense. There’d always be bowls of food on the table, where the photo of the departed was. Every night, different Chinese groups would come to give a speech and play Chinese orchestra music. There’d be an elaborate paper mansion and paper car. Back then, I saw death as a send-off. I interpreted the number of people in wakes as a reflection of how much a person was appreciated.
It was not after my grandaunt’s passing when death became both real and meaningful to me. My grandaunt was diagnosed with cancer a few years back. I remember the night I found out about it was when she had to go to Hong Kong for a cobalt treatment. I kept on crying. I was hopeful that the treatment would make her OK. The day my grandaunt died, I remember rushing to the hospital. But, when we got to the emergency room, I saw her body lying still on a metal table. Up to this day, I can’t describe the sadness I felt.
My grandaunt was my most patient and loving mentor. Her death taught me to value people around me while they’re alive. It taught me that sickness would not go away just because I was fervent in my hope. It made me regret not spending more time with her. More than this, I felt bereft for not being able to say the biggest “thank you” that I wanted her to hear.
When my grandfather got sick, I was more aware of my regrets. During my grandfather’s last days in Manila Doctors Hospital, I was lucky to be there every night right after school. I had a chance to massage his hands and feet. I had a chance to show appreciation for a person, who made my childhood the best I could ever imagine. And yet, when I found out he died when I got to school that morning in my senior year, the pain I felt was not any less.
Fast forward to 14 years after, and my nanny got sick in 2009. We thought she’d gone to her hometown only for a check-up and that she’d be back, but it turned out that she had cancer, which had already spread throughout her body. I called her regularly to ask how she was doing. And I would cry after each call because I was so afraid to lose her. During what turned out to be our last phone conversation, I told her I was planning to visit her that weekend for her birthday. I ended that phone call with “I love you, Manang,” and she replied, “I love you, too.” The next day, her niece called to say that she had passed away. I was very surprised because Manang’s voice sounded strong only the day before. Her niece told me they were all surprised by how she managed to talk, since she would always be silent as she lay sick on her bed.
After my yaya died, I saw death as “transcendence.” I felt more proactive in leaving a great legacy for my yaya, who I believe gave so much to the people around her, even when she had very little. She was able to help send at least four of her relatives to school. She would often ask for a promotional umbrella or a toy from me every time she went home. It was her promise to kids in her neighborhood if they got good grades. One of them is a lawyer now, and the others are teachers. Today, her legacy lives on in a play area at their barangay center in Pangasinan.
The three most important people of my childhood have all passed. After their deaths, I challenged myself to become that “worthy transcendence.” Both my grandaunt and my nanny were not married. I hope my life can be part of their legacy. In my most challenging times, I know they continue to give me strength.
Today, I share my insights of mortality to my kids. I have taken my kids to visit our family’s burial spots since they were toddlers. We also visit Pangasinan once a year. I always tell them to thank our ancestors for the lives we have, and seek help from them in their daily lives. I try to relay to them the stories my dad and grandparents relayed to us. More than this, I show them the possibility that death is not the end of things. It’s our role as the people who are left behind to continue the good work of those who have gone before us.
Happy All Souls’ Day, everyone.