The Philippine Online Chronicles

It is what all expats dread: the phone call from the Philippines that brings instant grief, sometimes unbelieving shock – a death in the family. Far away from the homes of our childhood and the siblings we left behind when we migrated, we go through a visceral and almost instant decision process – we’re coming home for the funeral, wait for us please.

The next few hours pass by like a whirlwind: the call to the travel agent or a quick trawl of the Internet; flight ticket bookings, travel schedules, a dash through the laundry for clothes hastily thrown into suitcase or travel bag (the mandatory white dress for her, the polo barong for him), money arrangements, a jumble of return phone calls to the Phils to arrange sundo at the airport, and departure eve that passes by in a blur, with extended family abroad dropping by to commiserate and press donation envelopes (makatulong, kahit papaano) and/or condolence cards into your numb hands. Somebody else goes for pizza and salad, KFC or whatever, and everyone speaks in hushed tones. Through a swarm of sympathy hugs and embraces, you do remember to arrange for a housesitter or someone to take care of the plants, the dog, or the car while you’re away.

And then there’s the lonely plane ride to Manila, your mind blank but unable to sleep, eyes unable to focus on the in-flight movie, the crying child in the front row somehow reminding you of yourself or your oldest child when still a baby, and how time has flown. Inwardly, you feel very old.

My wife and I went through these sad episodes twice in a recent 9-month period. In August, last year, my mother-in-law passed away in Manila and her children (four from the U.S., and one from Australia) came home for the funeral, joining hands with the youngest daughter, the only one who had not migrated. Mommy was a gracious, soft-spoken lady who had lived for over thirty years in California and was an American citizen. In 2005, aged and ailing, she had decided to move back to the Phils, refusing to see out the rest of her days in an aged care facility. She was well taken care of by her children in L.A., but over there, everyone goes to work daily and while comfortable, Mommy only had cable TV for daytime company. In Manila, her last few years were overseen by her youngest daughter, the only one left in the old country and a housewife who had time to care for her as only a daughter can.

Mommy died at the age of 87 and while not unexpected, it did mark the passing of an era for my wife and her siblings, their father having passed away young, back in 1984 in L.A.

At the end of May, two months ago, we got a totally unexpected call and this one was truly grievous. The bunso daughter who had taken care of Mommy, was dead at the age of 55 from an aneurism. She, in turn, was the mother of the latest family member at our home in Australia., Our favorite pamangkin was a St. Scholastica primary school teacher who had migrated to Australia in 2008. Still dalaga, my ina-anak sa binyag had spent large chunks of her childhood at our home in Las Pinas. She had the traditional migrant dream of building her own career abroad, then sending for her parents and siblings to join her as soon as she could sponsor them, and it was certainly furthest from her mind that her mom’s goodbye at the airport three years ago would be the last time she would see her mother alive. You can well imagine the tears that flowed and the sadness that reigned in our home as we booked airline tickets back to Manila.

This month as we observed the traditional Pinoy custom of marking Mommy’s first year death anniversary, my wife and I were quietly remembering how it was then, and how it had been with her sister’s death two months ago. The Pinoy male bears grief stolidly and I’m like that. My wife doesn’t let go with one big cry; she has many little cries and from time to time – I could be driving and she’s just sitting there quietly – I will note her dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and I know she’s remembering – something lacy and frilly in a shop window may have caught her eye, or a lovingly tended flowering shrub in a front lawn that we just passed by, funny how little things seem to trigger memories by association – and my wife still grieves.

But this blog is not just about loss and grief. It’s also about respite and solace.

In times of stress and sorrow, we all have comfort zones that we retreat to if only for (figuratively) a brief moment’s relief from the pressure of tears, anxiety and the emotional issues that attend the sudden loss of a loved one. The zone can be a person or persons, or a geographic place, even a meditation room, but whoever or whatever, the zone provides an oasis of pervading if brief, serenity.

For us, this time, it was a little suburban church. My in-laws family compound in Malate was crowded, with all the kapatids home for the funeral and so many kamag-anak and friends of kamag-anak in and out of the house at all hours. It was very good of a close pinsan to offer to put us up for the month at her home in Philam, Quezon City. Tahimik, you know how it is with gated estates. No tricycles or street vendors, and the village is well serviced by taxicabs. Maluwag ang bahay The husband was away, overseas, so there was just my wife’s cousin who is a practicing lady dentist, her 10-year old daughter, and the maids. Plus they had two cars and a driver. (In Manila in this century, families need at least two vehicles because of the color coding thing). Super OK. The bonus was St. Rita’s Church, only five minutes’ walk away.

We went to 6:30 morning mass every day. It was always nice and cool that early, the trees in the plaza still drippy in the after-rain, and it was soothing to hear the sound of walis na tingting brushing away fallen leaves from around the trees. The rostered cleaners were always up early. Always, in the mornings, we would hear a sound long lost to our ears – the sound of a rooster crow. Cock crow in the big city! How pleasantly rustic! How evocative of the early subdivisions when there were still semi-rural folk to be found in the start-up areas of Moonwalk and Better Living and the new villages in Pasig and Marikina!

Not that many people attended church at that time on weekdays. But there was always a ladies’ choir of sorts and they sang old church hymns we could relate to and sing along with. We liked coming a few minutes early and just sitting there and gazing at the altar and getting our thoughts all sorted out. On our first visit, I noted the mostly elderly attendance and was amused – we kinda belong here – I said to myself. Then I noticed the youngish woman in the row behind me with deeply hollowed eyes; I noticed the bandanna (scarf?) wound tightly around her head (in church?) and I did a double take and then gave her a smile. She smiled back and it was a sad smile. I saw her several times in church during our stay in Manila but we never got to converse with her. Wherever she is now, I hope she’s doing well or in remission. From time to time, I remember her brave little sad smile.

There was always a brief homily at St. Rita’s. Don’t remember any of it but the priest’s voice was a sonorous, soothing baritone. In the first week, my wife and I had to stifle yawns – we were always up late from the pa-siyam prayers the night before. The nine nights of prayers were another welcome source of spiritual comfort. It was pleasant to be surrounded by family members and to intone the repetitive litany responses. That dates me, I guess, because I remember back in the 60s when the responses were still in Spanish (Ruega por ella) for the souls of grandmothers past. Nowadays, the prayers are a bit more verbose but the responses are more varied and literate (we beseech thee, hear us) or (and let my cry come unto thee).

In the month of our deepest grief, family members took us along for a week-end in Bohol and out to dinner in various family combinations (my family and her family, father’s side and mother’s side and my brother-in-law’s family too. Friends, too, in respective groupings – my DBP cronies, her Central Bank barkada, kumadres and old neighbors from BF Homes, old university chums, and our newest in-group – the high school classmates that we bonded with at our Golden Anniversary reunion and the various post-reunion reunions. For brief moments, the sadness dissipated and we could recharge batteries.

At our age, though, each death in the family is a distinct memory and will always have distinctive memory associations. This year, my youngest and favorite sister-in-law died suddenly and unexpectedly in the Philippines and the grief is still with us even as I write. And I will always remember that my wife and I went back to the old country for the funeral and afterwards that we walked in the early mornings to a quiet, little suburban church in Quezon City to rest our weary hearts.

Rolando A. Lampa

Melbourne, Australia