I Hope All Dogs Go To Heaven

Kira outside our home in  Lipa, Batangas. 2009.

Only now, do I allow myself to grieve.  Monday it was, when we were told the incomprehensible news that our dog, Kira, just died.  We just went to the grocery. She was barking as usual. She ate her dog food as she normally does.  When we were gone, she too, left - for good. She took a nap, and didn't wake up.  There wasn't even time to say good-bye, and thank you, and sorry.  And I did not grieve then.  I had a job interview the next day, and had to prepare my teaching-demo.  I realize now, how good I am at blocking off emotions, and focusing on what I need to get done.  I proceeded with my day as though nothing had happened.  But today, I release what I blocked off yesterday, and as I write this, I feel not only Kira's loss, but all those other dogs I've lost in my life.  In some ways, the heart learns with practice, like all other muscles of the body, it has memory, and it toughens up over time.  It becomes strong and resilient - but not numb.  The pain is still felt.  I know the drill. I will cry and mourn, and it will pass.  I will add her to the list of souls to look for in the after life.

Kira and I, both pregnant. Lipa, 2009.

When I told Narra the news, she asked: "Is it the mama dog that died?".  She sees our dogs as a reflection of our family configuration: there's a papa dog, mama dog, and baby dogs.  "Yes"..."the Mama died".  And I felt it in my gut.  Kira was my canine counterpart. I was pregnant when Oliver got her as a mate for his German Shepherd.  Soon, she was pregnant too.  After I gave birth, she too gave birth to 6 pups.  We were both first time moms.  When Kira came, she was this beautiful creature, agile and strong, and so smart! She was trained to follow commands, not just to sit and shake hands, but also to jump up the fence, and to patrol it! She'd strut on our wall, a vision of poise, confidence, and balance.  Oh how we admired her! She reeked of youth and energy.  After she gave birth though, her body sagged, and breast feeding her brood seemed to take its toll.  I commiserated with her then, and saw in her, a bit  of myself and what I was going through.  I remember this moment, I sat on the steps outside the house, and just looked into her eyes, and told her "hang in there, Kira, it will all be fine", she was resting, her loose tummy collapsing to the floor as she lay on her side.  

Kira, patrolling our fence, on command. 2009.

Dogs giving birth.  They seem to be a recurring fixture in my life line.  SANDY.  In Spain in 2001, my sister Marion, picked a stray dog and made her family, we called her Sandy (after the scruffy dog in Annie).  She turned out to be pregnant - and that was a headache - we looked for a new home for her and her pups, and found a Filipina friend with a farm in Denmark! The day before the road trip to her new home, she gave birth! To 4 puppies. But apparently 3 more puppies were left in her tummy. She was slowly dying from the complication.  We ran to the vet, she was operated on, our savings from teaching English all summer disappeared in a flash. Dog and puppies, and all our belongings were packed in the car, and we began our road trip from Spain, through France, and Germany, to the the north of Denmark! Aalborg it was, where our friends Cynthia and Erik agreed to take in Sandy and her puppies.  I was bottle feeding the puppies on the road, while hand-feeding Sandy who was recovering from her operation.  One puppy died in my hands, he was the runt in the pack and simply didn't want to open its mouth to feed.  I couldn't offer life to a creature who didn't want to live. We buried it on the side of the road somewhere in France - or Germany. When we arrived in Denmark, I had to leave her there - the dog for whom I felt so much love.  She was barking hysterically when I turned around and walked away.  We had a long road trip back to Spain - and I saw the rest of Germany, Austria, Italy, and France through teary eyes. 

Kira's pups, 1-day old. 2009.

COLLETTE. Christmas day, 2010. She was pregnant, and had just given birth to two puppies.  We couldn't find a vet anywhere, it being Christmas eve.  Collette, our smart and bubbly poodle, had given birth before and she was an excellent mother. She'd lick her pups and feed them.  But something was wrong.  This time, she didn't even lift her head. She didn't open her eyes. I tried to coax her to fight to live.  By midnight, she was gone. She left us her Christmas orphans, and we tried to keep them warm and desperately tried to get them to feed.  They didn't make it through the night.  It was a very sad Christmas.  My parents are still caring lovingly for Collete's kin that's left with us.

I can only imagine how Oliver feels about losing Kira.  He has his own life stories of great connections with his canine companions, stories that are only his to tell.  I talk to Oliver about everything - almost, but death and loss always leaves me tongue tied.  I never quite know what to say to him, or how, or whether I should even bring it up. So I keep quiet. Because it seems the right thing to do when one has no words of comfort to offer anyway.  There's a void. A gap. A hole. An emptiness. There's an empty spot where she used to sit. There's death. She's not just a dog, she's family, and she's gone.  

Kira, I am sorry I was unable to say a proper good-bye.  If I had the chance, I'd say sorry I neglected you. I'd say thank you for spending time with us. I'd say I love you for being the inspiring and beautiful specimen you are. I'd say, I will miss you, and always remember you, like all our other dogs, wonderful creatures all, who came into our lives and made us better people.  You were a very good dog, and deserve, in every way, to be in heaven.  So, I guess this is it. Good-bye.

Our 4th Wedding Anniversary and Fond Remembrances of Loved Ones Lost

Our marriage rites, with Monsignor Aguilar (now deceased) in the foreground.

The date was 08-08-08. Oliver and I got married, and it was an incredibly happy day. Now, years later, on our fourth anniversary, I look back on that day with a deeper understanding and better appreciation of what a happy time that truly was.  They were all still there, then. Before God took them back.  Some beloved ones who celebrated our milestone with us. When I look back at photographs, their faces grab my attention.  It's funny how we see things differently as time passes. Right after the wedding, I was looking at superficial things in pictures: dresses and decor, and which angles were most flattering.  Today, as heavy rains descend upon us with no pause - and half of my city is submerged in water - as flash floods rage and some friends and family seek refuge elsewhere after having evacuated from their homes - I revisit my wedding album with a keen sense of the uncertainty of life.  And I use the photos, and the act of looking through them, as a springboard for jumping through time and space and taking a mind trip. My wedding album is my boarding pass to this magical destination in my brain - where I am in an eternal celebration - where the dead still live - and we are all forever young, and beautiful, and happy.

Monsignor Pablo Aguilar, one of three priests who con-celebrated our wedding mass, was so strong he took the strenuous 10-hour land trip from Bicol to Manila the day before our wedding - then incredibly - made the same trip back the day after. Who knew he was then afflicted with leukemia? Less than three months later, he was gone.  It was the 31st of October when he died. I remember because I had just come back from the cemetery to visit Oliver's father's grave when we discovered I was bleeding and may be having a miscarriage. I followed doctor's orders and stayed in bed praying that I wouldn't lose my baby.  And for that reason, I was unable to say a proper good-bye and pay my respects. I was unable to make the trip to attend his final milestone, while he was able to make the trip to take part in ours. Oliver and I owe him a debt we can no longer repay - unless, perhaps through prayer.  God did listen to my pleas, and my threatened miscarriage was addressed in time - and we were blessed with our daughter Narra. Shortly after she was born, however, we received devastating news.

Oliver and I, with Owen, at our wedding reception.

Owen Carsi Cruz, Oliver's brother, announced to the family that he was diagnosed with lung cancer in its advanced stages in June, 2009. Narra was just a month old then.  Slowly, as the months passed, the disease took its toll on his body and he started to shrink before our eyes. I look back at our wedding pictures and I see him the way I want to remember him - tall and handsome, proud and strong, vibrant and active. He put up a valiant effort to fight the disease, doing everything possible to find a cure. His efforts prolonged his life another two years, but we lost him in September, 2011. By then, I had given birth to our second child Guijo, who unfortunately contracted an infection and was confined in the same hospital where Owen was being treated - for the last time.  They left the hospital on the same day. Guijo went home to us, to start his life. Owen went home to God, to end his life on earth.  We were just recovering from Owen's loss when death claimed another of our kin.

With pretty Tita Boots, at the reception dinner.

Ma. Raquel Socorro, Oliver's aunt, was just at home, cleaning up as usual, when she felt funny. She was rushed to the hospital and didn't make it through the night. Just like that. She wasn't even sick with any disease. Tita Boots, as we lovingly called her, was a vivacious lady, fun-loving and sociable. I can almost hear her high pitched voice and her infectious laugh.  At our wedding, she was strikingly slim and pretty...which is her usual look.  There was never a hint of ill health in her outward appearance. We  buried her in October, 2011 - a week before Guijo's baptism.  And at that baptism, we had an honored guest. My Lolo Inte, my mother's uncle and our family's patriarch. He was then already in an advanced stage of colon cancer, and was in pain. But he made the effort to travel from Bicol to Manila to attend the affair. He was amazing like that. He'd make the effort, make the trip, to be there for family. Lolo Inte has been a big part of our wedding from the very start.

Lolo Inte at our Pamamanhikan dinner, when Oliver's family met ours.

Atty. Vicente De Lima, our "Lolo Inte", honored us by being a role-player at our pamamanhikan (the process of the groom's family meeting with the bride's family to formally discuss the forthcoming marriage).  It was May, 2008 - three months before our wedding. I was still based in Singapore then, and had to fly in for the affair. My Lolo Inte had to travel from Bicol so he could play the role of respected elder, and formally receive Oliver's family into ours.  Lolo Inte provided a precious line of continuity. He was there too, thirty years before, when my father formally presented himself to my mother's family, to ask for her hand in marriage. A man of incredibly sharp memory, Lolo Inte had many stories. Oliver and I made a family tree as part of our wedding invitation, and he gave me a century's worth of details, the names of my ancestors who lived on for as long as he remembered them.

Lolo Inte, giving us wise counsel at our pre-wedding  pamamanhikan.

Lolo Inte died last week and he is in my mind.  And I remember an image of him on my wedding day, one that was not caught on camera, but will forever be replayed in my mind.  I was walking down the aisle, bathed in sunlight, and I saw him turn his head, and seeing me enter, he made the effort to slowly stand up - and I felt so honored. Here was this big, proud man, our respected elder and patriarch, standing for me because I was a bride.  Lolo Inte respected the institution of marriage and valued the sacred ritual that made it possible for previously unrelated families to become related.  I loved Oliver long before we got married - but it was on that day, 08-08-08, that we became family - that Atty. De Lima became Oliver's Lolo Inte, that Owen became my brother, and Tita Boots my aunt.  This is the kind of miracle performed by priests like Monsignor Aguilar, who transform strangers into family in the marriage rites they solemnize.  

So this anniversary is a celebration of family ties, and we remember that wonderful, happy day that enabled such bonds to be formed. Since that day four years ago, we have lost loved ones, but also brought into this world, two beautiful children.  I hope to spend many more August 8's in my life, and I plan to sit down, and show my children photographs, and tell them stories about the people who were there that day. I will make sure those loved ones who've passed away, will live on, in our minds, and hearts, and be remembered the way they were caught in photographs: strong, healthy, and smiling from the gut, in sincere happiness for Oliver and I, on the day we became one.

A Model Death: How Atty. Vicente De Lima Died With Excellence

Uncle Vicboy, the youngest son, sharing to us his father's last words.

He lived large. He died well. And the little town he loved gave him a grand goodbye fit for heroes.  He was, after all, a proud son of Iriga, and a true local hero whose presence would be sorely missed.  Atty. Vicente Bagaporo De Lima, my grand-uncle "Lolo Inte", had a kind of death that inspires. He always endeavored to be a model citizen in life - and he stayed true to this ethos to his final days.  A role model as a dying man, he was. We could all wish a death like his. Not that there is anything grand about colon cancer. But it is how he seized the opportunity offered by his disease that I find instructive.  As the disease weakened him day by day, he took the chance to do beautiful things: he made amends,  he said his goodbyes, and left instructions. All these, he did with excellence.

Lolo Inte's widow, Lola Norma, with their eldest daughter, Auntie Leila.
In their living room.

"Patawad" (forgive me). This was the word most uttered by Lolo Inte in his final days. In his speech for his father, my Uncle Vicboy relayed how he asked his father "How are you?" and he replied "These are the happiest days of my life".  When Uncle Vicboy asked what caused so much happiness, Lolo Inte gave the most surprising response: it is happy times because it is the time for forgiveness.  Like other men of power, Lolo Inte was bullish.  He was not the type who tread softly, and he was no fence sitter either. He would take a strong stand, speak his mind, and exert great influence on matters big and small. People like these, who do not play safe, are bound to constantly clash with those of a differing view. And this is what makes him awe-inspiring.  He was ever the gentleman. A strong fighter who played fair and won the respect of friends and foes alike.  A big man with such a strong will shines with a blinding light and casts a huge shadow. Anyone who lived too close to him may have suffered from the intensity he radiated, for it mustn't be easy being too close to a raging fire.  His final act, of asking for forgiveness from anyone he may have hurt - of acknowledging his shortcomings - is disconcertingly poignant.  It is such a humble gesture for a big man who lived loud.  I knew Lolo Inte to be a man of brilliant intelligence and sharp wit - but his final words, seals the deal - he is truly a wise man.    

The driveway leading to the house, lined with funeral wreaths.

Patawad. It means many things related to making amends: forgiveness, sorry, pardon, indulgence. It also means immunity, and absolution - very appropriate words for something as final as death. But there is an earlier meaning, for the root word tawad, which today is understood as "bargain" and "discount". An old dictionary from 1915 lists the following alternate words for tawad: turing, utos, bilin, or in English: bidding.  His final act is to ask for forgiveness, as it is to ask those he leaves behind to forgive one another for any future conflicts after he is gone. Lolo Inte was the patriarch - a unifying force that glued a huge family together.  He was leader and chief, arbiter and judge, warrior and protector, sage and shaman. Yes, shaman.  He, to me, was the link to ancestors, and authoritative interpreter of the wishes of the dead. He gave them voice, and reminded the living to honor their legacy. He was rooted to the family's land, cultivating not only trees and vegetation, but also memories and dreams.  Tawad means bilin (bidding), and he made sure to leave instructions - both the serious kind (like his will, which shall be read to the family next week), and the "fun" kind - like funeral details which he planned the way a bride plans for her wedding.

A student string ensemble from a nearby school, during the wake.

It almost seems irreverent to say this, but I believe Lolo Inte found the "fun" in funeral.  He picked which photograph of his would be blown-up for the banner; he decided the placement of his coffin in his large living room; he picked the color and kind of flowers to use. He arranged for his wife's ride to the church and cemetery, aboard a brand new car he picked out himself.  He even talked to the caterer, deciding on the menu, and placement of buffet tables.  There were nearly a dozen tents with dressed tables and chairs set up on his huge front lawn for visitors... and even a couple more tents to the side for "performers" - a choir, dance troupe, and several bands - an orchestra - a brass band - string ensemble - various groups performing at different times throughout the 5 days of vigil leading up to his funeral.  It is one of the grandest affairs his house has ever hosted. No less than President Noynoy Aquino came to pay his respects. A Philippine flag flew proudly from Lolo Inte's flag pole.  A red carpet was rolled out, from driveway to his living room, making for a stately path lined with funeral wreaths from so many political figures of diverse leanings (including Joma Sison).  The funeral wreaths were later transfered to the cemetery, all three trucks of them, and they were arranged on the path to Lolo Inte's final resting place - it looked peculiarly festive.  "The happiest days of my life" was what he said to Uncle Vicboy, when asked how he was in his final hours. What a beautiful thing to say. My achievement-oriented Lolo Inte succeeded in living large and dying well.  

It was such a beautiful affair I felt sorry to leave early to catch the last flight to Manila so Oliver and I could return to our kids. I had to head from the church to the airport, without joining the funeral at the cemetery.

I am sorry I was unable to bring you to your huling hantungan Lolo Inte. Patawad.

2 Deaths in 40 days: Mourning The Loss of Family

I am struck by the way events repeat themselves. The good and the bad come in discernible patterns, especially in my husband's family. Death and Life, occurring in batches.

In the early 1970's, the Socorro sisters Mama Rubi and Tita Boots gave birth to baby boys just months apart. For Mama Rubi it was her 5th child, Oliver. For Tita Boots, it was her first born, Thunder. Oliver had his own big brother, Owen who was ten years older, and he found another brother in his cousin Thunder.  They are very close, best friends. Fast forward 4 decades later, and the pattern of simultaneous pregnancy has been repeated twice since I joined the family just 3 years ago. 

Brothers Owen and Oliver became fathers just months apart...Owen welcomed his 4th child Mateo; Oliver, his first born Narra. Two years later, another repetition: Thunder welcomes his son Marco just a few months before Oliver welcomes his son Guijo.  There were plans to hold Marco and Guijo's baptism at the same time, and to have a joint celebration when Guijo turned one month old - but plans had to be postponed because of sad news.

Owen with Mateo, June 2009, around the time he
announced to the family that he had cancer.

The family lost Owen on September 5th, after his 2-year battle against lung cancer.  The family mourns his loss deeply, and hasn't recovered yet.  Today is the 40th day since he died and there was a dinner gathering tonight among family and friends in his honor.  Marco and Guijo's baptism was planned the weekend after Owen's 40th day - next week supposedly - but as events are wont to repeat themselves - plans had to be postponed again, because of more sad news. The worst repetition imaginable: another death in the family.

Happy times: Macau 2007.
L-R: My husband Oliver, My Mother-in-law Mama Rubi,
My Cousin-in-law Thunder, and his mother Tita Boots.

Last night, Tita Boots died, all of a sudden, without warning... too fast, too soon.  She had a heart attack, was brought to the hospital, and didn't make it through the night. Oliver rushed to the hospital to see Tita Boots being subjected to CPR - he arrived in time to hear difficult questions he'd been asked just weeks before: do not resuscitate? He called me to say he was going to the hospital to visit Tita Boots...his next text an hour later said we were losing her... then it was over, she was gone.  

And we're going to repeat all the rituals of mourning all over again - wake and funeral ... today is Owen's 40th day dinner ... and we will have another one in 40 days for Tita Boots. The prospect of grieving another loss weighs heavy in my heart... I physically feel the pain in my chest as my heart constricts - for my husband Oliver, for my cousin Thunder, for my sister-in-law Ging and her children, for my mother-in-law who had to bury a son, and now a sister.  

I am an in-law. I am the newcomer in the family, and among the adults, I know Owen and Tita Boots least. I feel like a stranger with few rights to mourn - after all, the shared memories I have with them is nothing compared to the storehouse of memories blood relatives have accumulated through the decades. And yet, I feel the deep, sharp pain of loss - the kind felt by real kin.  The day I exchanged vows with Oliver, they became my family, and the day I got pregnant, my relations with them became cemented for eternity... in my children, the blood lines of their family and mine are forever intertwined. And the day Owen died, I felt it in my gut - I lost the closest thing I ever had to a brother even before I had the chance to get to know him better, I mourned the loss of a possible future with him, of having him as Narra and Guijo's uncle, of having him as my "kuya", the big brother I never had - or almost had.

And then there's Tita Boots. I know little about the details of her life: like where she studied, what she did before she retired, her love life - the big details, I don't know these. But I will miss her a lot because she was there throughout my journey into motherhood - all the important events of my life in the last couple of years were celebrated with her. She came to my house for the "pamamanhikan" before I got married, she was there at the wedding, and when I got pregnant, she gave me maternity wear; when I gave birth both times, she was there at the hospital to welcome my babies to the family - and my last photo of her was taken just a month ago, when she visited us in our hospital room when Guijo was confined.  She was there at Narra's baptism, and I assumed she would be there at Guijo's...

Tita Boots at Oliver's Birthday Celebration, 2009.

Tita Boots at Narra's Christening Celebration, 2009.

My last photo of Tita Boots. She and Thunder visited our
hospital room when Guijo was confined at The Medical City.
September, 2011.

I stared at my Excel File with Guijo's baptism guest list, I stared at the entry that said "Tita Boots" - "confirmed"... and I couldn't bring myself to rectify the entry now that she died all of a sudden - I couldn't get around the pain of reducing the family head count - if only Owen and Tita Boots could be there, for the baptism, for all the birthdays to come. I now think of Guest Lists in a different way. They are not just a way of figuring out logistics: how many seats to reserve, and how much food to prepare. It is not just for the practicality of party planning for me now. After having to deal with 2 deaths in 40 days, I look at a Guest List as a celebration of life, a wonderful, beautiful enumeration of loved ones who are Here! Present! Alive! 

Oliver was inconsolable this morning and I had no words of comfort to offer. But I did have a way to reach into that part of him that sees the light in the midst of darkness. I have Narra and Guijo, and their precious innocence. These children, so full of promise, so full of vigor - offer a powerful antidote to the specter of death. They bring inspiration and hope, and intoxicating happiness, even in times of grief.  

Good bye Owen, good bye Tita Boots. Thank you for welcoming me, and my children to the family. See you at our family reunion in heaven someday.