The 18th of July Anniversary

(Amelia "Mely" Valencia Juban 29 December 1921-18 July 2008)

Three years ago, today, sometime between 2:50-3:00 in the morning of July 18th, 2008, you went to meet Poppa God.

You were diagnosed with Cancer of the Parotid. A condition that dovetailed with the onset of Alzheimer's Disease which, towards the end, robbed us all of a chance to fully live your last days with you in what typically would be frought with invitations to lie down to nap at mid-day, or sit down to merienda, or to come down to breakfast, lunch or dinner before the food got too cold, or the commentaries on how this bag or that was perfect because it had so many utility pockets, or whether or not the main dish we ordered at the restaurant to celebrate a graduation or special occasion might be too pricey and...my favorite - did I want you to place a call to your childhood friend to have me work for a prestigious local broadcasting network. (?)

That last morning, standing at the foot of your bed, with everyone else who was there, I found myself hearing muffled voices through the many thoughts buzzing in my head. Thoughts like: "is this really it? time for you to go?" "wait, this is a dream and they didn't really wake me up to say goodbye", "why are we standing about at this hour, and why is everyone quietly crying?", "why are you not awake and out of bed yet?" "why are your eyes not open with you smiling up at us saying you'll be okay in the morning?" "Wait! You can't die! You're supposed to get better!" Who was I kidding. Talk about false hope. But that was how it was for me. I remember the growing panic which was masked with a stoic and dumb stare as I watched you slowly breathe in and out until the time they said you were gone.

You died peacefully by the time the clock struck 3am. The wave of awareness washing over me as surely as if I had been engulfed by a silent but no less fatal tsunami at the shore of the land of the living.

You slipped away long before you actually said goodbye, so maybe it was best this way.

All of us who were at your home, the moment of your "departure" were properly woken to bid you a final farewell. But I never really got a chance to say goodbye. I stood there, clutching at your feet, by the edge of your bed, watching - as you took your last shallow breaths...as i listened to the final pronouncement na... "Wala na ang Mommy."

My grandmother, the one who figured larger than life itself with her shy prepossesing demeanor during my growing up years lay dying and I couldn't say goodbye. The grandchildren - myself included - all wrote and recited our 'memorials and farewells' to you at the wake on the morning of the funeral, but - I never really said goodbye to you. Maybe that is why I have to write to you today, on your Third Death Anniversary. I've let you go, yes, it was - as everyone says - and I agree - better this way. That you didn't have to undergo much more discomfort, suffering or loss of dignity. And although I should have been 'ready' for your death - I wasn't ready when Death finally came to claim you. I wasn't prepared. I was.. Not ready to let you go.

After we buried you, I went to visit your grave as often as I could (which makes it convenient that where you are now is a shorter drive from where we stay), and for a spell, wondered if I had spent four years in college only to choose a career as someone who tended a grave for a living.
I would troop to the cemetery with a bottle of oil, a rag to clean and shine your marker, candles and a pot of flowers, sometimes with mom, but sometimes alone, to 'visit' with you.

During those times I'd talk to you out loud (but not too loud, of course) and tell you how things have been, or complain about this thing or another or this funny incident or what-not that occurred since my last visit. After I'd cleaned your marker, I'd sit there and feel the breeze in my hair and tell you it was a nice afternoon and that I'm glad to be sitting there quietly with you. I've taught myself not to cry openly as much when I am there because - well, f I did that too frequently, the roving guards might have cause for concern - and I didn't really want to be taken away by the "men in white coats" or have my shrink alerted due to any excessive display of emotion on such a regular basis.

It got easier to visit you as the months went by, but like I tell you each time I visit, and on the morning of your funeral - I MISS YOU EVERYDAY.

Growing up with you has shaped many a thing in my life, in my personality - I even attribute my fondness for sweets and my first taste of coffee to you. You and the ten teaspoons of sugar for a glass of Calamansi juice meant - a glass of Calamansi juice would never be quite as perfect if it didn't have the right 'sweet twist' to it. Di ba? You said ten teaspoons of sugar!
The fondness for doughnuts, don't worry, I developed that on my own. haha.
You always laughed at the corniest of my jokes, and never failed to make me feel like I was the cutest, smartest and wittiest person you happened to be speaking to - ever. You always were, ready to give - even if it was the last money you had. I remember the one time I fancied that I "ran away from home" and showed up at your gate unexpectedly (I was still in high-school) and you were insisting I take the only money you had on you - your last Twenty Pesos, from the pocket of your house-dress. You were sure I could deal with it and go back home to "face the music." I don't even remember how I got home that day. I think eventually you called my mom and she and dad had to come fetch me and bring me home.

My tastes were partially defined by the comments I heard from you growing up, my habits formed under your tutelage - you insisted on tying my shoelaces for me till I was nearly 15 years old, even when I insisted I could do it myself - and even when you let me - you'd always remind me - "itali mo ulit." insisting that I double-knot it, so it doesn't come loose as I walk. I forget to do that sometimes and as I retie my laces, your voice always rings in my head... "Dapat kasi Babe, di-noble mo yun tali."

I measure my choices by the way you would feel about the decisions I make, by how you'd feel if I chose one thing over another and basically - if it was (or at least felt like) the best thing to do at the given moment. My choices aren't always stellar, but I know you'd understand that I was (and continue) to grow into myself as my own person.

You always had faith in me - even when I didn't have faith in myself.

Up until before you slipped into the fog of illness and Alzheimer's and we'd sit up and read the paper, your vision was still much better than mine. Something I found truly amazing. I developed drug induced Cataracts, YOU never got Cataracts! And it was only because of you that I stuck to those piano lessons because I knew how that was one of your frustrations. (I still feel that Mark plays the piano a whole lot better than I ever could)) But I stuck with it, and I can read notes! Now, I'm glad you were so insistent about the piano lessons, thank you. But I do NOT regret refusing to take those ballet and jazz lessons you suggested I take. haha. See? I can imagine you smirking at that. Even my sense of humor has been colored by you.

You were among one of the most concerned and devastated when I was diagnosed with Lupus in 2004, and always worried after my health and safety whenever I'd come to visit. Somehow, sometimes I feel that I let you (and everyone else who loves me) down by getting sick with this chronic dis-ease. But I realize then, it may all be just...part of the game of living. Roll of the dice, so to speak. But I'm sorry that you and everyone else in my life, has had to, and for those who are still here - are currently - living through my being not quite 100%. I don't mean to cause undue alarm. I'm fine. Half the time, no one can even tell there is anything different about me, if they don't mind that I might be a little too young to be using a cane.
It's still all good. No worries.

I miss your cooking. I miss your distinctive script and handwriting which I read and touch gently as I ask to borrow and re-read your recipe books. I carry around a prayer you re-wrote for me on a piece of yellow pad paper, a talisman of remembrance, of hope - one you gave me with the promise that "God will make you well!"

And yesterday, we visted your grave. Poppa, Thea and I, where we sat for a bit and said prayers for you, lit a candle and enjoyed the breeze. I was quiet. Sharing my thoughts with you, only in my head. Holding back tears that I desperately wanted to shed. But I was your big girl, I know you are "in a better place" and that it is as it should be.

I know you love me... And I trust that you know I love you.

I love you Loly, even as I carry you in my heart, I miss you everyday.

(not MY favorite photo from high-school, but I was told this was one of YOUR favorite pictures)

Remembering Loly

My most vivid memories are the most recent, where during every visit, you'd always tell me to lay down for a nap even if it was the middle of the day - and you had your favorite noontime show on television playing loudly in the background.  Or that time when I was going on a trip with my friends and went to visit you before I left - you asked what I was doing there, since you knew I was supposed to be out of the country, I reminded you that I wasn't due to leave for a few days yet. You smiled absently and asked me again, to take a nap. 
I smiled and lay down on the single bed beside yours, and watched television with you as you drifted off to sleep. It was barely an hour past noon.
You complained of an annoying ringing sound in your ear, and disliked the lump that formed on the side of your neck, more concerned that it made you look less than beautiful - you remained radiant as always - because when I look back on those days, I can only remember the look of concern that reflected my own - and I didn't have the heart to confront you with the reality of the situation (then again, not one of us among those who love you did).  We played along and never confirmed the diagnosis - Cancer.
Up until the last day before you slipped into the fog of  forgetfulness, you kept worrying that maybe you were sick - not really understanding, I think - just how ill you were. I felt the omission a breach of trust, but I could not bear to be the one to confirm your worst fears.  I held my tongue. I think, somehow, you knew - but have chosen to hold to the fretting part, never really getting to the acknowledging that you were not well.
I remember when I was much younger, and I was left at your house while mom & dad were at work - you allowed me to use actual plates while i concocted various "dishes" comprised of shrubs those little coconut peas that grew on the small palm tree in the yard.  You even bought me a clay cooking set from the nearby market, and gave me some actual rice to cook - even if the water kept seeping into the tiny pot.  You made me feel competent, and allowed me to believe that I could do ANYTHING I set my mind to - when the rice failed to cook properly, you said we'd try it again another time, despite my protests.
When I had some silly story to tell, you would always smile broadly at me and all I remember are your eyes lighting up with your asking "S'ya nga?" like I'm the smartest kid ever born and I'd just as generously smile back and nod my head like it was the greatest story, EVER. 
My first taste of coffee was from a portion of pandesal that you dipped in your cup, when I asked what it was you were drinking for merienda. I was probably 6 years old.  My knowing that the "perfect" glass of lemonade was 10 pieces of Calamansi and ten teaspoons of sugar to a tall glass set my taste-buds to sweet is the only way to go.
When mom refused to buy me a pogo-stick, which she said I didn't know how to use, and would be dangerous to play with, I started to sulk. When you found out about this, we both snuck off and you bought me the pogo-stick yourself. You were confident that I'd learn to use & play with it safely. You made me feel invincible.  You made me feel brave. You made me feel like I could do anything I set my mind on.
When I was at the hospital and had a craving for your soup - you had never-ending batches of it made to be brought to me daily - to a point that the people at your house were sick of the aroma of the broth boiling on the stove.
When you fell ill, I was much older, and knew there was precious little I could do to stave off Cancer - even then, in your brief moments of lucidity, you would ask after me and how I was faring with having Lupus, forgetting that you were in a medically more precarious condition than I was.

Now that you're gone, and I'm still here, dealing with having the aches and pains of a person many years older than my actual age - I remember you, believing that I am able to deal with whatever comes my way.  I fake my way through some days because I'm not sure how capable I really am of not letting my dis-ease get the better of me.  But on most days, I remind myself that you're watching over me - over all of us who love you still - and take courage in that thought.  I can do this.
Three years on the 18th of July 2011.
I still miss you every single day.

a favorite photo with Loly
(circa 1994?)