FN Blog - Seven heads are better than one!

It’s strange to me how some of my friends don’t go to the cemetery on All Saints’ Day. “Wala pang namamatay sa immediate family ko,” they would say. But death—morbid as it may sound—has always been a part of my life; it seems to be a recurring theme in my family. I’ve always been surrounded by it; even when I was in utero, I probably already felt the pain of losing a member of the family. We’ve had quite a number of tragedies, so much so that I’ve heard people liken us to the Kennedys.

We used to spend hours at the cemetery when I was younger—we’d pack up and leave the house at around midnight, brave the traffic, and sleep on the damp grass under a tent. We’d get up mid-morning and see other relatives visiting their own loved ones, then head back to my brother’s grave, pray the rosary, and eat fried chicken and spaghetti. As the adults packed up, my brothers and I would make balls out of melted candle wax.

Over the years, there were more people to visit, and busier schedules to manage. We now spend just a few minutes by each grave. But our departed loved ones are constantly in our thoughts:

Tonton
I never met him. He was the eldest among my brothers, but he passed away two months before I was born. How my mom must have wept. I remember thinking that’s probably why I’m so iyakin. People used to tell me that I looked like him. And I hated hearing “Ikaw ang kapalit,” because it somehow made me feel responsible for his death. But I often wonder how he would have turned out if he hadn’t passed away, how different our family would be. He’s one of the people I can’t wait to meet.

Tatay
My paternal grandfather. I was three years old when he passed away. I don’t think anyone had to explain the concept of death to me for some reason. I remember watching Sesame Street, and they were trying to figure out how to explain to Big Bird that Mr. Hooper was not coming back. And I remember thinking: I never went through that. Somehow, I’ve always known. Maybe it was because of Tonton.

Lolo
We were living with my maternal grandparents when my lolo died. He was a quiet man, one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. There were afternoons when we would be watching TV, and I would fall asleep holding his hand. One of the most heartbreaking things I’ve ever seen was my lola, coming home from the hospital after lolo passed away. She lay down on lolo’s bed, weeping, running her fingers over his sheets. Her face was just crumpled in pain, inconsolable at having lost her abay.

Kuya Ramon
A cousin I met only once. His family’s based in the US, so I only got to meet him when I was six years old. But he saved my life. It had just struck midnight on New Year’s Day and fireworks were going off everywhere. I was yelling “Happy New Year!” completely oblivious of the lit firecracker (a huge one) right beside me. Kuya Ramon ran, picked me up, and carried me away right before it exploded. Years later, when I found out he was at the hospital after an aneurysm, I prayed, “He saved my life once. Please save him.” He didn’t make it.

Ate Minnie
She passed away after childbirth. She never woke up, never got to see her son grow up. We weren’t particularly close, but I remember she was funny. And at her wake, I got to bond with my other cousins—we were all united in grief, and in disbelief at the fact that someone so young, so vivacious could leave us so soon.

Tito Boy
Tito Boy, my mom’s older brother, was like my second dad. He suddenly fell ill and was at the hospital for days. It was front-page news because he was a cabinet secretary. I remember I was called to the principal’s office one lunch period. “We heard reports about your tito…but maybe you should make sure first,” I was told. I remember gripping the phone in my hand, torn between wanting to find out and remaining blissfully unaware. I called home, and I remember the maid answered. I asked what happened, and she told me. He was gone. “Ay, patay na!” were the very words I heard, if I remember right. I fell to the floor and was just hysterical. I never questioned death until that point, never questioned anything until that point. That was the first time I ever asked God “Why?”

Tito Roger
My family was barely recovering from the shock of Tito Boy’s sudden death when we were hit with another one: Tito Roger, husband of my mom’s eldest sister. This was a very sad chapter in my family’s history.

Jonathan
Yet another stateside death. Jon was one of two cousins who were in the same age group as me. We also wrote to each other (I can still picture his handwriting), and we hung out when he visited us a few times. He wrote out my name in graffiti-type lettering; I still have it on my dresser. He sent me a picture of himself, and on the back, he wrote, “Don’t show your friends. They might fall in love.” I remember walking into my mom’s office one evening to pick her up from work. “Tish, Jonathan’s dead,” she said. I guess she didn’t know how else to tell me. At first, it didn’t register. “Jonathan who?” I was starting to panic because one of my best friends at that time was named Jonathan. When I learned it was my cousin, I couldn’t believe it. “What? How? What happened?” I had a million questions. Kuya Ramon had already died. Jon wasn’t supposed to die. We were practically the same age. We were still supposed to hang out. We were still supposed to write to each other. I sank into a chair. I found out he was shot.

Lola
It was difficult seeing my lola go from being such a strong, lively woman, to being so frail (but her mind was still incredibly sharp). I remember feeling a little numb when she passed away. But at her wake, I heard her favorite church song—Sino Ako—and just started bawling.

Dada Flora
My beloved yaya retired after years and years and years of service. We treated her as a member of the family. She went home to Leyte and two weeks later, she passed away. It was like she went home to really rest. I remember I had to go to work the day it happened, and H had to come and see me over lunch because I just couldn’t stop crying. Dada was supposed to be at my wedding. She was supposed to see my kids. She was supposed to come visit us every now and then. Until now, I still can’t believe that she’s gone.

When my family and I talk about the dead, we think about how many of them are all together now, and what they must be doing. Has Tonton grown up or is he still that little boy? Are my grandparents and titos playing mah-jong? I can’t say that I’m not afraid of death. But knowing that I have so many loved ones waiting for me makes the idea a lot less scary.