Legacy

“Well, Greg, I think that it just means that even after somebody dies, you can… you can still keep learning about them, you know, their life. It can keep unfolding itself to you just as long… just as long as you pay attention to it.”   ~ Jesse Andrews, Me, Earl, and the Dying Girl

There comes a moment in life when you face the reality of impermanence–a state in which nothing good will ever last. It feels like you’ve hit a brick wall and you can’t move on. For the majority of us, we live in this world in which we are blindfolded by the mundane–a sense of normalcy and comfort. It is in this world where we abide by the rules and are a slave to the pendulum of routine. It seems, for the most part, that it’s hard to escape–and maybe for some, even impossible. But change is bound to happen–whether you want it or not. And it is that moment of change where you are faced with making a decision: Do I face the reality? OR Do I turn away from it? Change can transform your life in mere seconds, minutes, hours, years, but ultimately, it is your decision on which course of life you are to take once that change occurs.

It’s been three weeks since a change occurred in my life, where I faced this reality of impermanence. It’s been three weeks since I’ve referred to her as a living being and not a past tense. It’s been three weeks. Three weeks of pain, regret, tears, laughter, self-doubt, and pure sadness. But in the midst of all this negativity, I find myself searching for little pieces of her and trying to put her life story together–trying to find a way to guard my memories of her in my head. I’m always afraid of forgetting her, because for the last months of her life–I’m sad to say, I was in a state of denial. I thought she was going to get through, because she always did. She got through all the hardships on her own. She got through pancreatitis. She got through her quadruple bypass on Valentine’s Day (ironically). She got through dialysis. She got through chemotherapy. All she needed was to get through cancer. And little did we know, the invincible will eventually be conquered. But this is not a post in which I tell you how she died, but how she lived.

Tita Leah.

The woman who I thought was unbreakable–the one who got through life with her relentless spirit and stubborn attitude. I grew up fearing her, because she gave you tough love. Yet despite my fear, I grew up in awe of this woman. I grew up knowing this woman as someone who was an unstoppable force and if you had known her, you would have agreed.

Family and nursing were Tita Leah‘s vocations. Family and nursing were her constants. In a sense, it was what guided her to create the life that she had lived so well. It was these two constants that created a life full of love, laughter, travel, wonder, and excitement. It was these two constants that drove her to make the decision to uproot herself from everything she knew and loved in the Philippines to move to Houston, Texas. This is where she acquired a refined taste for life–where she learned how to enjoy the moments and not things and where she learned how to keep going no matter what life threw at her. It was in Houston that she decided to make the drive up to Toronto with her cousin where she began a job as a nurse at Sick Kids. And that drive up to Toronto…forever changed our lives as a family.

She was so dedicated to her job as a nurse. She worked at the Oncology Unit at Sick Kids–where every day was something different. It takes a particular type of person to be able to be open about death and to be able to deal with it the way she did. She this for 25 years. 25 years of caring for children that endured more pain than an average person in a lifetime. 25 years of caring for children, not knowing whether or not they would make it. 25 years of consoling parents during times of grief or helplessness as they watched their child endure countless treatments of chemo and bone marrow transplants. 25 years of putting a brave face on to reassure parents that everything was going to be OK. 25 years watching death come and go. This was her 25 years of normal. She woke up and did what did she had to do, and might I add, she did it all of it effortlessly.

Despite her job, her other life was that of a loving daughter, sister, a beloved aunt, and that crazy cousin. She was the person who loved to be in the company of others. She was the person who would take the initiative to bring people together through food and through life chats. Whether you wanted her company or not, she was always there–for almost all your life’s milestones–she would be there, celebrating with you. She was always one of the first people to call for your birthdays and she almost always bought the cake. She would be the first one at the party and then the last one to leave. She was just Leah. And though she had her flaws–she was one-of-a-kind and I miss her terribly.

At the time of her death, little bits of her life unbeknownst to us were revealed, as we mourned her loss. And you know what? It brought about a sense of comfort, because we felt as if she was still around–through everyone she encountered. And that was the most beautiful thing about her death–it brought us altogether, to celebrate how she lived. People laughed, people cried, reminiscing of the days gone by. We were so astounded to meet people from all four corners of her life to express how much they loved her and how much they would miss her. And we were so grateful for all their support and all their love that they brought to us that day we had to say goodbye. It showed us as a family, that we are not alone in our tears and in our pain. The people that she loved terribly and wholeheartedly–the nurses who cared for her, the colleagues that she came to know as her friends and work family, the cousins that she loved like her sisters, and the family that she never stopped loving–were there to guide and to usher each other into our new normal. A new normal without her–her unexpected visits, her crazy life advice, her laughter, her moments of insanity, her quirkiness, her bold choice of words, her tough love, her wisdom and most importantly, her company.

Tita Leah , without you, we wouldn’t have  known what it means to be a family. Without you, we wouldn’t be the people we are today. And I wanted to dedicate this post to thank you for everything. You brought opportunity, inspiration, stories, everything. And I know that a life without you will be different, but I’ve made my decision. I am not going to let your death bring me down. Change has occurred, but I know that I must embrace it. Because at the end of the day, I know your life’s story will inspire us to be bold, to be resilient, to be brave, to love selflessly, to travel, to take risks, and most importantly to live. We will all live in memory of you.

I love you, I love, I love you, Tita Leah. May you rest in peace.

Maraming Salamat,

The Storyteller

“You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift.”
~ Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

 

Starting from the left: My aunt, my Lolo, my Papa, and my Yaya.

Our world is made up of stories—stories of hope, despair, love, hatred, successes, and regrets. Stories may be radically absurd and falsified or may be bold and truthful. Stories are a means of wisdom or perhaps caution. Stories can be sung, written, drawn, or simply told. Stories are said to a crowd of many or to an audience of one.  Regardless of what they are, stories are very much a part of the human race–etched into our lives, forever shaping us into who we are. So, when someone tells you a story, you are essentially given a part of a person’s life and with that comes responsibility. You are given a choice: to let the story live on or let the story disappear. And so, you should ask yourself…what should I choose?

If there is anyone that could tell you a good story, it’s Yaya (my grandmother). As a child, I would always see her sitting at the kitchen table, with a cup of coffee, eating biscuits, as she looked off into the distance. I would slowly approach her and start asking her all these questions about her life, as if I was a reporter. Then, she would smile and a twinkle in her eyes would appear. I would look at her in awe and wonder, as she painted me a picture of her colourful life of hardship, scandal, gossip, love, travel, triumph, and pain. She told me about her life during a time of political instability in the Philippines—the Japanese invasion, martial law, and the People Power Revolution. She also told me about her life in general—how she was forced to be a mother to her siblings after her mom died of childbirth, how she fell in love, how she raised her own family, how she dealt with the sudden death of my grandfather, and how she learned to live a life without him. And despite how difficult some of these stories were to tell, she always managed to end the story with a smile.

In the Filipino culture and much of the Asian cultures, the elderly are highly respected figures of the family and are expected to be cared for by their children. And because of this cultural value, I was lucky enough to grow up under Yaya’s care. She taught me the power of stories through books and through her own storytelling. I talk about her as if she were already gone, but she’s not. She’s still here and at times, I feel guilty for letting life get to me  and allowing myself to get to forget about her. In a society that demands us to work long hours, to socialize after work, to live life to the fullest, we often forget about the people who first loved and cared for us. We make them an object of our past and we never take the initiative to make them a part of our present. We take them for granted and sometimes, we think that we are more forward-thinking. We live in a world that heavily relies on our questions about life’s anomalies to be answered by mere algorithms of a search engine, yet maybe the answers lie in the forgotten stories of the past. In a fast-paced world, we need to take it slow and let our naturally curious selves explore the hearts and minds of the elderly. Sometimes, it takes time for them to open up, but the conversations and the memories that ensue are priceless. Let’s not forget about them, because at the end of the day we are entrusted with their stories.  We are given a choice to let their stories live on or let them fade away.

I’ve listened to her stories countless times and without realizing it, they have become a part of who I am as a person. In essence, this blog is a living and breathing testimony of the power of story. I am only one person, but I am here to continue listening and to continue telling not just my stories, but the stories of the countless Filipinos in our diaspora. And now, I’m giving you the responsibility to listen and to continue searching for those stories that inspire, that move, and that change.

Yaya (left) and her sister (right). Baguio City, Philippines, 2009.

Salamat,

Courage, dear heart.

“Ang aking pamilya ang aking lakas at kahinaan.
“My family is my strength and my weakness.”
~ Unknown

The streets are filled with Christmas cheer. You can feel it. The holidays bring a sense of optimism, hope, and that need to be around the ones you love. Shoppers walk in and out of stores, carrying bags, looking haggard, yet hopeful that their last-minute purchases will put a smile on a loved one’s face. Children run around, their screams full of joy and their eyes filled with wonder as they stare up at the gigantic Christmas tree occupying the town square, decorated with ornaments and lights. Lovers walk hand-in-hand through the streets, and despite the chaos that surrounds them, they look at each other as if they were the only ones around. Then, there was me, trying to avoid Christmas altogether, trying not to be a part of it. And thankfully, I can put Christmas behind me and look forward to the new year.

I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to actually start this blog. As I said, it started from a spark, and now, I’m watching that spark slowly fade away and letting my fear and my doubts overpower it. This has probably been the roughest year, I’ve had—it has nothing to do with the presidential elections or the disarray this world has gone through, but it has everything to do with my family.

When you ask a Filipino about things that they love the most—they will give you varying answers, but the two that will always  be mentioned are food and family. You see, the Filipino way of life is not living life independently, but living life as a unit. Pamilya is the entity that thrives in the hearts of all Filipinos—and I’ve come to realize why. Family won’t let you down. If you fall, they will pick you up, care for you, nurture you, until you’re ready to move forward. I’ve seen this when my aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer earlier this year. The doctors have successfully removed it, but it came back with a vengeance. You wouldn’t think that the woman I look at today is the same one I saw six months ago. Chemotherapy took a lot from her—her hair, her normalcy, yet despite it all, it did not take her bravery, her faith and most importantly, her resiliency. The doctors say she has less than a year to live, but for her, she lives every day like she will live forever. Though my aunt has no family of her own or no significant other, we were her family and together, we walked with her through her darkest moments—her diagnosis, her chemotherapy, her radiation sessions, and her palliative care. And that’s why the holidays have been a rough time—because we’re celebrating our “lasts” with her—her last Christmas, her last New Year, her last birthday—everything. Yet, the memories we make for these “lasts” will forever be part of our first family celebrations without her.

So, with the New Year celebrations in queue, we are bracing ourselves for the worst. We will continue with the same traditions we do every year, to keep it normal. According to Papa everything we do on New Year’s Eve will determine what our year will look like. It sounds trivial, but to me, it’s the truth. To make sure our year is fruitful, we set out a basket of twelve different fruits, each representing the 12 months of the year. To make sure that we will thrive financially, we put money in our pockets. To make sure our homes are filled with love and joy, we celebrate the New Year at home, with the people we love the most–family–who will stay a constant every day of the year. In essence, we prepare for the new year with a sense optimism and with a clean slate. And I know as we move on from a disastrous 2016, 2017 will be much better. I know this year will bring pain, hurt, doubt, and loss, but it will also bring about love, hope, joy, and endless possibilities. I won’t let the cliché of new beginnings overshadow the realities of life, but I’m going to remain optimistic.

As you can see, starting a huge project like this is going to be difficult, because of what is currently happening in my personal life. Yet, the spark, though slowly fading, is still there…and I promise that I won’t give up on this. I grew up listening to my grandmother’s stories—and I remember how much I loved them and how much they meant to me, because they had everything to do with my family and my heritage. My love for stories started with my grandmother and I know that it will continue to grow when I start listening to the stories of my kababayans. And hopefully, you will be there to listen with me every step of the way.

Bagong Pag-asa, Bagong Simula, Mas Maraming Kasiyahan… Manigong Bagong Taon!
New Hope, New Beginning, Greater Joys… Happy New Year!

Salamat,