To My Lola, On Her Death Day
Dear Lola,
I must’ve begun this letter dozens of times. I’ve had it in my head that I was going to write you one, but I just didn’t want to start writing it because that would just make everything…real. And I didn’t want it to become real. I wasn’t ready for it to become real. Despite the fact that, at 93, with all of your accomplishments, you lived a good, long, successful life; despite the fact that there were many, many things I disagreed with you about, and many, many things I got angry with you about; despite all of that…I still didn’t want you to go. Because you’re my lola, and I couldn’t imagine my life without you in it.
What a life you lived, though! I can’t imagine going through what you did, starting life with just your sister and your mother (and a house full of aunts and uncles and cousins) to help you through it.
And then having a front-row seat to World War 2 in the Pacific theater, when the Japanese invaded the Philippines, and the battles were fought in your front yard. I can’t imagine having to live under the terror of the Japanese Imperial Army all those years, and witness the atrocities of war, all before the age of 25. I’m terrified as it is right now, lola, living in a country on the brink of nuclear war, but not in the midst of one.
Where did you find the strength to go on all those years, lola? You still haven’t taught me how.
You still haven’t told me how you met lolo.
When did you meet? How? Did he court you? How long? You never told me any of those things. Granted, I didn’t ask when I was younger, and didn’t take the time to ask before your dementia took over when I was older, but in hindsight, I would’ve. I would’ve asked you everything. Because what I didn’t realize growing up was there was a strong, resilient fighter of a woman sitting right next to me, and the hero I was looking for was the one teaching me how to part my hair when I combed it. Because you grew up the child of a single parent, survived a war and met and married the love of your life at the age of 26. Then came your first child at 27, and, in typical Filipino Catholic style, she was followed by another and another.
And then another and another. All the while, you, lolo, and your sister, Soledad, lola ninang, all had tenured careers teaching in the Philippines. As if having five children and raising them in a two-bedroom house, which was shared with two other families, wasn’t enough of an adventure, the United States of America, the land of opportunity, called your names, and you all slowly but steadily left the Philippines behind.
I can’t imagine the courage that took—to pack your bags and leave all your children behind so you could establish yourself in a totally different country, all so that your children would have better opportunities than you did. I can’t imagine dropping everything, dropping fully-established careers, pensions, and a small (but full) house, to start again from nothing, with nary but a suitcase to your name, in a completely different country, speaking a totally different language, and with an entirely different culture, all for the promise of a better life. I can’t imagine the terror you must’ve felt!
But you did it! You and lolo did it. Yet another story I forgot to ask about, and that you never told.
There were many other things you never told me. You never told me how you came to America. You never told me why you wanted to come here. You never told me when lolo got lung cancer or why he was in the hospital a lot. You told me to tattle to you whenever he smoked, though, and we made it a game. Though, at seven years old, I didn’t realize what it meant. And when he died from the lung cancer, two years short of your 50th wedding anniversary, you never told me that his death was as hard on you as it was on me. You never told me when you developed breast cancer, and if I hadn’t been eavesdropping on the phone, I would never have known. You never told me that, at 73, you went in for treatment and a mastectomy, and that you fought that cancer and won twenty years ago. You never told me any of that. But that was how you were, that was how you’d been your whole life—you never wanted anyone to know because you never wanted anyone to fuss over you.
So it shouldn’t have surprised us that you didn’t want us to know that breathing and eating caused you pain. It shouldn’t have surprised us that you didn’t want us to know what your body was already sure of—that you were dying. I bet if you would’ve had your way, you would’ve fallen asleep on your bed that Monday afternoon two weeks ago, and would never have woken up. And that painful, yet quiet, death would’ve suited you just fine. But, lola, the daughters and granddaughter you helped raise grew to be just as stubborn as you were, and when we want to get you to the hospital, we’ll get you there, despite how hard you fight us on it. That shouldn’t have surprised you.
What shouldn’t have surprised us was that the same disease that took the love of your life away from you was now taking you away from us.
It’s funny how life works, isn’t it? When lolo died 22 years ago, what we didn’t know was that my mom was pregnant with my little brother. Eight months after the saddest day of my life, came the happiest day of my life—the day my brother was born. Now that time has come again, and you’ve left us too. And now I wonder what awaits our family to balance out this great sadness with great joy. As for the other inner workings of life thus far…the day I decided to finally dump all the stifling clutter in my room was the day we took you to the emergency room, and the day I finally finished putting my room back together again was the day before you died. For the past year, as I worked my part-time job on the set of Grey’s Anatomy, I kept debating with myself if I should do the Filipino thing and become a nurse, or if I really wanted to challenge myself and go to med school. You getting lung cancer at 93 was life answering that question for me. I always wanted to do research, mostly focused on Alzheimer’s/Dementia, Autism, and AIDS, but now Cancer hits the top of that list. I’m not stopping until I find a cure for it. Or, at least, a non-invasive way to treat it. I want my life to have meaning. I want to leave a mark on this world, just like you left a mark on mine. Life’s been pointing me towards the medical field for years, I suppose. Well, now I’m listening.
You were nearby when I took my first breath, and I was right beside you when you took your last; silently, softly, without any fuss, and, if I hadn’t been watching you at that very moment, without anyone noticing you had gone. If you had your way, you would’ve died the same way you lived—without being a burden on anyone else. But you were never a burden to us, lola! It was a full house during your last days. It would’ve reminded you of the Philippines if you were awake. Four of your kids were here, the fifth got here the next day, three dogs barking up a storm, I was there beside you, while your three grandsons, daughters-in-law and son-in-law were in and out, your eldest was constantly all over the place, buying food and taking care of everything, trying to keep herself from breaking down at the thought of you leaving. It was an absolute racket in here, lola. You probably felt right at home.
You’re probably in a different home now, aren’t you, lola? Lolo probably came to pick you up just before you left, the way some of the dogs kept barking at nothing those last few days. This was the last family picture we had with him in it, 22 years ago, just a few weeks before he died, when lolo’s brother and his wife came to visit from Missouri:
Can you believe it? Those two 26-year-old young kids, getting married just after the war, created this—a big close-knit (ish) family, which only continued to grow after he passed. What a life you lived, lola! What a life the both of you lived!
And now you’re both together again, wherever you are. And all the dozens of dogs that we’ve had, who passed over the years, are all with you wherever you are, barking up a storm and giving you both a headache. Hahaha! Don’t worry about us, lola, we’ll be fine. Eventually. Your 95-year-old sister, Soledad, lola ninang, will be joining you soon, I believe. She’s been wanting to go for five years now, and she’s been vocal about it. Although, seeing how strong she still is, it might still be a while, much to her dismay and our delight.
Go on and be happy, lola! I’ll miss you! We all will. But you’re at peace now, so rest.
I love you.
Lourdes S. Reyes
November 3, 1923 – May 10, 2017