It’s been almost a month since I woke up to the sound of a Messenger notification early on a Sunday morning.
It was from my dad.
He said he was at one of the hospitals in Cebu.
My first thought was that he was hospitalized, and I was afraid.
Little did I know that it was so much worse.
My Angkong* was gone.
(* Angkong is a Fukien term for paternal grandfather)
Had I not been sitting while reading dad’s message, I would have been knocked down to the ground.
An overwhelming sadness and pain and yes, even guilt, struck me so suddenly and forcefully that it took me a while to come back to my senses to light a candle on my little altar.
My Angkong was gone.
A flashback of all my memories of my Angkong, from early childhood to the last time I saw him, a little over 9 months ago.
“But he was still fine!” a voice screamed inside my head.
I refused to believe it.
It was my first visit after more than 3 years away from home.
He didn’t speak to me when I took his hand and pressed it on my forehead (what we Bisayas call amin and what Tagalogs call mano po).
As a matter of fact, he didn’t so much as look as me as he fixed his unreadable gaze at my husband, who I had signaled to amin him as well.
I figured that either Angkong had finally succumbed to the forgetfulness of folks his age (98), or else he was still angry with me for leaving home without telling him.
At that time, when I had decided to move to Dubai indefinitely, I kept it within very close circles, excluding my own Angkong.
I have come to realize how awfully stupid it was of me to do so.
In all those 3 odd years, I was haunted by the fear that he would pass on before I got the chance to return home.
Fortunately, he was very much alive and well that day.
Unfortunately, he was (probably) too angry to speak to me.
My uncles and aunts broke the silence with customary pleasantries, most of which were directed at my husband, whom they only met for the first time.
Meanwhile, Angkong remained stone cold before finally gesturing to his nurse that he wanted to go to bed.
My brother and I followed him to his room, where he settle on his rocking chair.
Only then did he start to get chatty.
It turned out I was wrong on both accounts: Angkong‘s mind was as sharp as ever, and he wasn’t angry with me (well, at least not so much as to stop talking to me).
In his fluent but clipped Cebuano, he asked me question after question about my husband — how old is he, what’s his job, where is he from…
My flashback was interrupted with the same voice inside my head. “But he was still fine!”
All my memories of him were still so vivid.
I could not believe he was truly gone.
It just wasn’t the same as losing Amah* 15 years ago
(* Amah is a Fukien term for paternal grandmother)
I was only 11 then, and what few memories I had of my Amah are now even more faded with time.
But with my Angkong… losing him was a terrible blow.
I was thousands of miles away from home, and it made the loss so much worse.
To be helpless and to be quiet about it, because to everyone else, you’re just one more person grieving and doing ‘nothing’ about it.
So I sent my dad the most consoling messages I could muster, all the while burying a tumult of emotions deep inside me.
And then, off to work.
The sun was shining outside.
I couldn’t believe it.
The world went on as though nothing happened.
“Doubtless the sun will continue shining long after your time comes.”
On the train, a woman scooted over so I could take the last seat available.
I restrained myself from hugging her.
It took exactly 17 minutes to reach the metro station closest to the office… and even less to map out a plan inside my head.
“I’ll go home no matter what.”
And I did.
After settling the matter with my bosses and my husband, I booked a flight home that Thursday evening.
This was even after I learnt that Angkong’s body was to be cremated that Wednesday — two days before I was scheduled to arrive in Cebu.
Quick recap: first, I wasn’t there when Angkong died, and now, I wouldn’t be there for his funeral as well.
I think at that point, it was already established that I was a failure of a granddaughter.
But I stood by my decision to go home anyway.
Come Wednesday, on the very same hour of Angkong’s funeral (1 p.m. Cebu time, 9:00 a.m. Dubai time), it rained.
I was on the bus to work, dressed in black from head to toe (in the absence of all-white mourning clothes in my closet), and I stared out the window at the strange coincidence.
It was only later on when I found out from my dad that it did not rain in Cebu at the funeral.
Maybe Angkong trying to tell me something?
He has over 25 grandchildren, many of whom are now married with children of their own (his great-grandchildren).
I was far from being the distinguished grandchild.
However, I do remember one instance shortly after graduation when I had visited him alone on a weekday, without the usual hustle and bustle of a weekend family gathering.
I was waiting for one of my uncles at the living room, when Angkong woke up from his nap and decided to take a light stroll with his nurse.
After greeting him with an amin and explaining why I had come, he smiled and told his nurse in Cebuano, “My granddaughter here is a teacher. She is very kind.”
I was genuinely touched.
Until that moment, I had always had a vague suspicion that he only knew me by my name and as the daughter of his youngest son.
Maybe he did know who I was!
Angkong had a peculiar habit of doing a headcount so to speak, each time we had a family gathering.
After all his children and grandchildren took their turn to amin, he would then proceed to ask where the missing family members were — and he never missed a single one up till the very end.
Maybe he too noticed I wasn’t there on the day of his funeral.
Maybe Angkong really was trying to tell me something.
The following day, Thursday, I headed straight to the airport after work, beginning a near-24-hour journey home (including the 6-hour layover in Hong Kong).
Dad picked me up from the airport.
For some time, we did not mention Angkong.
We spoke about inconsequential things about our now separate lives.
I asked him to drive us to one of my favorite restaurants growing up for a late-night dinner, all the while waiting for him to open up.
When dad finally spoke, my sadness was renewed.
Each person experiences grief in a different way, even though they lose one and the same beloved person.
Dad spoke about the day Angkong died, how he rushed to the hospital but never making it on time, how Angkong’s lifeless body was transported from the hospital mortuary to the funeral parlor to the memorial chapel and finally to the cemetery beside our beloved Amah.
All in the course of a few days, not even a full week!
The great old man who swore to his wife on her death bed that he would always care for their grandchildren and children, who lived each day for the next 15 years to fulfill his promise, was finally at rest.
The day after I arrived in Cebu, I spent the morning meditating in the Carmelite Monastery and that afternoon, dad and I visited Angkong at the cemetery with fresh white flowers in tow, as well as a single white Forever Rose, placed beside his final resting place, to symbolize my eternal gratitude to him who I owe more than life itself.
Soon after, my uncles, aunts and cousins arrived in droves.
The Seventh Day “ceremony” for Angkong began with the offering of his favorite fruits and, of course, his favorite orange soda.
Then his first-born son, my uncle, lit two incense sticks and bowed reverently three times before his grave.
The rest of Angkong’s children followed suit, by order of birth.
After my dad, the youngest son, performed the ritual, we the grandchildren took our places.
And finally, the great-grandchildren, the two daughters of Angkong’s eldest grandson.
Then us “kids” were ushered out to burn two boxes’ worth of Chinese paper money for the dead, while the “adults” prayed the Divine Mercy inside the mausoleum.
It was fairly simple — at first.
We has drop paper money inside the burning cauldron in twos or threes, making sure the fire did not go out.
But with over 15 grandchildren and great-grandchildren (that wasn’t even all of us) clamoring around the little cauldron dropping in paper money, it was bound to get chaotic.
At times, the flame would rise up dangerously, and at other times would die out completely, so we had to start the fire again and again.
After the last paper money was burnt to ashes, we joined the “adults” back inside the mausoleum to close the ceremony.
Our cousin from Hong Kong took each bowl of fruit and bowed three times before the grave before putting them inside a bag to bring back home.
After all the food offerings were packed, my eldest uncle lit two incense sticks and bowed three times for the last time.
We waited for the last two incense sticks to burn out for our “permission” to leave.
While waiting, we chatted in hushed tones and were reminded about the novena at Sacred Heart Parish later that evening.
With a few hours to spare, I asked dad if we could retrace Angkong’s final journey.
Some people believe that it is “bad luck” to return to these places.
But I believe in my heart that having made the long journey home to pay my final respects, despite the urgent work deadlines, financial constraints, etc., was a “sign” from Angkong.
He wanted me to be there, superstitions or not.
So dad drove me to the hospital where we stood outside Angkong’s room.
He described the events in vivid detail, so I could almost picture them happening before my eyes.
He took me outside the gate of the hospital mortuary, where the security guard asked if he could help us.
Dad explained the situation to him, and the security guard was gracious enough to let us stand there for a few minutes, while dad continued his story.
Next, we drove past the funeral parlor where Angkong was taken to be embalmed.
The mood inside the car was somber, until I saw an unmistakable print ad outside the funeral parlor, advertising an “environment-friendly, one-hour cremation”.
It’s fast!
It’s sustainable!
And it’s just a tiny bit inappropriate to grab one’s attention.
With still one hour to spare before the novena, I asked dad if we could grab a snack at Doming’s ngohiong, another one of my childhood favorites.
We arrived at Sacred Heart Parish early, so we took at peek at the Our Lady of China memorial chapel.
I was grateful nobody was there.
We attended Mass with the whole family, followed by the Novena which I was to lead that night.
We then proceeded to Tao Yuan for a family dinner, with the “kids” in one table and the “adults” in another.
The multi-course meal was served on a Lazy Susan, so that if I closed my eyes for just a minute, I could almost imagine Angkong with us, urging us to eat more.
The conversations flowed, most of which were nostalgic in nature.
We took turns sharing our happy memories with Angkong.
How he used to scare his nurse about the Buddha statue in his room, which would apparently walk on its own at night.
How he laughed at the wife of one of my cousins for lighting her joss sticks upside-down the very first time she made an offering in front of Amah’s shrine at home.
How he joked on his hospital bed that he was so old, he was nearing 200 years old!
All this led us to speculate, albeit inappropriately, whether he would pull a prank on us that night, the seventh night since he died, which was believed to be the night his soul would return home.
I half-wished he would, if it meant seeing him one last time.
It reminded me of a passage from Benedict Groeschel’s “Arise from Darkness” (which I have been reading and taking great solace in).
“Another source of grief is the mysterious dark door of death, the shadow of death, the decay of the body, the silence of the grave, the utter lack of response on the part of the dear one who has died… for the vast majority of the living, death is a dark corridor down which a dear one has passed into silence.”
Angkong certainly has been silent.
And I can only understand it to mean he’s finally at peace.
On Sunday, I asked dad to drive us to the cemetery after lunch.
This time, it was just the two of us.
Sundays were always special to Angkong.
He always loved seeing the whole family come together, and it was only really possible on Sundays when there was no work and no school.
I thought that it would make him happy to see us visit him on his favorite day of the week.
I spoke to him in silence, begged his forgiveness for coming too late, and asked him to watch over me on my flight back to Dubai the next day.
I too found peace.
On Sunday, I bid farewell to the dead.
On Monday, I said goodbye to the living.
My unexpected journey made me think about the precious little time each one of us have to live.
If I regret not spending enough time with my Angkong for all his 98 years (which is unusually long by today’s standards), what should I do today to make the most of my time with my living loved ones who may not even make it to the age of 98?
On my return flight to Dubai, I looked out the airplane window until the last flicker of light from Cebu faded in the distance.
And along with it, my family, my friends, all my loved ones.
I can only hope to see all of them alive and well the next time I come home.
The same way I had wished to see my Angkong again when I said goodbye to him last February.
But I too late…
I arrived in Dubai on Tuesday morning.
I had promised my bosses I’d report back to work on the same day of my flight, but it was easier said than done.
On the train ride from the airport to my flat, I entertained the thought of calling in sick, but another thought crossed my mind.
My Angkong.
I imagine that look of disapproval on his face, if I so much as use him as an excuse for my laziness.
When I was a child, I remember when my parents would excuse us early from a Sunday evening family gathering, so that I could finish my homework for the next day.
I would amin Angkong to say goodbye, and he would look sad for just a moment, before patting my hand reassuringly and letting me go.
He understood why I had to go.
Over the years, he and I would repeat the exact same farewell gesture.
Up till the last time I saw him.
Angkong always understood.
And so I steeled myself.
I went to work, if only to honor the memory of Angkong and the legacy of hard work he left behind.
