With whom will I laugh again?
A long time ago when I was in my 20s, I had a strange dream.
I was in Acme supermarket, then a leading supermarket in Malate. It was full of people, some I knew, others I didn’t. Slowly I noticed some had disappeared, some of them my friends. Finally, a lady told me they had gone to the next life. “You were put together because God meant to summon many.” I looked around. Only a few people were left. I woke up with a start.
It all began with Jovy. We were both high school seniors at Maryknoll and Ateneo. He was a gangmate of my cousin Rufo, gone now; Joey, who made himself memorable to me because on my 18th birthday, he told me he wanted to one day become president of our country; and Toto, who grew old singing like my husband and me. But Jovy wasn’t even sick. He simply went to sleep and didn’t wake up. I felt sad because I had known him for such a long time and he was without a doubt one of the nicest people alive. Why did he have to be called?
Then two of my writing students were called too. Susan “Toots” Ople was my writing student a long time ago when I lived in an apartment in Makati. I knew she was Blas Ople’s daughter and she had a position in government but she didn’t carry those credentials into class. I remember giggling with her when we talked about her father—who, I think, was still alive then—watering the plants at the Manila Hotel. He seemed to enjoy going there for business dinners, then drinking and listening to music before heading home, maybe a bit tipsy. He would leave the hotel and find the gardener watering the plants out front. He would take the hose from him and water a while until his car arrived.
Toots was very sweet and unpretentious like so many students from government I had. I am so sorry to see she died of cancer. I should have turned her on to German New Medicine but I just discovered it myself.
Another one who was called up there was my student Tina Canda. She introduced herself to me as the daughter of one of my high school teachers. She never mentioned that she worked in the Department of Budget and Management. She was a wonderful pupil with a great sense of humor. Then the graduation piece of my students was to write a poem on their life. Her piece was so outstanding I used it as a sample in succeeding classes but I did not reveal her identity to protect her privacy. She was honest, real, and very courageous, exhibiting the three traits I tell my students today they need to have if they want to become published writers.
This is what happens when you grow old. You take your friends for granted. You imagine they will always be there. After all, they are much younger than you, more vital and vibrant than you. You imagine they will see your photo announcing that you kicked the bucket and they will be sad for a while. They will remember the times you had together, how pleasantly naughty you were, how you teased each other then broke out into contagious laughter. What great times you had!
When I read that she had retired as department undersecretary, I texted her, to welcome her into the ranks of the retired. She sounded shy. I asked her how she was. She said she was all right but she just wanted to rest. I was shocked when I saw she passed away also from cancer. I read about how courageous she was, showing up at hearings in spite of her stage 4 cancer. I don’t know. I just want to reach out to her and say, “That’s my baby.” I wish we had gotten together again and laughed together again.
Then Mike Enriquez, also younger than I, passed away. Around 30 years ago we worked together on the then-famous Advertising Congress. He was the emcee and I was the program committee head. He told me he would line the road from Manila to Baguio with young men and I was to choose a few boyfriends. Of course, it never happened, and now he, too, is gone. We also had tons of good laughs together.
Finally, one of my daughters came to visit and told me that the younger brother of one of my best friends had died suddenly. We also used to laugh together in the 80s when we were all together in the US. I texted my friend Lisa. She told me she had texted me but I never got her text.
This is what happens when you grow old. You take your friends for granted. You imagine they will always be there. After all, they are much younger than you, more vital and vibrant than you. You imagine they will see your photo announcing that you kicked the bucket and they will be sad for a while. They will remember the times you had together, how pleasantly naughty you were, how you teased each other then broke out into contagious laughter. What great times you had!
But life is not always like that. So now I am distressed, genuinely sad, somewhat tearful. With whom will I laugh rambunctiously again?
