This post will not have any sort of structure, just a complete rundown of things.
Hospital duty
After refusing to take in anything solid for nearly a week and relying solely on Ensure (shake) for his nutrition, my 95-year old (or 96?) grandpa was finally admitted to the hospital last Sunday. Apparently, he had developed a case of pneumonia which caused sepsis and a few other complications. His lack of appetite may be a result of the infection or an underlying case of depression.
He was not supposed to be admitted in that hospital. We meant to have him checked-up and then transferred to either of two hospitals that specialize in medicine for veterans, and hence, older people. However, because of his terribly low blood pressure, he was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit where he stayed for four days before being transferred to a regular room.
My grandfather is a veteran of the second World War. He served under the 41st Infantry under the Engineering Department but also made his mark by looking for means to get food when their supplies were running low. He was made the executive officer, often making the crucial decisions for his commanding officer who had to attend to a lot of things and who was sometimes paralyzed by the immense pressure.
He was promised citizenship by the US government. This gamble he took in the hope of a better life for his brood of 13 children. His lands in Ilo-ilo, he gave away to his relatives without so much as a second thought, much to the dismay of my grandmother. He is a generous and decisive man. If you look him up, Gregorio Rivera, you'd find an article about a man without citizenship. His US naturalization was revoked after he gave up his Filipino citizenship and he went without a nationality for a while. I don't know much of the details of his earlier life in the United States but I learned that he worked in the grape orchards and some odd jobs before the government gave him the citizenship it promised. Once, in California, he had to walk a couple of miles with other Filipino friends because they did not know the way and were left by the bus.
I used to only see him during the Christmas season, when he would come home with my Lola Pacing to celebrate with the rest of the family. My Lola Pacing was a remarkable woman. She was "brutally frank." Her kindness and thoughtfulness unmatched, she somehow found a way to keep track of all her children and apos, making sure each one has an ample amount of gifts to open come Christmas Eve, preparing her infamous pancit molo from scratch unaided for Christmas and New Year celebrations. She had low tolerance for bad manners and grammar, though, and would often tell us children off. She never quite outgrew her Ilonggo accent so she would often berate us endlessly, her still-sweet tone betraying her anger. While Lola Pacing was talkative, Lolo Greg was the completely opposite. He was unreachable in his silence, except for some of his sons whom he would regale with war stories. It felt like an accomplishment to get a few words from him. Our older cousins were luckier because they heard Lolo retell his stories firsthand.
My younger self would always remember him as the genial-looking old man, with the perfectly-ironed shirt scented with his usual perfume, the pocket of which contains a Rosary.
Now, he is to permanently reside here with us in Manila. His return last December, a supposedly happy event, was marked by great sadness with the passing away of one of my uncles.
Since then everybody has been eager to please him. lechon, lengua estofada, bottles of coca cola and other small pleasures of old age, we'd gift him with. I often think we're all strangers to him, though.
I would give him gentle head massages, and he would tell me about his favorite films (Ben Hur, Over the Hill, Tarzan the Apesman, among many others) and his legendary escape during the Death March. I don't think he remembers my name and with fifty or so grand children and great-children, I don't fault him for it. But he remembers me. There are fewer times I felt more fulfilled than when, after conversing for a while, he'd ask me whether I was the Girl Who Reads Ben Hur. (I feel guilty though, because I never got to finishing that novel.)
I know 96 or 95 is a good number and a blessing of a life already but I am asking the Good Lord for a couple more years. I want to get to know this man who barely knows me, make him realize how very much he is loved.
Call it sympathy, call it love, it is compassion that makes us human: to be totally convinced and consumed of our own misfortune, sadness, benightedness, and still be moved to go and think beyond ourselves and wish for nothing more than be assured of another person's happiness.
Chance Encounters:
I hardly got to talk to people this week but among those I got to converse with are friends I hardly ever see. In fact, two of them I met only once, (this, I realized when one of them pointed it out) and somehow became friends with after exchanges online.
The first one I only got to talk to after a year of online presence, mostly because of football and theology. It's refreshing to talk to someone who feels strongly about and concerns himself with these issues because they are relevant matters to me. I've learned so much about the Catholic Faith (and a lot of other things) from him! It's inspiring to know people like him who spend most of their time and energy studying in order to contribute concretely and positively to social change, who work hard to make things better. It is during one of our conversations that I realized what my concentration in social entrepreneurship would be in the future: education or community health. Hardly do we ever talk about personal matters but when we do, it's always during crucial moments when reassurance is needed and given.
The other one I met through a friend's event. He's seriously my complete opposite in a lot of my preferences (i.e. choice of music, books, grade consciousness, preference for rewriting, er, PE grades etc.), it is surprising that we even get along. I mean, HOW CAN ONE NOT LIKE REWRITING? We talked way back the Ondoy disaster era but never met after that despite several invitations from both sides. Still, I'm quite glad he became my friend despite the literal and figurative distance. I am amazed by his hard work, persistence, perseverance and maturity. I think a lot of people take themselves too seriously and I believe his innocence and openness (which is a paradoxically mature choice), his humor and randomness allow him to get the most of his experiences simply because of the way he relates with people. There are a few people I feel comfortable sharing the details of my life with and he turned out to be one of them. Unbeknownst to him, perhaps, but his support and kind words (and too-generous compliments) mean a lot. Also, I won't be surprised to see him as one of the most accomplished among my generation. I do think it's fully deserved. :)
Before third year college, I hardly went out but during the few times that I did, I met some very remarkable people. There are a lot of things we underrate, and foremost of these are chance encounters and unlikely friends. :) It's a hot question whether technology has made us closer or farther from each other but my friendships to these two, and a few others, tend to lend themselves to the former. The past few years have been busy for most of us and although coffee is always the better choice, sometimes a few instant messages are all we can afford. Thankfully, these instant messages sometimes also prove enough to keep conversations intact. Distance has become a collapsible concept. Sometimes the persons you're literally closer to, drift further away to be strangers; and those you only connect digitally give the refreshing exchanges you don't even realize you need.
Note to self:
There is still time to make things better. Plan and execute; pray and do good; do well. Pardon the length of my much-needed catharsis.
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