Salamat

The nurses at Medical City must have found the goings-on at Room 1117 last week a bit odd. Musicians, with their instruments, kept trickling in. There was a definite hint of melody filtering out to the corridors that were constantly filled with family and friends.

When Susan flat-lined in the early afternoon of Thursday, Lester Demetillo was beside her, strumming one of her favorite songs. She could not have wished her final moment to be anything other than this.

When Fr. Robert Reyes, a grade school classmate and Susan’s confessor, finally made it to the hospital, I had already escorted her remains to the morgue and started the dreadful duty of getting the documentation done. The insistent priest, we all know, can never be stopped. He had the grim place unlocked and blessed Susan’s remains. Fr. Robert later offered two unforgettable Masses during the wake.

Late Tuesday night, after all the visitors had left, Susan insisted on getting up from bed, with the tubes attached to her, on the excuse she was more comfortable standing. We ended up dancing slowly, with music playing out of a laptop, to the amusement of Patricia — Susan’s niece and a fresh nursing graduate who had so heroically offered herself for round-the-clock care-giving.

I had dragged in everybody I knew who could be of help: from Fr. Fernando Suarez for a healing session to Dr. Flint Reyes, my laser-acupuncturist, to help with the pains. But the enemy in this battle — clear cell cancer — was a vicious one, Susan’s courage notwithstanding. The medical team that attended to my wife was the best one could ask for and I thank them all.

Susan and I met during a time when living meaningfully and loving the people required a large amount of courage. Many of our friends perished for a cause we shared. I can only imagine how horrified her parents might have been when they found out their convent-bred daughter was visiting a boyfriend imprisoned for subversion.

In school, we studied the dialectics. Susan and I lived it.

She loved people; I categorized them. In a public event, she would wade into the crowd; I would retreat to the quietest corner. She thrived under the klieg lights; I am happy with a reading lamp. She was outgoing; I guarded privacy jealously.

Susan never reconciled with the kitchen; I love to cook. She hates doing the laundry; I take to it with a dose of religious devotion. She never really bothered about why plants thrive; I tend to grow a garden wherever I am. She joined causes; I paid the bills. She was musical; I was tone-deaf.

If we were a house, Susan would be the windows and I would be the pantry.

Susan constantly fought for rights; I fought for livelihood. She appealed to conscience through her music; I thought about policy. She moved crowds; I moved plans.

We were like two poles of a magnet — and between us managed to attract all sorts. I sometimes thought that all the colorful, highly opinionated people who surrounded us were a curse on our relationship. But I have since concluded this was much better than being hemmed in by the drab.

I sometimes wondered what sort of children we might rear. We led unusual lifestyles and pretty much covered every spectrum there was. The last few days of trial put all apprehensions to rest: our two sons made me so proud.

We named our eldest Kalayaan. He was born on the anniversary of the Cry of Balintawak, a few days after Ninoy Aquino was martyred. His full name is a tribute to the ideal that all humanity moves progressively forward to the realm of Greater Freedom. His initials match that militant group I joined when I was very young and foolishly brave. It was a group that drew me into the line of fire and steeled me for life. It is the historical ideal I am confident he would live for.

Our second one we named Sandino, after that rebel general who inspired the Nicaraguan revolution. Here was an iconic man of action animating a movement that loved freedom passionately. As soon as he left Susan’s womb, I noticed he inherited from her that mischievous twinkle in the eye. It is a magical twinkle he passed on to his own son. Ino does not only share his mother’s initials but also her disarming smile.

As soon as we recovered from the shock of Susan’s passing, we all agreed to organize, not a mournful wake, but a stirring celebration of Susan’s life. I took on the sordid duty of bringing her remains to the crematorium while my two sons set up the event.

What happened awed us. Hundreds of friends came to celebrate Susan’s life. It was such a humbling outpouring of love from family and friends. Christ the King Church on Greenmeadows never saw anything like this: endless music and lusty applause. Crammed together were those who ran the state and those who sought to overthrow it. There were colleagues, associates, comrades and friends from Susan’s childhood and mine. Strangers whose lives Susan had touched.

My sons kept reporting pleasant problems. There was too much food; too many people and not enough seats. The flowers had spilled out to the parking lot. The heftiest guestbook I could find ran out of pages.

Susan, I know, is very happy about this SRO crowd. When Gina de Venecia snapped a photo of Susan’s siblings performing a musical arrangement she had done, there was a bright halo above them. On the last night, when Bayani Fernando sang, he brought the house down.

I cannot thank all of you enough. Susan might have thought a wake like this was too much to ask for. You delivered more than we dared imagine.

And Susan I cannot thank enough for all the pleasant memories, the comradeship, the joyful moments. Godspeed, Mahal.