A few days ago, my mom Sonia’s phone conked out, so, in need of a temporary phone, she took out Dad’s phone from a drawer in their apartment in Anaheim, California. Dad passed away last July 6 after a valiant battle with cancer, and for sentimental reasons, Mom kept his phone but had the line disconnected.
Anyway, when she had the phone reactivated and before she had her SIM card transferred to it, my sister Mae downloaded the messages and images on Dad’s phone one last time and she stumbled upon a trove of memories — Dad’s last photos. Her grief still fresh, my sister Valerie, who took most of those photos, can’t even bear to look at them.
Those images were of ordinary, everyday moments that popped up when there was no camera around (or the cameras were in the bottom of our bags and there was no time to retrieve them), and so we picked up the nearest trusty cellphone in the room (usually Dad’s because he hardly used it himself) and turned on its camera feature.
We knew since October last year that Dad’s days were numbered, and knew that the moments, more than the days, would matter more through time — to him and to us. Those moments when we were unprepared to take photos, the moments that crept up on us and we turned to the cellphone for rescue, were really the “Kodak” moments, the times of our lives. Dad reading the newspaper, Geraldine making the peace sign beside him. Dad trying his best to finish a marathon — around the corridor of the Oncology Floor with the help of his walker. For it is not only those moments that we pose for or compose like an Avedon portrait that matter most. The precious moments sometimes come when only our hearts — or our Nokias and Samsungs — are there to record them.
My favorite among the last stored images in Dad’s phone was the moment, maybe three weeks before his death, when Dad had a sudden burst of strength. On that fine day, Dad’s best friend Harry Aquino, with the permission of his therapist “Alice in Wonderland,” decided to wheel Dad out of his third floor hospital room into the sunshine — the tree-shaded courtyard of the Fountain Valley Hospital wing where he was confined for the last two months of his life. It was the first time in over a month that Dad held his face up to the warm rays of the sun, the first time he kissed the gentle California summer breeze. My sister Valerie says she saw tears in his eyes. I think, for the first time in over a month, Dad really felt great and grateful to be alive. Basking in the sunshine, he felt brand new. One of my sisters captured that moment.
I called him up at one point into his 10-minute rendezvous with exhilaration, and his voice was like a geyser. “I’m feeling great!” he gushed. It was just a month to his 78th birthday and he so looked forward to celebrating it. That day, I think he was certain he would make it.
Despite our prayers, the doctors’ best efforts and Dad’s own stubborn will, that moment in the sunshine was never to come again — for Dad.
But for us, and for the happy accident that made us rediscover that photo — that moment came back. And it always will.
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It is just a few days to Nov. 1, when Filipinos, as a nation, traditionally honor their departed loved ones. We like looking out for signs that our loved one is watching over us. We try to move on, and most of us do — with baby steps, giant steps. But the memory of the heart stills us on our journey and makes us pause, and remember.
A butterfly, a dream, an almost forgotten image on a cellphone taken out of storage.
They bring back memories of a loved one, of ourselves together in happy times. They are a reminder to relish every happy moment that pops up like a Jack-in-the-Box in our lives. They are a reminder to always be prepared to record these moments — with a camera, a trusty cellphone, a journal. Or better yet, a heart that sees, and then lovingly records, every happy moment in stone.
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My sister Geraldine was in town this month for her once-in-a lifetime velada, the silver anniversary of her high school class. The velada is a time-honored tradition among alumnae of the Assumption Convent, and they mount the liveliest, most sentimental and most heart-tugging shows (“velada”) that their bodies, their schedules and their imagination permit.
Geraldine flew 8,500 miles from Philadelphia to attend the velada and looked forward every day to their practices at the Assumption’s Mother Rose Hall. All the jubilarians glowed with the high of seeing long-lost classmates, bonding, and celebrating life.
Among those who eagerly attended practices, and seemed so happy rehearsing her dance steps with her fellow Emerald Jubilarians (55 years since high school) was Maria Paz Rufino Laurel Tanjangco.
Cora Bautista Lopa, mom of my batchmate Rhona Macasaet, says Paz was so upbeat during the practices that she went out of her way to reach out to her fellow jubilarians and tell them how happy and grateful she was for their friendship and the chance to share a velada with them. Vicky Fernandez Zubiri, a Golden Jubilarian, was also approached by Paz out of the blue to tell her how happy she was to see her.
A few days before the velada itself on Oct. 17, Paz collapsed suddenly in the midst of practice. Geraldine, a doctor, rushed to her side to give her CPR till she had regained a faint pulse. Paz was then taken by ambulance to the hospital, where she died around 30 minutes later.
All her classmates and those who participated in the velada are one in saying Paz died happy. For one, she was regularly attending practices and was openly articulating her joy.
I am told that the minutes, the seconds before she blacked out were happy, exhilarating moments for her. Her last thoughts were surely happy thoughts.
On the day of the velada, which was also the day of her funeral, Paz’s three daughters went on stage to take a bow for their mother after her Emerald batch did a rousing dance number, Volare! Way to go, Ma’am, way to go!
To Dad and to Mrs. Maria Paz Rufino Laurel Tanjangco (whom I never met personally), I thank God for all the happy moments He blessed you with.
They made life, short as it is, so worthwhile.
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(You may e-mail me at joanneraeramirez@yahoo.com)