When I met Cory

I love to tell this story. But only when I’m asked to tell it.

When Francis died on a Friday, last March 6, people lined up to pay their last respects at the Christ The King Church in Quezon City. After his body was brought there, at around midnight on Saturday, I found myself standing near his casket to greet everyone offering condolences to our family.

The media couldn’t believe that, besides the throngs of fans, admirers and the just plain curious, there were also dignitaries, or people from higher office who came to his wake. Since I don’t wish to name-drop at this point, I won’t name names.

On Saturday evening, as I was going through the same routine, my daughter, Maxene — who is known to make light of any situation — came up to me and in a low voice announced, “Mama, pupunta daw si Cory dito.”

I looked at her sideways and replied, “Maxx, this is not the time for this!”

I caught her face wearing a slight grin as she walked away, so I took it to mean that she was kidding me.

A few hours passed and as I was still in the midst of shaking hands with each person in line while the crowd grew even larger.

Maxx came up to me again saying, “Mama, andyan si Cory. Sunduin niyo daw sya sa car kasi nahihiya siya.”

I could see she was trying to stop smiling. I thought she was joking so I glared at her again, saying “Maxx!” through clenched teeth.

Then I looked over her shoulder, and lo and behold, there was Cory Aquino walking up the aisle holding the arm of a tall, young man.

Maxene proceeded to introduce us to one another and excused herself, but not before she gave me a secret smile that said, “Tried to tell ya!”

I’m not one to get star-struck, but in the presence of someone of Mrs. Aquino’s stature, I try to bring all my best to the fore and take in every word they say.

First thing she did was to apologize for barging in on what was supposed to be a family affair. But she was compelled to see Francis because she kept seeing his blog entry on the news, which quoted him as saying, “To His will I submit myself,” addressing God while battling his leukemia.

Mrs. Aquino said the more she saw this on TV, the more she felt panicky about how she could approach me.

So she called her daughter Kris, who was shooting a commercial that day and couldn’t accompany her.

Turns out that the young man who accompanied her was her grandson Abe, who had heard about her desire to pay respects to Francis.

She relayed to me her happiness when Abe said my daughters were his friends from school; thus he could accompany her to the wake.

Mrs. Aquino said, “When I saw that Francis dealt with his mortality with such finality, I said to myself, I want to be that way too.”

I nodded at her every word and told her I was relieved there was actually someone who could relate to what I had been trying to say — that the reason I don’t cry is because during the time of his first relapse — and it struck me while I was washing the dishes in the bathroom — I realized that if Franz really had to go, then he should be able to let go of the physical world with ease.

I told him so. In the almost 25 years we were together, Franz loved to listen to me philosophize. I said, “Franz, you know, if you really have to go, it’s okay. You’ve done so much for the country through your songs; you’ve achieved so much already. It’s not as if you wasted your time here.”

When I said that to him, he nodded in agreement and it seemed to pave the way for him to accept his fate. Sometimes all it really takes is for someone who knows you so well to validate your so-called fears so the impending end becomes easier to accept.

At this point, Mrs. Aquino smiled while looking towards Franz, saying, “You know, if it were only up to me, I am ready. But my children, they do not want me to go.” 

She then proceeded to talk as if we had known each other so long. I’m glad she warmed up enough for us to have a 15-minute chat, comparing notes on chemotherapy and about our children, before the media swarmed in and started interviewing us separately for the cameras.

On August 1, Mrs. Aquino left this world in the wee hours of the morning.

As a rule, I only attend wakes of relatives, but now I felt I needed to see this woman who had touched my life just a short five months ago.

That night, my mother (who was a member of NAMFREL), my daughter Saab and I went to the La Salle Greenhills gym where her body lay in state.

As with Francis, I didn’t feel any grief again because although we pray for miracles, death is inevitable.

I do not mean to sound heartless, but I don’t feel sad for people who have accomplished so much because they leave behind a legacy.

I grieve more for our countrymen who do not heed the call for change in themselves.