Be happy, Babes

We were meeting at a café that evening. Harvey Chua and I were there just a little bit early. Rose Yenko, one of my good friends in the Jung circle, came in. She said, “I have a surprise for you.” She reached into her handbag and handed me a gift, wrapped in pink tissue paper and tied up with a silver ribbon. The card showed a cute, fat bird sitting on a floral sprig. “Dear Tweetums,” it read, “Happy Birthday to a growing gracefully woman.” It was signed “Babes.”

“But…” I sputtered. My birthday was last Saturday and last Wednesday, as people were struggling to get to Manila Memorial Park for Cory’s burial, weren’t Rose and I together at Funeraria Paz at Babes’ wake? How could she have gotten me a present when she was . . . “No,” Rose said, “she must have gotten that for your birthday last year, but her children found it in her desk today and they asked me to give it to you.” 

I was profoundly touched. The gift was a book for personal writing, a pretty notebook with a hard cover, black with lavender stripes. Two colors for mourning, my mother used to say, but very lovely nonetheless.

It was Sunday afternoon, late afternoon, I guess, because it soon turned dark. It was stormy, hard rain outside, wind lashing at my windows, making them bang hard, when suddenly my cell phone beeped, a text beep. I read it and felt hit on the head with a heavy wooden hammer. It was from Bernie Quimpo and she said her best friend, Babes Lioanag, had passed away that afternoon. Okay, I said to myself, breathing deeply, I knew she had cancer, but I didn’t know she was that far advanced.

She looked wonderful the last time I saw her. When was that, sometime in the beginning of the year? Her hair was very, very short, like she had shaved it off and it just grew back, or she had deliberately had it cut so short. She had lost some weight and everything together — hair and body — looked so becoming on her. She looked so good I even thought of shaving my head and growing it short like hers.   Of course, I did not know she had cancer, had had chemotherapy. I didn’t know her hair had fallen out and just grown back. Fool that I am, I thought she was just being funky because she looked so good and she was in high spirits.

A few weeks later I saw her again at a Jung meeting. That’s when I found out she had cancer, but she was so wrapped in the love of her friends and family that I did not think she would go. I thought surely she would recover. I even added my love and affection to her cure. I mean, when a person is known to you, when you know how cheerful and fun she is, it’s hard to imagine that she would actually pass away so quickly from that dreaded disease.

I met Babes when I was recovering from my stroke, maybe two years after my stroke, so I must have met her in 2005. Now, four years later and just fully recovered from that stroke, I realize how dumb I was then, how brain-numb, only partially the person I am now. I remember we went to the Psychology Department of the Ateneo one day to meet with Bernie Quimpo and they would interview me to do a study of my state, how recovered I was. It was another horrendously stormy day. You opened an umbrella and it blew upside down on you. We were always giggling. Bernie was late. We didn’t’ know what to do. In the end, we decided to move the interview to my apartment. We had a great time. I forgot about the results.

I think I got the results two years later when my recovery had progressed. I think the only thing that cures stroke victims is time and therapy. Time is imposed and therapy is up to you. For me, it was writing, knitting and crafts that improved me. No drugs. I don’t believe in chemical drugs unless extremely necessary. But that’s just something on the side of our friendship. Babes and I enjoyed being together. We went to Quiapo to see what had changed. We went to Laguna, to her house and mine. We met at Rose’s office, at the Ateneo and every event was marked with giggles and laughter. How could she go so early?

I guess that’s fate, but I am so sorry. I am not the sort of person who speaks at funeral Masses unless you are my surrogate father. I could not see myself speaking at her wake. But I can write and I prefer to write about how grief-stricken I am at the loss of Babes Lioanag, a dear, funny friend. I will miss your laughter and the giggles we shared always. I will miss you. Thank you for the notebook you gave. I will keep it and use it for writing funny stuff in memory of the good times we had and the laughter we shared.

Be happy, Babes, you just got there ahead of us. 

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