Sunrise doesn’t last all morning/A cloudburst doesn’t last all day/ Seems my love is up and has left you with no warning/But it’s not always gonna be this gray/All things must pass, all things must pass away. — George Harrison
It was inevitable. After years of battling cancer, Mary Maiden T. Chan, one of my favorite and dearest aunties, died of respiratory failure on June 21, Father’s Day. She was 67.
A few weeks ago, after having decided she wasn’t going to spend her “final moments” cooped up in a hospital, she was released and returned to her home in Greenhills. Within minutes of her arrival, she began having chest pains, her lips started to dry up and she started retching violently. Amidst raucous protests, she was transferred back to Cardinal Santos Medical.
Several days before her death, my mum asked me to bring her a few personal items she had packed for her.
“Make sure these sheets are in order. And give her a hug. It might cheer her up.”
“J-Just me?” I hesitated. Prior to that, I’d only visited my auntie only once the entire time she was in the hospital. And I had to drag along someone with me before I could even make the trip. It’s not that I didn’t want to see her, it’s just that I didn’t want to see her like that.
“Oo. Ikaw lang,” mum said with folded arms. “What is it with you and suffering? She’s still your blood, for God’s sake.”
“I know. No worries. I… I think I can handle it… I think.”
There were — and still are — many fond memories I have of Aunt Maiden. But the things that stood out the most were the few short days when I visited her in Japan in the late ‘80s. I was still a child when she worked there at the time. She showed me around, lectured me on the sights and sounds of Tokyo and taught me Japanese etiquette — and did so to the hilt, which I found rather obtrusive.
The highlights of the visit, simply enough, were the bullet train rides and video arcades. I’d be on all fours, drooling over which Japanese game I wanted to try next before I was even finished playing with one. It was one of the happiest times I had with my aunt, who, conspicuously, kept a watchful eye on me the whole time.
She was just standing at the entrance of the arcade, and I would — from time to time — look up from a video game and smile at her appreciatively. The bright lights and colors of the place shone on her hair and accentuated her oval face and for a split second, I saw what cousin Luis was talking about when he said Aunt Maiden used to be a knockout.
She never looked bored, either, although I had a feeling she would have rather been picking out designer handbags in the mall instead of babysitting a moon-faced, game-crazed kid who was incapable of affection without getting something in return. Such suspicions didn’t last long as she peppered me with kisses and bought me a train set after I won something from the toy booth and had given it to her (it was a Barbie doll).
On my last day there, she gave me a big hug and told me how much she loved me and how she would like it if I could visit her again. I tilted my head up and looked at her straight in the eye and said I didn’t want to go home to Manila anymore. She laughed so hard I thought she would drop dead on the spot (all right, bad choice of words).
Over the next several years, she would send me tons of gifts and presents and I never understood what I had actually done to deserve them. Apparently, neither did my parents, who often complained to her that she was spoiling me too much.
Those thoughts came racing back to my mind as I opened the door to her hospital room. She was lying on the bed where a nurse was untangling a vaporizing tube that accidentally got stuck on her collar. I walked slowly towards my aunt, hoping she was asleep so I could then make a fast getaway. She wasn’t. And when she saw me, she forced a weak smile.
Her face was grim. It looked like she hadn’t slept in months. I couldn’t believe how quickly she had deteriorated from the last time I was there. She was pale and rail-thin, her voice was weak and she kept vomiting every few minutes. The sheer intensity of the scene made me feel I was about to faint. I had rather thought I had mustered enough experience seeing people die as a news reporter, but I guess it’s different if it’s someone you know and adore. I don’t think you can ever be prepared for that.
It was probably my guilt and duty as a relative that made me stay a bit longer and bite my lip to keep from screaming, but I’m glad I did. I’m glad I was there when she could still see and talk and I’m glad I was there to hear her say how much she loved me one last time. Before I left I remembered my mum had asked me to give her a hug. I decided to go a step better and planted a soft kiss on her forehead, something I felt she really appreciated.
On my way home I had visions of why life takes us on a dizzying path of glitz and happiness only to end on a downward spiral of sadness and despair. I guess that’s just the way it goes. And I guess that’s why I never visited Aunt Maiden in the hospital again. For in my mind, I always wanted to remember her as the vibrant, cheerful, generous person she was.
It’s kind of selfish, I know, but I hope she can forgive me. And I only have to look back on Japan many years ago to see that she already has.
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E-mail estabillo_rt@yahoo.com.