A beautiful world without me

For senior citizens like me every year is a gift, every day, no, every minute, no, every second is something to be thankful for. There might have been days of the year that went so quickly that I would prefer not to remember but I would rather dwell on the days that were happy.

The title of this column is from Susan Jacoby, the author of “Never Say Die: The Myth and Marketing of the New Old Age.” It is from the last paragraph of the article she wrote for the New York Times about “real life among the old old”: “What I expect, though — if I do live as long as the other women in my family — is nothing less than an unremitting struggle, ideally laced with moments of grace. On that day by the riverbank — the last time we saw each other — Gran cast a lingering glance over the water and said, “It’s good to know that the beauty of the world will go on without me.” I would have preferred it if she ended her essay with that.

But she continued, “If I can say that, in full knowledge of my rapidly approaching extinction, I will consider my life a success — even though I will have failed, as everyone ultimately does, to defy old age.” The last item was anti-climactic. Or perhaps I have not reached that point of giving up just yet.

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I had meant to say many things as a year-ender — the sorry state of our politics, the still unresolved automated electoral system used last May 10, the hostage drama, the continuing hostility between the President and the Supreme Court and what to expect of the coming year success to some, hopeless to others. You know, all those important news that make headlines.

But like the sun, I am taking a holiday from political columns today, just like in a winter solstice (even if that is now over after December 25). I attended what seemed like endless reunions with my own children and their children, my late husband’s family and my own brothers and sisters with much eating and gift giving.

Christmas feasts were as they always were — the best — reserved only for these special days. The trouble is I eat less these days and more especially when there is a surfeit of food on the table of what I used to gorge on. In fact I was craving for simple food. Do we have dried fish or boiled meat and vegetables I asked the cook?

Today I enjoy eating only a bit of everything not because it is bad for the figure but because I just do not enjoy heavy eating or drinking anymore. Not one glass at a time but just one glass for the whole night and preferably red because it is good for the heart.

When I was a young mother in London the days before Christmas meant shopping for gifts. I used to tell the white lie to my children that poor Santa would have a hard time thinking of what to give them unless he had their wish lists. And so it was that they made kilometric wish lists that I had then to shop for. But not for long. Soon I thought I should tell them and apologize for having misled them. Ha, ha, Mama. We always knew.

Today our positions are reversed — they now have to think of what I want for Christmas. I’ve learned to use Itunes and YouTube in my computer and thought it would be good to hear better sounding music. Ah. Yes. Perhaps speakers will do for this Christmas and so there it was. All the children chipped in for the expensive gift. Those who lived abroad came to Manila except for one who was stuck in London’s snow.

The daughter who could not come to Manila this Christmas insists that I would have to go to London anyway one of these days. You never know, as a last hurrah. I should return to the place of exile. Isn’t that part of your bucket list? No, I said. I truly meant it and so did their father, my late husband that the Philippines is the best place in which to grow old. There were discussions on where to live when the time of near helplessness came. Thank God it will not be in a home for the aged that is the fate of many old people in the West. I am grateful for my lovely children but I know that an old person is a burden to a young family and I do more worrying about that. I want to be independent. I do not mind living alone in my own house with beautiful music and books surrounding me forever.

In the gathering with my own family, my sister who is also a widow and I always end up with conversations on how we would live the last days of our lives. We agree that we should not be a burden to our children’s young families. So far the agreement is to be near each other, but in separate homes, preferably near a hospital. We only talk but no definite plans are made.

We can, of course, die anytime. There I have said it at last. Die. Meanwhile I have the speakers for beautiful music, and more books for my bedtime reading. I got Nelson Mandela’s “Conversations with Myself” and Kishore Mahbubani’s Can Asians Think? I am still very much in the world and can’t think beyond that . . . at least for the moment.

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But something completely unexpected did happen to me last week. My friend, Loreto Romualdez Ramos died. She was 98. I have often said to her that “The Untold Story of Imelda Marcos” was her story. She was close enough to Imelda as a first cousin. She was a raconteur and had a photographic memory. I had only to follow her outpouring of memories. The last rites were held in the Santuario of San Juan a suburb then where my late husband grew up. There were only a dozen or so people present, Loreto’s children, Imelda, her sister, Conchita and me. There was no way to avoid each other. Was it chance? We talked to each other amicably in deference to the woman being interred.