What I learned of loss at Christmastime

Glasses clinked as the conversation flowed. The polished floors gleamed in the beautiful home in Dasmariñas Village, Makati, of one of our fabulously wealthy consultants who hosted the party. As I looked around at the animated faces of my fellow residents, I found it hard to believe that on the very same day only four years ago in Tacloban City, I was living on canned sardines and instant noodles from the Department of Social Welfare and Development in the aftermath of Supertyphoon “Yolanda.” A year into becoming a newly minted physician, I noticed a change in the circles into which I was invited.

The mosaic dolphin at the bottom of the illuminated pool danced as rain created ripples on the surface. The water reminded me so much of my province, and I felt that familiar feeling of nostalgia. My happiest memories were always of Christmastime, even when we had so little at the time our young father was working in Saudi Arabia and our mom stayed home after giving birth to our youngest brother. We would join other kids and sing Christmas carols for aguinaldo within the neighborhood, visit the giant Christmas tree in downtown Tacloban, and sip homemade hot chocolate that our grandmother made from real
cacao beans we sun-dried and ground.

One Christmas our mother was sick, and I found a single hexagonal P2 coin in the sock I hung the previous night. We slept through noche buena because we had nothing prepared. The following day, my brothers and I got together with the neighborhood kids who showed us their new toys. I realize now that their toys were cheap plastic figurines, but at the time I felt a real pang of envy. I was too proud to show how upset I was, so I said simply: Santa was sick so he was not able to give us gifts.

Now, as an adult looking back at those upheavals in our family life, I realized that the most important thing was that our family was whole then. After losing our parents only two years apart, and also our grandmother Luming who made our hot chocolate during Christmas, after our home was almost destroyed when Yolanda leveled Tacloban, I have realized that the time we spent together can never be brought back. Even our childhood mementos were washed away by the murky waters of the storm surge. The moments our family spent together, both in good and bad times, were all that was given to us on this earth; there were no rehearsals, and no second chances.

We were able to repair our home and get back on track. Our parents would have been proud had they known that Ted, my youngest brother, would graduate with Latin honors in America, or that Gavin, my brother Tyrone’s son, would become a Chinese-speaking academic achiever, or that I, the incorrigible, would become a physician.

Nowadays, I try to live life the best I can—traveling more, spending more time with my brothers and relatives, saying “I love you” more often, and being kinder to everyone I encounter, be it a patient or a complete stranger on the street. No one on their deathbed ever said, “I wish I could have spent more time at work.” We only have these moments. In that fancy party, I raised my glass in gratitude, remembered my past, and looked forward to the future.

Thaddeus C. Hinunangan is a pathology resident at Philippine General Hospital.