SAN PABLO CITY — Grandmothers — as the saying goes — hold our tiny hands for just a little while, but our hearts forever. Today, as we lay our beloved Lola Rosita Diaz-Lasco to rest, I can only thank her for touching my life — and promise her that I will always cherish her memory.
A public school teacher from Magdalena, Laguna, Inay Rosing (as we fondly called her) opened her house as a vacation home for me and my cousins, and it was there where we spent our happiest childhood days, climbing the rambutan trees, playing Battle Realms in a nearby computer shop, savoring our grandparents’ great cooking. Even as our visits grew fewer and further apart, she supported all my endeavors. “I don’t mind getting sick, knowing that you’ll be there to take care of me,” she told me after I had passed the medical board exams.
Fortunately, for much of her life Inay did not really require my care; it was actually the other way around. Filled with a vitality that characterized her force of personality, she did not let her hypertension or even breast cancer affect her role as family matriarch; in her retirement, she even established a tamarind candy business—Rosing’s Champoy—that brought her much joy and excitement.
But several months ago, Inay suffered a mild stroke, and not long after, doctors also found that cancer had likely metastasized to her lungs. With each passing month, we saw her body weaken, her appetite wane, her wakefulness decrease, her lucidity diminish. Only when family members visited would she be revitalized, as when my sister came home from the United States and she managed to stay awake all day. What if we ourselves are the medicines that our loved ones need; the only ones that can ease their pain in their most difficult moments?
Those bursts of energy, however, were fleeting, and despite my best hopes, I knew the end was near.
Of course, we wanted her to live as long as possible, but we also did not want her—at 87 years of age—to suffer. Years ago, she had told me that she did not wish to have any artificial life support, and that she preferred to die at home. “Just don’t leave me alone,” she recently told her husband, our Lolo Delio.
One Sunday afternoon, my cousins and I decided to tell her what she has meant to us all these years. Too often, our feelings of gratitude, though heartfelt, remain unsaid, and we wanted our grandmother to know how much we love her. At the time, she barely spoke and her hand gestures were our only assurance that she understood. Just before we left, however, as we were giving her a parting embrace, she seemingly mustered all her strength and spoke in a soft but clear voice, leaving us with words that we will never forget:
“I will love you always.”
Days later, she quietly breathed her last, with Lolo Delio by her side.
Anthropologists speak of wakes and funerals as a “liminal phase” between life and death, serving not just to honor the dead but to gather the living. I saw this happen over the past week as distant relatives and friends paid their respects and recalled their memories of her. Hearing all the details of Inay Rosing’s life, even as we retold the details of her death, gave us some catharsis and comfort.
Some of those conversations turned to lessons people learned from her. My cousin Vikki, for instance, recalled being told: “If you can’t give something your 100 percent, don’t even try.”
To be honest, I can’t think of a discrete lesson from her. She never really admonished or lectured us—that was left to our parents. I’m sure she was confused by my life choices — for instance, pursuing medical anthropology instead of a clinical specialty — and yet, as she always did to all her children and grandchildren, she gave me her wholehearted support.
Thus, without her articulating it, perhaps the greatest lesson I learned from Inay Rosing is love itself—that is, that people have intrinsic value, are worthy of affection not because of what they do or what they can become, but simply because of who they are. Today, I feel as if the world has slightly dimmed, but if we can have the same heart for others as our grandmothers have for us, surely we can make it a much better place.
glasco@inquirer.com.ph