Bon vivant

The French bon vivant better captures the ebullience and joy of someone who loves life, almost excessively, as did my Uncle Abi, Larry to others, from his full name Vergilio Lawrence C. Lim.

He was a child of World War II, born in 1938 in Manila, at a time when the dark clouds of war were already gathering. Just a few months earlier was the Rape of Nanking, when the Japanese invaded the Chinese city, unleashing a brutal six-week campaign of pillage, rape, and slaughter.

My grandfather was among the enraged local Chinese who launched a campaign to boycott Japanese goods, for which he was arrested and imprisoned in Fort Santiago soon after the Japanese invaded and occupied the Philippines in 1941. My grandmother bribed the Kempeitai (Japanese military police) to get him released and shortly after, the family fled Manila for Baguio, my Uncle Abi and other children carried by elders on the long trek.

Perhaps those years of deprivation made Uncle Abi live with a vengeance later on. The postwar years, while still difficult, were ones of fairly rapid economic recovery. Years later, Uncle Abi would tell me about his bon vivant days in La Salle and into adulthood. (My maternal clan was completely green; I was the only one who had a true blue Jesuit education, somewhat more sober, and uneventful. Smile.)

The perpetual bachelor, Uncle lived with his mother and their home was where we had our clan’s Sunday reunions. We would catch glimpses of the bon vivant with his friends dropping by, his dogs noisily scampering around with names like Cognac and Chablis, Whiskey and Vodka.

He remained close to my mother, who was 18 years older and who assumed the roles of a second mother and teacher. Together, they became keepers of the clan’s memories and rituals, including arranging for an exodus of ancestral remains from the Manila Chinese Cemetery to the Santuario de San Antonio’s columbarium.

Uncle continued to work well into his senior years, retiring only about two years ago. His weekends combined mahjong sessions with friends (with good meals and good wine), and teaching catechism to public school kids.

After my mother went into an eight-year journey with dementia, he would visit every few weeks without fail, the first few years with animated exchange of stories, and then, as my mother’s dementia worsened, became more of quiet hand-holding. He arranged for the last Mass, and the inurnment, my mother joining her other relatives from the exodus years ago.

Last year, in February, he called to tell me had been diagnosed with stage 4 prostate cancer. I was stunned by the reminder that we can become complacent, forgetting that while benign prostate hyperplasia may remain benign for years after diagnosis, once it turns malignant it will go into rapid rampage.

I called my mother’s former caregiver who, fortunately, had just finished caring for another patient. She came on board immediately and for the next few months, Uncle seemed to be fighting well. He was always optimistic, texting that soon we could go out again and splurge on a good meal with friends.

I wanted to believe that, but the new crises and hospitalization became more frequent. Last Saturday, the caregiver called and gave me a rundown of his situation, and I knew it would be time, soon, to implement his last will and testament, and advance medical directives, which he gave me some years back. The instructions were clear to turn down any more life support, with one qualification: “I do want maximum pain relief, even if this might hasten my death.”

I had laughed with him about that line, but I promised him I would follow his instructions. In the end, as I explained to his partner and caregivers, the painkillers would not even be necessary. The uremia (blood poisoning) that came toward the end would make him sleep peacefully, painlessly.

And so it did, my bon vivant uncle passing a few hours after we let him go, in the comfort of his home.

In these times, we elderly must be prepared to care and grieve for even older relatives and friends. I would still have wanted to celebrate my uncle’s 85th birthday with him in August.

mtan@inquirer.com.ph