The happy inevitable
There was a time when I dreamt of having a “Ph.D.” after my name. I saw earning a doctorate degree as a life-enhancing achievement after the blood, sweat, and tears involved.
Some aspirants have jokingly defined Ph.D. as “preparation for happy death.” My dream to have those initials did not materialize, but I am definitely into preparing for a happy death. St. Francis of Assisi famously said: “Be praised, my Lord, through our Sister Bodily Death, from whose embrace no living person can escape …” It’s inevitable that death can be loved and welcomed.
Thanks to the pandemic and my septuagenarian status: the coming Undas (“Uno de Noviembre, Dia de las Almas y los Santos”) heightens my realization of the fragility of life, and the need to prepare for my inevitable passing. Visiting the graves of my dear departed at the memorial park has taken on a deeper meaning. My attention is now drawn to the dash between birth and death dates on the grave marker. Uncertain life and fleeting time are implied by that almost inconspicuous dash. Strangely, I now want to befriend the one-meter-by-2.5-meter memorial park lot which will eventually house my remains, to visualize my tombstone, especially that dash after June 29, 1952.
Mark Twain once said there are two most important days in life—one, the day we were born, the other the day we find out why. Could that short dash stand for a life spent in aligning with God’s purpose, daily responding to His love, and being grateful in all circumstances? I really hope so; I am working on these. I prepare for death by embracing little dyings. As a human being wired to self-centeredness, I strive to die to my unloving inclinations. One of my favorite sayings is “The more we become like a prune on the outside, the more we should become like a peach on the inside; otherwise, what’s the point?”
I’ve died a little when loved ones passed on. My firstborn son died when he was three and a half years old; indeed, the inevitable can come at a time and manner we do not expect. I felt almost-crippling grief, but also the solace of God’s love—I realized it is possible to be heartbroken and to be blessed at the same moment. That was such moment.
I remember how my father prepared for the inevitable. As an elementary school pupil, I could not initially understand why he religiously paid the premium of his life insurance. He also made sure that important documents were put in order and that clear instructions given to my mother. I vow to emulate his foresight in making things easy for loved ones when it is my time to go. Moreover, as a simple, honest, and competent treasurer of two towns and a city, my father left a precious legacy of untainted service.
I used to dread the thought of taking care of my mother in the last months of her life. The experience turned out to be a major preparation for my own death. As a senior citizen having intimations of mortality, I read a lot about the mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual aspects of dying. While singing to my bedridden mother, praying with her, jotting down most of her wishes, recollection, and utterances, I recalled with deep gratitude how she had provided me with a warm home, wise words, a comforting presence. Embracing the woman who gave me life and taught me love as she was “accomplishing her death” was a singular privilege. Hearing and feeling her very last breath as she returned to her Maker was an indescribable encounter with God.
My parents named me Paulita. I can reconfigure my name as “Pauli ’ta,“ or “Let us go home” in Visayan. God is my home and what can fill me with joy better than being with Him both now and after the hour of the inevitable?
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Paulita C. Sorongon, 71, lives in Davao City with her husband and children.
