One fine day in June 2009, at about 3 p.m., Reggie and I were getting dressed to go malling. The past two months we had made it a regular feature of our recovery program—he from a triple bypass operation at the Philippine Heart Center, me from a low anterior resection at the Capitol Medical Center.
Doctors had advised a regimen of exercises that included walking. The mall was an ideal place for that because of its controlled temperature and level flooring (I’ve walked with a cane since an operation on my broken ankle a few years back). Besides, there’s the added convenience of bookstores from which we could bring home new books, and restaurants where we could happily choose comfort food. We picked a different mall each time.
But these could not be done that afternoon in June. While dressing, Reggie felt some difficulty in breathing so I called the cardiologist and reported the matter. The doctor said to take him to the emergency room of the hospital for a checkup. Our plan for the afternoon did not change; we thought we would just drop by the hospital and then proceed to the mall.
There were four of us: our youngest son Gigoy, the maid who accompanies me, and Reggie and myself.
On the way, our conversation was about elderly couples refusing medication and the wife getting exasperated by the husband’s “hard-headedness.” We found the stories funny because we knew the personalities involved. At one point Reggie took my hand and said to Gigoy, “Kami ni Mommy walang ganyan (Mommy and I don’t have that kind of thing).”
Earlier that day Reggie was thinking aloud, saying he planned to get another book on Barack Obama who was sworn in as US president in January of that year. After Obama’s inauguration Reggie got his two autobiographies—“Audacity of Hope” and “Dreams From My Father.” Reggie planned to browse and check out a third book on Obama by another author.
In the car, when everybody was silent, my thoughts turned to books. Our small collection at home includes biographies and autobiographies, from Roosevelt to Churchill, Mao, Nixon, Fidel Castro, the Pope, and several Kennedys.
On days that we would visit bookstores outside the malls, we would take in the sights of new buildings and landscapes like tourists just off the plane. One morning it occurred to Reggie that he hadn’t read the Rosales novels of F. Sionil Jose. So he said we should go to La Solidaridad in Ermita to get Jose’s set-of-five award-winning Rosales novels. The added pleasure when we got there was the presence of the author himself, and so we stayed for some reminiscing while he was signing the books.
Then one afternoon Reggie realized that we didn’t have a copy of the two-volume work of O.D. Corpuz, “The Roots of the Filipino Nation,” which was no longer in the bookstores. So he thought of going to the University of the Philippines Press where, happily, after much searching, he spotted a set on the lowest rung of a dusty shelf.
But the bookstores in the malls are still the ideal destination, we told ourselves. We went to the mall for the prescribed exercise, not to fill up our book collection, which, by the way, remains modest because we occasionally bundled up some copies to donate to local public libraries.
Me, I train my sights on a different genre—the Paulo
Coelhos, the Amy Tans and, still ongoing in spite of being out of print, the Han Suyins. One would notice, upon browsing our modest collection, a majority on US politics and government. That is because in 1959, Reggie had a stint as a fellow in the US Congress—the first Filipino Congressional Fellow of the American Political Science Association.
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The drive to the hospital took some time, and everyone was silent for the most part. My thoughts went from books to my children to celebrations. After 58 years of marriage, one will surely have a bagful of memories. And they better be happy ones; otherwise, the weight of unhappiness will break one’s back, if not one’s spirit. What a waste, if not a tragedy, that would be!
Then there was the music. On days when we just relaxed at home, we would settle in our lounging chairs and listen to our favorites—usually first to his Tchaikovsky then to my Debussy. There was always this blending of interests, together but apart, in no way overpowering one another, but overarching both.
I am grateful to the Giver of Life for blessing Reggie and me with children and grandchildren who strive to live meaningful lives. Once, when our London-based granddaughter came for a vacation, she asked Reggie while there were just the two of them at the breakfast table: “How did you do it, Dadsy?” (Meaning, how did he manage to keep a happy marriage that long?) By way of answer, he sang the lines of a song that goes: “You have to give a little/take a little/ … That’s the story of love/You’ve got to laugh a little/cry a little/and let your poor heart break a little/ … That’s the glory of love…”
We celebrated events in simple ways, events involving not only family members but also friends.
We marked our 56th wedding anniversary by giving baskets of fruits to old friends, telling them that we remembered them on our special day and cherished our friendship with them. We had various beautiful baskets that contained gifts on that last Christmas. I made cards cut out from old greeting cards, truly a DIY undertaking. I think the pleasure of putting the baskets together was all mine, more than that of the recipient. One recipient sent a thank-you card and said she would adopt that novel idea.
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At the hospital’s emergency room, all the tests were done, including an X-ray, which lasted about four hours. We were given the results, and all were normal. By that time it was past 9 p.m., so we decided to get a room and spend the night at the hospital. There was an extra bed for me and a lounge for the help. After a while we decided to dim the lights and said “Good night” to each other. Gigoy had gone home by then.
Not long after, Reggie said to ask the nurse for the nebulizer that had earlier given him relief. The resident doctor administered the treatment from one side of the bed; I was on the other side, holding the mouthpiece of the nebulizer to his mouth. All of a sudden Reggie’s mouth opened and let go of the mouthpiece. The doctor called in the team and all the equipment to revive him.
Later I was called to the phone. The cardiologist had been informed and he gave me the official verdict: Reggie was dead.
I was led to a chair by the door. The doctor bent in front of me and without a word stretched out the tracing of the ECG machine, showing a straight line.
Reggie went quietly and peacefully, without writhing in pain, with no grimace or groan, or tubes in his body.
I recalled the time when we sat together in our lounging chairs and he expressed a wish that when he dies the line of a song to the Blessed Mother would become a reality: The song starts with “Mother of Christ” and ends with “When the voyage is o’er/oh stand on the shore/and show Him at last to me.”
So at Reggie’s moment of death, I pictured the Blessed Mother showing Jesus to him. I am comforted. He is happy where he is. Now he feels no pain, hunger, doubt, fear, or loneliness.
Thelma M. Arceo, 88, is one of the militant women who formed the Concerned Women of the Philippines which took up human rights issues during martial law. Today she chairs the Research and Documentation Committee of the Bantayog ng mga Bayani Foundation, which honors those who lost their lives while resisting the Marcos dictatorship.