Cramming for deadlines
Where will my soul go during the surgery?” My brother asked nonchalantly two months ago before his brain tumor operation. Struck dumb at that time, and I still am today. In search of an answer to questions, I rephrase for him. Where are you? Does your soul wander here with us? Will you go right away to heaven? Questions about life and death keep haunting me every night, even in broad daylight.
Life as we know it passes by, so here I am catching a day before I reach the age of 30, and I will no longer be qualified to share my innermost thoughts on the page of Inquirer’s Young Blood. For me, it’s not only a page in a newspaper section or a collection of essays—it has a brain, heart, and soul.
My journey started when I acknowledged the fact that being born in an indigent family takes great responsibility. As the eldest, it occurred to me that I am the one who is responsible for the bright future of my brothers and the comfortable living of my parents.
Yes, they are indeed my inspiration!
I graduated college in 2012 with Latin honors, passed the licensure examination for teachers, and landed a job the same year. I was 19 years old back then, a fresh graduate, and a first-time employee in the BPO industry somewhere in Ortigas. I did not pursue my teaching career right away because I had to prioritize my siblings. They were in college, and I needed to earn enough to support their studies. Entering a government teaching position did not guarantee immediate hiring, so I took a leap of faith into the unknown world of the metro. Being a probinsyana living in a small apartment in a big city away from her family was difficult. Thankfully, I was able to browse a page of Young Blood at the bookstore, and I became hooked since then. I found comfort in reading the thoughts of young adults like me. The page served as my anchor when I would lose hope, and a companion during the lonely days in my apartment. Aside from giving my family a good life, contributing to the column was my dream as well. That was a decade ago; now I am nearing the deadline.
Spaced out these past few months, I felt like I was in autopilot mode at work. The writing was the only thing that kept me sane.
Diagnosed with a supratentorial tumor in his left frontal lobe last October, it was almost 5 centimeters when I discovered this condition with my brother. November, All Saints’ Day, when I roamed Bangbang to get medical supplies for his craniotomy. Everything was surreal when the doctor came out after almost 12 hours in the operating room. He said that my brother had only a 30 percent chance of survival after the operation. They stopped the operation even if they did not get all the tumor from his head, because it would be critical to continue. They also removed a part of his skull to relieve the pressure on the left part of his brain which was swollen. The doctor recommended a second surgery, but what was important was that he lived. Through the grace of God, he was discharged from the hospital. After two weeks, as per doctors’ advice, was his checkup and the removal of the stapler on his head. Sadly, that did not happen. I was screaming at him: “Kaya mo ’yan, Emben! Kaya mo ’yan! Nandito na mga ka-BFP mo!” The ambulance from the Quezon City fire station rushed him to the hospital. Immediately, the doctor called for a code blue, and I fervently prayed with his Padre Pio rosary waiting for a miracle.
Pronounced dead at 6:36 a.m., Dec. 4, 2022. It was Sunday, my favorite day. It was six in the morning, my favorite time of the day, a sunrise. Time suddenly stopped.
Wreaths and donations poured in from family, friends, training batchmates, and workstation comrades. Two uniformed personnel held their vigil every night guarding his casket. The social media post about his death went viral, with overflowing messages giving sympathy and reassurance of peace to the bereaved family. But no amount of comfort could stop the pain. I could not deliver words at the necrological service. In the eyes of his fellow firefighters, he was sensitive and brave, but for me, he will always be my younger brother whom I will eternally love and cherish. The Bureau of Fire Protection workforce performed their rituals at the internment. They gave our family the Philippine flag as a sign of his service to the government. A white dove and 30 balloons flew in the air, and that was the end of the story.
Here I am, cramming, memorizing, and reliving the painful death of my brother, just to be able to make it through the cut-off age. It is a freeing experience from the bondage of darkness in hopes of being able to pass the examination of life.
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Noemi Trinidad Basanta, 29, is a public secondary school teacher.
