Rest in peace, Papa.

Papa, I miss you and I love you. Last time we talked it was before Thanksgiving and you sounded happy to be visiting California to see Ted. Wherever you are now, I hope you know without you we wouldn't be where we are. You have been selfless and sacrificing, and I'm sorry for the times that I was hard headed and caused you pain. You have been the best father to us. I'll always pray for you and Mama, I love you both. May God receive your soul Papa, I love you.

Danilo "Danny" Hinunangan's memorial will be at 2 PM Sunday, December 5, 2010 from the chapel of Riser Funeral Home in Columbia, Louisiana. His remains will be transported to the Philippines at a later date. His wake will be at his home in Banezville, and a few nights in Sta. Fe Abuyog Leyte, at the Hinunangan family's ancestral home, and his interment is at Abuyog Cemetery.

Luminous

Old ladies here in the province say that the lanterna- a kind of an improvised lamp, with a candle wick set afloat on oil, signifies the presence of the soul. My mom's lanterna burned steadily, flickering ever so slightly when a breeze blows through the french windows. A picture of her, framed in silver, was placed just behind the Our Lady of the Rosary candles. Yellow blooms decorated the altar.

The actual preparation for her death anniversary started eight days ago- every afternoon they pray a latin version of the rosary, and offer these prayers for the eternal repose of my mom's soul. This practice began two years ago when Mama passed away (though after the interment it was actually forty days of prayer), a year ago we had the first "pa-syam" which unfortunately was one of the worst times for our family.

My grandmother says when conflict exists and the spirit is angry, it could manifest itself in the lanterna- the flame constantly goes out, or burns unsteadily, and in worst cases, the glass would shatter. Last year during my mom's first death anniversary, the fighting between my mother's side and father's side of the family became so severe that one day in the middle of the nine days of prayer, I came home to find the altar was ransacked and my Mama's framed photo and lanterna was taken elsewhere- and my grandmother taken away without my knowledge.

I guess now it's not important to discuss whose fault it was or why it had come to that point, but it was just a horrible time for us all. Even I myself admit I wasn't too prudent with my words and hurt people in the process of retaliation. As the months passed it became easier to forgive, or maybe even just let go of the pent up anger people had within them. Eventually after I apologized to my aunt we decided to put it all behind us.

Two days ago I found myself at the market buying ingredients for the dishes to be served during Mama's second death anniversary, and I got to thinking. Our house had seen enough drama- of people leaving, and holidays spent alone, and new people coming in. We have relatives from my father's side and Nanay back at home living side by side, and I have pondered also on what stake me and my brothers have in the house we grew up in. I realized nothing would be worth having unless there would be peace in our family.

I guess it is time to leave all the past hurts behind us all, and move forward. Some wounds may be too deep, and perhaps some of my relatives can't see eye to eye, but at least for this one occasion- we should gather to remember my mom whom I've considered to always have been the glue that held our family together.

And so all day yesterday I cooked- under the supervision of my grandmother, I kept myself busy and prayed inside that people from Mama's side would come and join us the following day. I've never been much of a domestic person, and though I've equated those dishes- Humba, Caldereta, and Menudo to be a mother's specialty (either Mama's or Nanay's), I've managed to prepare them myself. Everyone at home lent a hand as we readied for the occasion.

Today they all came- old ladies who lead the prayers, aunts and cousins, kids from my mom's relatives, Nanay's friends, neighbors, my classmates, even our old carpenter. Nanay and me, and the relatives from my father's side made sure everyone was comfortable and joined in as we prayed and later, had lunch together.

As the guests left one by one late afternoon, Nanay was practically glowing with happiness. "We pulled it off," she said, smiling at me. I remembered what Nanay told me a few nights ago, she said she had a dream she saw Mama, and she was wearing white. In our Theology classes, a nun once mentioned that souls in purgatory are in various shades of gray and as we pray for the forgiveness of their sins their souls are purified and stripped of every stain or imperfection. I took it as a sign that wherever Mama was now, she was closer than ever to our Maker. On our part, it was time for us to resolve our conflicts, and I guess time for me too, to mature. Learning to cook would be step one for me.

"Yes, we did." I replied to my grandmother, and admired for a moment the glow that the candles gave to my mom's smiling face in the photo.

A Second Look at an Imperfect Marriage

Months back I had written a feature article about relationships in the school magazine, and I mentioned how the words "true love" and "happily ever after" belong in fairy tales and not real life. My point was that the stark reality was the opposite of these tales of perfect romance and that even time itself gave no guarantee- calling to mind my parent's 27 years of togetherness, which one day crumbled and ended up in separation.

Their old wedding album had been in storage for decades, and the dampness had caused the edges of some photos to fade and blot, others were completely ruined. I bought a large new album where I can transfer these rare mementos which included a virtual diorama of our childhood and the evolution of our family.

I tried to imagine what their life must have been like as a young couple. Their wedding was simple- a small ceremony at the local church in Abuyog, with just family and friends. My mom wore her hair upswept in braids, with flowers that decorated her veil. She looked radiant in her 70's style wedding dress,and layers upon layers of chiffon concealed her pregnancy (I was a six month old fetus she carried in her belly when she walked down the aisle). My father wore long sleeved Barong Tagalog with what suspiciously looks like bell-bottom pants to me, this was September 1980 so I guess that explains it. If I were to describe how they looked together in scenes during the ceremony,in the bridal car side by side, and at the reception- they were happy. Wait, I don't think that would give justice to the look I saw on their faces. Giddy, ecstatic, madly in love- yes, that's much closer.

Through the years they went swiftly from merely husband and wife to Papa and Mama, with me and my chubby baby brothers ever beside them in photos. Like typical Pinoy families, my father one day left to work abroad to support us. And now there were two sets of photos- the ones at our humble rented house with a very thin-looking Mama, and Papa's photos against the backdrop of the Arabian deserts.

I was of course aware of those relationship ups and downs they had, after all that's typical of every married couple. It's just that as me and my brothers grew up to become young adults and gain independence, their parenting roles which help bound them together seemed slowly dissipating along with their affection for each other. Looking back, even though our parents began to have problems and live in separate houses in the States, I am glad they never actually made the move to get an annulment or a divorce. They made a promise before God, after all, for better or for worse. And even though it still saddens me how the ending of my favorite love story turned out, my father was there during my mom's last hours.

As I put the last photograph in place, I had this lump on my throat that I could not swallow. I guess I take it back then, looking at my parent's wedding photo, it was a shining example of nothing less than TRUE LOVE.

Cindy

Our loyal Japanese Spitz died of old age today. We buried her in the yard. Farewell Cindy, thanks for the 8 years of companionship :-)

Seasons

                 Death seems such an ordinary occurrence in the hospital that even as a student nurse many years ago, I have regarded it with complete impassiveness.  As part of the healthcare team, we were never afforded to indulge in an emotional connection with our patients more than what was called for in a professional environment.  When a patient dies, I remember in automation what needs to be done: after the physician’s declaration of the death, we carefully remove the tubes- the IV, the respirator; we remain a respectful distance from the grieving family and offer our customary sympathies as we continue the procedures for post-mortem care.  I was always philosophical about death- it is simply the way of the world, a cosmic turnover to be rid of the old and replaced with the young.  Little did I know, that the mnemonics I have memorized so well in class: DABDA, Kubler Ross’ stages of grief, would hit home.  I was in my third year when my mom, who was once a staff nurse at EVRMC before she became a USRN, passed away.

            I was excited to finally be exposed to the clinical areas, when one day I got a call from my brother informing me that she had been hospitalized for pulmonary embolism.  During those days when she was feeling better in the ICU, we talked over the phone- she told me in a weak voice they would be moving her to a private room soon.  I tried to sound cheerful but each time she coughed, I said a silent prayer pleading to God to keep her well.  On a Tuesday morning at 2am, the phone rang- it was my brother who told me between sobs, that our mom had died.

            The past few days went as a blur to me.  What made it especially difficult was arranging the transfer of her remains from Louisiana, USA to Tacloban.  Our grandmother took charge of the pa-syam- the Filipino Catholic custom of nine day novena for the dead in our home, while in America, Papa and my brothers had a memorial for Mama.  The prayers offered some measure of comfort, but it seemed I had a huge void full of questions- I was still numb and disbelieving.  I was expecting it was only a nightmare I was going to wake up from; the last image on my mind had always been the time we vacationed with Mama in Samar- so alive and happy.

            When my brother brought home her ashes, the reality hit me like a hammer- it was then I cried hard, because I knew I would never see my mother again.  During the mass, the priest said something to me: we may view death as something devastating, but it also meant that Mama was already in God’s arms, free from bodily pains and all too human hurts.  Faith was the only thing holding me together; I never even questioned anymore why it had to happen.

            Two short years later, another tragedy happened as I was reviewing for the Nursing Board Exam- heralded by yet again another ominous phone call late at night with an aunt who told us that Papa had a massive heart attack.  This really put me in the pits of despair, in possibly the most trying times of our family life.  The same rituals were observed: pa-syam, pa-kwarenta, with the strange superstitions like we were not supposed to take a bath, not to say goodbye to visitors who visit the wake, cutting a blessed rosary into several pieces and placing it inside the urn of ashes and sealing it, as we were told it would stop a “series of deaths”.  We did not dispose of the dust, dry flowers, burnt matches swept to the corner of the house until the interment.  On the day we said goodbye to Papa, I was holding the urn, walking slowly down the steps of our house- the last to leave as everyone else had left the house empty.  As I stepped on the last stair, there was a thunderous roar and shards of glass that hit my back, as one of our relatives smashed a glass plate behind me.  Let all the bad things leave the house.  My grandmother uttered, still in tears.  We buried Papa the day before the board exams.

            I remember my final days of hospital duty in the delivery room, prior to my enrolling in medical school.   I was beside the obstetrician ready to assist, but I froze when the membranes burst.  The baby was stillborn.  The feet of the baby came first; the head was stuck in the vaginal canal and took almost an excruciating ten minutes to deliver.  The doctor was apologetic, really there was nothing that could be done- the fetus was not viable and weighed only 500 grams. Lying on the delivery table, the mother stared at the ceiling, unmoving.  We asked her if she had a name for the baby, so that we could baptize him before we give him to the waiting relatives.

Our eyes met as she fingered the plastic rosary on her neck. She came out of her reverie and from her moving lips sprung a name.  I could never forget the look in her eyes- regret maybe, or emptiness. I carefully wrapped the fetus and took Holy Water to baptize him. I had no time to linger on those feelings because there was another lady giving birth. I was asked to change gloves and assist, and this time the mother gave birth to a healthy baby girl.

Funny how the ebb and flow of life in the hospital almost goes unnoticed. How new life is born in an instant, and how deaths become merely statistics. I suppose when one deal with these things on a daily basis it becomes routine.

As I lay the crying neonate on her bassinet, it suddenly occurred to me that I was in the same Neonatal Intensive Care Unit my Mom worked in many years ago.  I looked around the room and saw her for a moment in the nurse on duty changing a neonate’s diaper.

Somehow I knew at that instant that my brothers and I would be okay.  Through the passage of time things change.  Some wounds heal as we learn to accept the will of God, some remain abstruse like the young mother’s loss, while some are renewed in the hearts of their progeny, like our parent’s legacy.

Bittersweet Birthday

There were only two instances I remember my younger brother weep in his adult life- one was when he told me the heartbreaking news of our Mom’s passing, and the other during Mama’s interment with his tears silently sliding down his cheeks while his eyes remained covered by dark glasses. He is a man of a few words- always quiet and wielding. He never said anything bad about another person (he left the gossiping to other less prudent members of the clan), and even more curious- he was never quite expressive of his sentiments. So from his actions you’ll get the best cues to what he’s feeling.

He left for Manila today, and is scheduled to leave for the US tomorrow. He was never much into goodbyes, but today, I think was a turning point for him. You see, my brother stayed home for a few months for his surgery (it is less expensive here in the Philippines, plus we are here to take care of him) and at the same time meet his son for the first time.

It’s a long story. And by that I mean looooooooooooong story, a saga if you will, so let us not get into how the situation came to be- the important thing again, is the present. As father and son spent the past glorious months, it was pure magic. I’m so happy my sister-in-law, my brother, and their little tyke were finally together like a real, regular family. My brother and my nephew have this uncanny resemblance- Gavin is an exact carbon copy of his dad except for his dimples and fairer complexion. The kid is funny. Articulate and precocious for his age- and he just turned two years old a few days ago.

After their first Christmas together, the Barney-themed 2nd birthday party, and countless days and nights bonding and hanging out together- it was suddenly time to go back to the US again. Like our parents many, many years ago, my brother has to go back there for work- he is joining the US Navy (just like our youngest brother) so that he can support his family.

It’s hard to think of Tyrone as a grown man, I got used to thinking he is my younger teeny-tiny brother who was somewhat a Mama’s boy (haha!). Now he has a family to take care of and I can never be prouder. It is not easy for you to be away and I’m in awe- seeing someone sacrifice for the one he loves. I’m reminded of what Mama and Papa have done for us…

Godspeed bro! (I know, I know I’m sappy) Be brave, and I promise I’ll do my part well and manage the household here and take care of Gavin the best I can. So wipe away those tears because in the end, you know it would be all worth it- when you see Gav grow up and be like his dad.

birthday boy

nanay with dimple and umbang

nanay with clown

that's me in pink!

barney, agnes, gavin, and tyrone.

The Average Military Man

The average age of the military man is 19 years.

He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but old enough to die for his country.

He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his father’s; but he has never collected unemployment either.

He’s a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.

He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing and 155mm Howitzers. He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk.

He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time in the dark.

He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must.

He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional.

He can march until he is told to stop or stop until he is told to march.

He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity.

He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and swears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry.

He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle.

He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts. If you’re thirsty, he’ll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food.

He’ll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low.

He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life - or take it, because that is his job.

He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay and still find ironic humor in it all. He has seen more suffering and death then he should have in his short lifetime.

He has stood atop mountains of dead bodies, and helped to create them.

He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed.

He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to ’square-away’ those around him who haven’t bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful.

Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great-grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not, he is not "just" a boy.

He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free for over 200 years.

He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding.

Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.

- From the blog of my brother Ted, US Navy Corpsman

Jennifer C. Hinunangan (February 9,1958-August 12,2008)

Mama had always been kind to everyone she had ever known, from her patients to her relatives, to people in our community and to her colleagues. Once, while on the way to school in my clinical uniform, the pedicab driver asked me if I was related to Mrs. Hinunangan. I told him I was her son. He informed me Mama took care of the hospitalization of his wife when my mother was still working as a staff nurse in EVRMC.

I've been trying to find the right words how to describe my relationship with my mom: she is a friend, someone who laughed at my jokes, encouraged me to pursue my silliest dreams, always supportive, and fiercely protective of my brothers and me.

Ma, we'll never quite have another one like you. Thanks for always being the greatest Mom. Thanks for the sacrifices you made for us, thanks for enduring those times when we caused you a headache. We love you always.

A few days ago, we received a phone call that my mom had pulmonary embolism. From the scans, three of her vessells were blocked. I was still able to speak with her before she went to the ICU. I told her it was a miracle. Maybe God gave us a second chance to be together since she is still in the US. Early this morning, the phone rang- I woke up, and I knew what it was.

This was my last text to my Mom:

I always pray for our family, most specially for your health. Naku Ma, we still have a lot of good times to look forward to. I'll do better in school for you. Remember God won't give us trials we can't endure. We love you!

She replied:

Thanks. You guys are my strength and my life.

Generations

Mama
Papa
Nanay
Me, circa 2005
Tyrone (Gavin's Dad)

Ted Boy
Baby Gavin
With my nephew at 1.
Sleeping angel.

Angels

Just taking a moment to remember my two brothers Tristan and Paul Vincent who passed away when they were very young.

My angels.

Conversations with Nanay

Left: My 81 yr old grandmother and brother Ted

Even after 26 years, Nanay still treats me like I’m some sort of teenage debutante. What’s funny is that she gives my younger brothers, even my female cousins the liberty to do as they please- and they haven’t even really lived independently as I did from college till the time I started working. Here are typical scenarios at home:

“Nay, I’ll be going out with friends tonight.”

“Which ones? Where will you be going to?”

“My highschool friends. I don’t know, we’ll probably have dinner and go someplace else afterwards.”

“What time will you get home?”
“Nay! I’m turning thirty in a few years, I’ve lived in Manila by myself for 9 years, I think I’d know by now how to take care of myself.”

“Don’t be out so late. I’ll leave the keys at the door.”

(And then I’d be obliged to get home before midnight because she stays up to wait for me to come home.)
------------------

It was the morning of my flight, and Nanay was knocking loudly on my door like there’s a fire or something. Reluctantly, I open the door, still wiping the sleep from my eyes.

“You’re going to be late for your flight!”

“It’s 5am, the airport is fifteen minutes away, and my plane doesn’t leave till 8:30!”

“Are you packed already?”

“Yes.”
“Where’s your plane ticket?”

I point to my desk.

“Where will you be staying?”

“Tatat’s house. Remember her?”

“Where’s her apartment? Do you have your money with you?”

“Nay?!”

------------------

“Didik (a forsaken pet name she and my Mom and Dad gave me as a kid), don’t forget to buy my medication.”

“Yes, Nay.”

“Vascor 10mg and Crestor 10mg.”

“Yes, Nay.”

“And oh, buy me some Menthol Cone. And tell you mom when she calls, I need more of those Equate ointments for my joints.”

“Yes, Nay.”

“Have you have breakfast? Are you coming home for lunch? How come, you are leaving for school so early?”

“Yes, I already ate. I have a lot of exams so I need to get there early, and I might come home late.”

“Don’t forget to bring your water.”

“Nay!”

During parties or gatherings, she would pull people aside and point to me, and tell them “UP yan.” She shows them my trophies, and practically shows my thesis book to every passing stranger.

Oh, Nay. 81 years haven’t slowed you down. Since you took care of me and my brothers from the day we were born till now, I can only hope I can take care of you the same way.

I'm Your Baby

He gazes at me with those eyes, and his lips twist in a mischievous grin. Then he grabs a few strands of my hair and pulls with all his might. “Ouch!!” I wince. My nephew claps his tiny hands with glee, seemingly amused by my reaction.

Everyday he starts to look more and more like my brother. I’m not just talking about his chinky eyes, or his bow shaped lips, or his curly hair- he has these subtle mannerisms that never cease to amaze me. The kid is a carbon copy of Ty.

He has put everyone in our household in a spell. We are at his constant beck and call. Milk to warm? Waaaaaahhh! He screams. Milk too cold? He cries some more. Cerelac not to his liking today? He grabs the spoon and hurls it to the floor.

After his bout with UTI, we were not allowed to use diapers anymore. He finishes about a thousand lampins a day, and still manages to pee on your lap. He loves it, especially if you are wearing your uniform, or your best shirt. Once, before his bath, he pooped on his yaya’s hand. Lovely. He giggles angelically, and after a few blinks of his eye, he is forgiven.

Gavin loves to sing. He also likes to cry for no reason. Last semester, nearing our finals, he found it a hoot to scream like someone’s after him with a guillotine from 2:30 to about 4:00 early morning. During the day, he slept like an angel, while I also slept during my exams.

Screaming and tantrums aside, I love my nephew. He is always happy to see me, and after a long day of Anatomy and Physics, a little hair-pulling sounds like relief. He relishes the attention we give him. As far as he’s concerned, he is the center of the Universe. Well, he is, actually.