Consoling feedback after 'Yuletide without Mom'

My essay "Yuletide without Mom" came out in yesterday's Highblood section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer. I received feedback in my email and in text messages. Some friends who I haven't been in touch with in awhile were surprised to learn Mom had passed away. I also learned of recent deaths in their families.

First to respond was my kumpare (godfather to my youngest daughter Ida), the writer Amadis Ma. Guerrero. He texted early yesterday: "A moving tribute to Mommy Lolarga was we at Raya (our former office) called her. She was our Mommy, too!"

From painter-actor Ivi Avellana Cosio (daughter of National Artists Lamberto and Daisy Avellana) came a longer message that cried to be shared with those who are grieving: "My dearest Babeth, our deepest condolences on your Mom's passing. A special hug for you and your youngest sister with whom I truly empathize. My Mom passed way (also in May) of 2013 on Mother's Day, a few days before my birthday. In December, my older daughter insisted we celebrate the first Christmas without Mama in Beijing with her and her family. It was so different that it helped to get us through such a painful time. But back in Manila, same same. I still cry when I think of her, or my Papa who left us in 1991, or my favorite brother in 2011, or my grandparents who passed away when I was much much younger. Grief is really so personal and different for each one. And I truly believe no one has a right to tell you how, when, or how long to grieve. Also, no such thing as 'getting over it'. You don't, well-meaning friends notwithstanding. You just learn how to cope with it one day at a time. And there will be good days and bad days. That being said, I wish you and yours a better New Year in every way. Tama si Helen Mirren. Much love from us."

Smiling grandmother with grandchildren Ida and Kimi Fernandez and Carlo Trinidad (foreground) several Christmases ago

“Would you rather I clean the house or write a poem? A poem lasts.”—my Mom

“I want to write poems instead of notes, but each ending is a death,
and I cannot handle the finish of words.”—Renée E. D’Aoust in her essay “Gratitude is my Terrain: Maybe”

This time of the year last year, she had just been discharged after a prolonged hospital stay. There was no exact term for what was ailing her, but it was enough for my siblings and me to have her home for the holidays. She missed reunion parties with her amigas and favorite nephew. We thought she would rally and recover in the new year.

But as actor Helen Mirren put it succinctly in summarizing the year 2016, “I think we can all agree that 2016 has been a big pile of sh*t.” It was the year when Mom’s worst fears about the betrayal of her body came true. We, along with hired caregivers, took turns cleaning her up after a “lapse.” Never could I erase from memory the helpless, pained look on Mom’s face every time this happened. I could sense that to her it was the ultimate humbling, and her look carried an apology with it.

Even if I tried to humor her when I tidied her up, the smile that used to light up our house was gone. That smile was the most eulogized part of her on the last day of her wake. Writer Efren Yambot told of how he was welcomed to the small feasts Mom prepared for her Manila Bankers Life colleagues by her smile. It encouraged him to return to similar occasions she hosted even if it meant covering miles to get to the office. When my Singapore-based daughter Ida would come home, it was Mom’s smile that greeted her first.

This Christmas my husband ordered chicken galantina from two sources to replace the irreplaceable—Mom’s yearly supply of morcon. He once had a meal at a restaurant in San Fernando, Pampanga, that boasted of the best morcon. He even had a beef roulade wrapped to take home. But his verdict was it was close to the taste of dog food and couldn’t approximate Mom’s morcon.

His assistant then, a recipient of Mom’s largesse, used to say that even only the sauce of the morcon sufficed for a meal. That was how good it was: We would ladle leftover sauce on a steaming mound of white rice when the meat roll was gone. Nothing was wasted.

A sister and some cousins were able to observe Mom in the act of preparing morcon, but even if it is ever replicated, the matriarch-cook who ruled over the kitchen and the rest of our house isn’t there to pronounce judgment on another’s take on her dish.

Mom with her five daughters

It isn’t just her dishes that we miss. Nightly the youngest of my four sisters weeps from the pain of the loss. Recently, she suffered chest constrictions and had to take herself to the hospital emergency room because of the stress of prolonged grieving (Mom died last May). Despite our assurances to her that Mom is at peace, she still isn’t prepared to go to the next level of the stages of grief and loss according to Elizabeth Kubler Ross (denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance). Grief counseling has been advised, but it is up to her if she will take it.

To sort of pierce through the cloud of sorrow hovering over the house, I right away volunteered to host Christmas carolers from my Grade 11 class. The sound of young voices, the guitar strummed by a fellow teacher, makeshift maracas and drums brought the tidings of comfort and joy straight to our hearts.

Although my sisters and I didn’t prepare anything homemade from our kitchen (we cannot hold a candle to our mother, cooking-wise), the store-bought pancit, roast chicken and mini siopao were wiped out by bottomless adolescent appetites. I truly felt Mom’s spirit approving.

To those having a hard time coping with the holiday frenzy because of mourning that cannot be kept at bay, keep saying “This, too, shall pass” and leave some space for the occasional joy to surprise you.

Pink Roses for Tony Hidalgo

The color pink is not one I associate with a very macho and seniority-conscious organization like Upsilon Sigma Phi, the oldest fraternity in Asia at 93 this year. And yet, at the farewell rites held Feb. 6 at Mt. Carmel Shrine for the late Antonio "Tony" Atienza Hidalgo, writer, publisher of Milflores books, international civil servant and illustrious Upsilonian, each living brod (short for "brother") of his held a pink rose and solemnly placed it atop his coffin.

I was afraid the rites would be marked by blustery speeches. It was for a reason that "barbarians" or non-sister sorority members like myself refer to this frat's members behind their backs as "Upsilon yabang" because some members are so full of themselves and seem to enjoy the sport of putting their brods in positions of influence and power.

But to their credit, the frat has produced outstanding citizens like patriot Wenceslao Vinzons, assassinated Sen. Benigno Aquino Jr., the Laurel brothers (Jose Jr., Salvador and Sotero), past University of the Philippines presidents Salvador P. Lopez and Onofre D. Corpuz, journalist-professor Armando J. Malay, poets Gemino H. Abad and Raul R. Ingles, Sen. Joker Arroyo, Latin American studies expert Modesto "Chibu" Lagman, filmmaker Kidlat Tahimik, even couturier Pitoy Moreno.

My fears were laid to rest that evening. The rites began with a simple roll call of Tony's fraternity batch mates from 1960. The living ones answered with a clear, strong "Here," "Present" or "Aye." When Tony's full name was announced three times in a row, there was silence until a batch mate piped up that Tony could not respond because he was no longer with them; he had departed.

The eulogies by writers Efren Yambot and Ricardo "Dick" Malay and retired diplomat Oscar Valenzuela were short, touching, humorous in parts and revealed the personality of the deceased.

Efren recalled how Tony brought him and other brods to the University of Santo Tomas campus where Tony was courting a junior faculty member, Cristina "Jing" Pantoja. Her office was inside an old, imposing building with a Latin inscription carved on the façade.

Efren bragged that he could understand Latin and volunteered this translation of the Latin aphorism. He said that it just meant "Bawal ang umihi dito (Urinating is forbidden here)." Tony was flushed with irritation at his brod. Obviously, he was embarrassed before the woman who he was courting and who would eventually become his wife. For a time, he snubbed Efren because of this incident.

Efren remembered a time when his play was severely criticized. He went to Tony for words of comfort because he suffered from writer's block. Quoting a French writer, Tony told him that writers are like caravans travelling in the desert at night; dogs are howling at them, but the caravan ignores them and keeps on moving. Consoled, Efren proceeded to write another play.

Dick asked Jing if her Thomasian education clashed with Tony's more secular background. He wondered what it was like to live with an intellectual of Tony's caliber. In a word, the widow replied, "Tough!"

Oscar recalled meeting Tony during his application period in the fraternity. The more senior brod noted how Oscar was partial to the works of existentialist writer Albert Camus. They discussed his works, thus sparing the neophyte a possible rough manhandling which was part of initiation rites.

Later, Oscar and Tony became fast friends, exchanging and discussing books. Among the more memorable discussions was the need for a philosophy grounded on Philippine realities to underpin the leftist ideology that was then sweeping the country in the late '60s. Both were sympathetic to the movement for social change. Each went on to contribute his bit in their spheres of influence.

A little-known anecdote about Tony was he was even photographed joining an anti-Marcos demonstration, and the picture landed in the newspapers. This caused Jing's sudden termination as a teacher at UST while in the middle of her class.

At the end of the rites, the pile of pink roses was bundled up and handed over to slim, dry-eyed, serene-looking Jing. In her brief response, she said she realized that marrying an Upsilonian came with a package deal. She had to embrace and accept the brods, too, entertaining and feeding them when Tony brought them home.

The Pantoja-Hidalgo love story is evident in Jing's collections of essays where Tony figures as a steadfast, dependable partner and literary equal (they served at one time as the INQUIRER's grammar police). Certainly, he is the love of her life. He brought his convent-bred wife and their family to live in politically volatile countries in his line of work as a ranking officer of Unicef. They lived for sometime in countries like war-torn Lebanon and Burma which experienced a military upheaval. For a writer like Jing, these foreign postings deepened her writings.

Looking back at their relationship in an essay in the book “Telling Lives: Essays by Filipino Women” (Circle Publications), she was 22 and Tony 23 when they married. She wrote: “Neither my husband nor I had planned on marrying so early. We were bright and ambitious and gregarious, our heads full of plans for 'making a name for ourselves' and 'changing the world'...

“I was myself also scandalously unprepared for even the role of housewife. My husband still likes to entertain our friends with tales of my early mishaps: the bacon that I drowned in cooking oil, the eggs that got stuck in the pan, the pancake mix that I poured directly into a hot frying pan and watched in awe as it rose to the ceiling like some gothic castle, the rellenong bangus that I sewed up with bright blue embroidery thread, the socks that I left soaking in Chlorox for a week, the pocket-sized front yard which remained totally bare until my father-in-law came one Sunday morning with some flowering shrubs and planted them himself.”

Lucky Tony--he lived long enough to celebrate his golden year as an Upsilonian last year. And a few days before Valentine's, his brods sent him off with offerings of pink roses. This flower is the frat's official one. In the language of flowers, it symbolizes admiration. I cannot think of a more romantic, sensitively masculine gesture than that.

As for Jing as she struggles to come to terms with the loss of Tony, I am sure, that in time, like the iconic American essayist-novelist Joan Didion who bore the death of husband, writer John Gregory Dunne, she will “make sense of the period that followed, weeks and then months that cut loose any fixed idea I had ever had about death, about illness, about probability and luck, about good fortune and bad, about marriage and children and memory, about grief, about the ways in which people do and do not deal with the fact that life ends...”

In that same book “The Year of Magical Thinking,” Didion realized towards the end

“why we try to keep the dead alive: we try to keep them alive in order to keep them with us.

“I also know that if we are to live ourselves there comes a point at which we must relinquish the dead, let them go, keep them dead.

“Let them become the photograph on the table.

“Let them become the name on the trust accounts.

“Let go of them in the water.”

To Jing, from your wide writing family, here is our inadequate bouquet of words.


Photo from Antonio Hidalgo's Facebook profile, used with his family's permission, shows Tony (left) and Jing (second from right) with fellow writers Ralph Semino Galan, Erlinda Panlilio and Susan Lara.