Last two weeks were terrible. I was fighting infection due to liver parenchymal disease (another one, just after finally surviving a 10-years onco battle). Additionally, I am fighting a relapse of anxiety disorder due to resurgence of triggers from past trauma. And my finances are running a bit low than I am most comfortable with. One of those weeks when you just want to curl up your bed and wait to not wake up. [Yes, I know, I don't look it. I have at least 20 years of practice on how to look OK, despite illnesses and troubles. Alam nyo na yan.]
On Monday, out of nowhere, my baby brother, Raj, requested that we have dinner, just the 3 of us-- our big sister, myself and him. It is unusual because as of late our schedules have been too mangled, we barely see each other (last was in August on my birthday).
Eating and chatting together, just the 3 of us, was something we unintentionally started doing after Mama died in 2018. I thought it was the most special, most comforting time. Because orphaned feels orphaned, no matter what age; you seek the comfort of the familiar, the shared struggles, triumphs and memories, to patch the abyss left by the loss.
After Monday, I had a clearer head to appreciate some reasons to fight. Plans to reshape my new office, BnD University Heritage Museum, seems like going towards the right direction (thanks to my wonderful young staff and our ever supportive Chancellor). My students were all being extra bibo. Stomach isn't doing too well yet, but finally the on-off fever let off.
These positive moments took turn and nose-dived mid-week. It was a roller coaster.
Then sometime before the weekend, I started working on a presentation I am supposed to present mid-week next week (yes, I cram now, because). As usually, this requires me to dig up old files -- photos and videos and audios.
As if joining the current personal task of finding source of strength, I came across an old recording in 2002, my father singing (and the rest of our family) during the wake of our grandfather. The song Prinsesa ng Kumintang is a ballad, a love song, but for us, it is a lullaby. It is a song that represents our father.
[Zoom H1 recording]
For me, Pops, my father was the ultimate source of comfort; the one I loved the most. Hearing his voice again, reminded me how lost I was when he died (thank heavens for Ma, who didn't stop trying to get me well, until I can do it myself). He left at the time when I was getting ready to take care of him when he grows old. Alas, as fate would have it, he never grew old. He died at 58 (some of you already knew this story). But it also reminded me how I kept fighting to survive until today, in the past 23 years, because he said: I am strong, and I didn't want him to be wrong. During dinner on Monday, my brother, as if echoing Pops said: "you are the strongest person I know, because you face adversaries by yourself". I knew from when I was young that I needed this affirmation from time to time because in reality I am weak. It is only because of and for my family that I try to be strong, or whatever semblance of it.
Perhaps finding my Pops' voice again in a recording, and my brother echoing him, are reminders that despite the troubled days recently, I will find strength, to want to wake up another day, because they are here with me.
