After all those hours and hours of dance practices and other serious and exciting preparations, I came down with a cold and the mother of all toothaches from a cracked tooth we tried to save by root canal.

Although mere nuisance maladies, you might say, they felt bad enough to keep me from my St. Theresa’s High School Diamond Jubilee (60 years!). And compounding it all yet was something that, while not physically bothersome or even serious at all, weighed heavy on the mind.

Instead of joining in the final dance practice, on the school grounds in a sort of dress rehearsal, I found myself sitting with Vergel outside the ob-gyne’s office I hadn’t visited in three years. I’m told that postmenopausal bleeding is not something to be ignored, no matter if coming in mere pinpoint droplets. From the vulnerable birthing position, I heard the doctor say those familiar dreaded words—atrophy, thinning uterus wall, d&c, hysterectomy, etc.

Early the next morning Vergel and I were there for the ultrasound my doctor had ordered. Waiting for my turn, I was spotted by another doctor, another ob-gyne, the son, as it happens, of one of my closest friends. Probably detecting our anxiety, he asked us to drop by his office with the results.

It’s the same old polyp in the lining of my uterus, considerably shrunk, thanks to aging, to 0.2 centimeters. “I suggest you have it removed. It’ll be done in 15 minutes,” he said.

But it is the third opinion that matters most—my own, and I may well leave the little thing alone. Anyway, I have a pretty good idea how I got those blood spots—nothing that fiber in the diet can’t take care of. However, like a good girl, I will submit to the tests both doctors have asked:  blood, stool and urine analysis, in case I decide to take one or the other’s recommended procedure. I’ll get my cardio clearance for the procedure, too.

To think that only the week before I felt perfectly well enough to make it to our dinner dance, where we had Pilita Corrales, the favorite singer of the class, for a special performer. Pilita can be funny and sexy in the folksy, charming Cebuana way. Whenever the girls plan a night-out, they seek her out.

That night she brought along the Wing Duo to add to the fun. But then, at this age, one feels perfectly fine one day, and the next a sudden depletion of energy brings one down with something.

Weeklong affair

But then again, it’s been a busy time for me since about a week earlier. Members of Maryknoll High School 1955 had flown in to join the locals in their own reunion, a weeklong affair, one that had taken a whole year to plan. Since I graduated from grade school with them (my cousin Ninit belongs to the class) before I moved to St. Theresa’s Quezon City, they have made me a sort of honorary member.

Indeed, I feel proud and happy to be a mixed Theresian-Maryknoller. Oh, and not to forget, for college, I went to St. Theresa’s Manila, which had yet a culture of its own, altogether apart from those of the other two. Well, that makes me an even more complex breed, I guess.

Both high school classes had a unifying force, a patient, persevering, loving classmate holding the class together—through all of 60 years! At Maryknoll it was Gigi, whom we all fondly referred to as Mother Superior, and at St. Theresa’s, Fanny, our Mother Hen. It is to their credit that the communication and the friendships have not only held but held strong.

At St. Theresa’s Manila, where everyone fancies herself a leader, the baton is merely passed from one to another, as the occasion requires. And as far as I know, it’s been Susie conducting for a while now.

Aware of such tremendous allies in life, as soon as I felt under the weather, I notified Gigi and Fanny. Gigi promptly started a prayer brigade, while Fanny, without missing a beat, took over my duties. Whenever down, I only have to reach out to them, and I’m assured of prayers and good wishes. Susie herself seems to have special antennas, quick instincts. She checks in on everyone by e-mail, and when she knows you need a friend, very quietly she’s there.

Old friends are precious indeed, and it takes almost a lifetime for their true value to be fully appreciated. And I feel blessed to celebrate my 75th with many of them, along with family. But having had to limit my lunch guests to hens, I couldn’t include couple friends. Although, understandably, a few choice roosters will be there—my husband, of course, two of four surviving uncles, my only brother, and two sons and a grandson.

With so many to thank for their friendships, it’s a pity to have had to exclude any at this time, especially since 75 is a fine age to do it.

But Vergel consoles me: “Actually, this is just another beginning for celebrating and giving thanks. Maybe you shouldn’t wait too long between celebrations.”

Now that’s a thought.