The great dame Gilda Fernando has celebrated another birthday, but who’s counting? She has pronounced herself Forever 81 by decree. But, even before she did so, she had held a fun wake for herself, to bid us all a premature goodbye, which has me convinced by the folk belief that false rumors of someone’s demise will only delay it indefinitely.

Indeed, a second fun wake may guarantee her immortality. Who else could think of such an irreverent thing to do! I’m forgetting, of course, what she has done to wheelchairs; after that wheelchair beauty contest she had inspired, I was left in envy for a while, having no reason to ride in one.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to a birthday hug from Gilda to melt in. Her signature hug is her unique substitute for goodbye. Those who have not experienced it should line up while the supply lasts.

Auto-obituary

In contrast, the younger Pablo Tariman wrote his own Ultimo Adios, an auto-obituary that left me all choked up, definitely not my usual reaction to his pieces. This was prompted by a very severe reminder of his mortality by way of a medical report that shows him suffering from a Russian roulette-type of hypertension.

I’m dismayed at his lack of rage, at his quiet, almost welcoming resignation. Oh, no, not from such an indomitable spirit who I thought would laugh at the very prospect of keeping his own appointment in Samarra.

But then, again, he could be playing it smart, à la Gilda; by prematurely talking of his own demise he is sure to gain time for oftener escapades to his beautiful native Catanduanes, and for his love affair with his grandchildren.

Drying up

Alas, who can say who goes when?

A Spanish quotation says, translated into English: “No one is too old (or too sick) not to live on, nor anyone too young not to die.”

Last week I visited two hospitalized friends; one is 76 and the other close to 90. In the same week, I went to the wakes of two other friends of the same ages.

Thus I can’t help but be reminded of my own mortality. Mornings, upon rising, I do the required slow stretches with more urgency than usual—to make it to the bathroom in time. And I do, although I can still improve my time.

Getting up from a chair after sitting for some time, or getting out of our high-stepped car, is beginning to demand more time and better synchronization than before. Lately, without a tug from Vergel, I’d take forever getting up after a movie, unsure if I could manage the short steps down to the exit with legs that have turned wooden on me.

Weakened circulation, with my old heart not pumping as strong as it used to, and lack of hydration tell me I’m not only aging but drying up. Every day I now force myself to drink eight glasses of water, which is not my favorite drink, but I’ve been warned dehydration can cause serious problems. But then I wonder what isn’t serious at my age.

Surprise visit

My old friend Lina, again 76, a diabetic on thrice-weekly dialysis, had collapsed and was taken to St. Luke’s. A group of us classmates rushed to visit her; we had just lost one other classmate, Marilou, a diabetic, too, after a heart surgery she didn’t survive.

In Lina’s case, a mere tooth infection seemed all the problem. After some molars were extracted, she was thought good for sending home. But only the week before, during dialysis, she had some difficulty breathing.

Our surprise visit certainly cheered her up and gave us false hopes. The latest update from her daughter, a godchild of mine, said things didn’t seem to be going well; complications were setting in. She’s hanging on.

Tita Ning

The other friend in crisis is a classmate’s aunt with whom many of us had developed a close relationship through the years. She’s Tita Ning to all of us. She had texted from the US to ask if I needed hair-dye, and to text back pronto because she was flying back the next day. She had them delivered to my home, and within days she was rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery—intestinal obstruction. No wonder she never answered my “Thank You” text.

The surgery had gone well, but she suffered a heart attack soon after and has yet to regain full consciousness. She had a delirious episode wherein Dada, her niece, our classmate and close friend, told me she had referred to me and, of all things, curiously, the Inquirer.

I didn’t visit her until a month after the surgery, and she had been transferred from the ICU to a private room. Visitors were required to wear a mask, gloves and a gown.

She was painful to look at, lying helpless, tubes sticking out from her, a monitor registering numbers and showing a chart going up or down with every beep. A far shadow of her feisty self, she was exactly where she never wanted to be. Excellent hospital care, however, had brought back her rosy mestiza complexion and features. Her condition had nurses constantly working on her for one thing or another.

I left before they took her to the operating room again—before my own knees buckled or I broke down seeing her that way. I took her swollen hand in mine and said “I love you.”

That’s easier to say than goodbye.