Not until Dada and I were inside the car did we let our tears fall, out of Lina’s sight. We had visited her at home, just discharged from hospital, but she was not looking good.
A diabetic on dialysis three times a week, Lina had required hospital confinement after developing a fever thought coming from a tooth infection. After the tooth had come out, she suffered little strokes and was later found to have a condition requiring abdominal surgery.
We saw her at the hospital; she seemed cheered by the visit, and was soon back home with better prospects.
She has been living with her only daughter, Trixie, a widow herself, like her mother, and with three children.
When I bumped into Trixie, she was happy to report her mother was able, with some help, to come down, and was even inspired occasionally to play the piano in the living room. She also told me that, when told of texts of cheer from me, Lina would smile and say, “Really, Chit remembered me? That’s nice!”
But things quickly changed. When I ran into Trixie again, she asked me, with an urgency in her voice, to ask other classmates and friends to visit: Lina had stopped playing the piano and, on top of everything else, her memory was failing.
Common experience
Lina and I go back a long way. We had been part of each other’s lives, knew each other’s parents—from when our parents, themselves friends, were still in their prime. Dada, on the other hand, was part of Lina’s school barkada of three; the third member was Susan. Later in life, Dada and Lina found another common experience, becoming widowed from estranged husbands with whom they had kept cordial relationships. Both never remarried.
Dada and I were ninang at Trixie’s wedding. Her oldest child, Joshua, a tall, handsome boy, is now in college in London, her departed father’s native city. Josh came home in the summer with his British girlfriend, and my husband and I happened to see all the family in our Greenbelt neighborhood.
“Puppy love lang ’yan,” Lina said under her breath, referring to Josh and girlfriend—to assure herself, more than anybody else. She and I, by no arrangements, both chose to be called Mamita by our grandchildren.
Strong features
We arrived and found Lina at the dining table, sitting in a wheelchair, facing a tall glass window from which she could see part of the still wet garden in the easing rain. She had lost a lot of weight; her still thick light-colored hair was brushed back, showing off strong features, particularly her Susan Sarandon eyes. She looked fresh and neat, but subdued, unlike her old kiti-kiti self.
It was obvious she had lost interest in her looks and food. She didn’t care to suffer the adjustment required of new dentures; she refused to wear them. Her wise caregiver allowed her to win some battles, but drew the line when it came to eating and taking her medication, which required patience and some lambing.
We succeeded in coaxing Lina to finish her osterized arroz caldo, but, more importantly, in guiding her memory back to younger and happier days. When I started to dance with some music put on, she laughed and seemed to get into it with me.
When Lina felt some discomfort in her back, Dada started massaging her and must have hit the right spot, for she looked positively relieved. Another classmate, Baby, who had been told of our visit, timed her call with it from Philadelphia. Surprisingly Lina remembered her, and they had a short conversation.
Staying together
Lina had many friends out of school, too. But, as in not a few cases, I suppose, fate somehow kept them apart. But not with us classmates; we’ve stayed together, and stayed even closer, in sickness and tragedies.
We couldn’t leave without promising a second visit, set for the eve of her 78th birthday, this month. Before leaving, I gave her a hug by proxy, as I had promised other classmates.
Perhaps to cheer ourselves up, after our visit, Dada had her driver play the professionally recorded singing of her Maryknoll class for their Diamond Jubilee, in September. They had changed the lyrics to suit their state in life, of course; the medley of songs begins with “Tale as Old as Time,” the theme song of the movie “Beauty and the Beast,” and ends with the very appropriate “A Brand New World.”
Indeed, we find ourselves in a totally new world, one completely different from the one we thought we knew well. Despite the risks traveling presents to seniors like us, my husband and I would still like to see more of it, before prospective destinations become dangerous, not only to people our age but to everyone.
Anyway, when that happens, there’s always the company of old friends. Classmate Cielo’s e-mail from the US, where she’s lived for a good part of her life, said it best.
“Thanks Chit, for hugging Lina for me. This is indeed something I did not foresee—that in the winter of our lives our childhood friends would be such a comfort to us.”
