On Grief (My Melancholic Schizophrenia)

For Cari on Chris' 40th day.... I wrote this awhile back and our conversation regarding the fine line between grieving and becoming crazy reminded me of it.


I am lying here
Staring at walls
My mind simultaneously
Blank
And rife with thought

While my ears tingle
As I wish I could shut off
The noise
Knowing that I am secretly afraid of
The silence

This is the dichotomy of my grief

As I struggle to hold on to you
While letting you go
I have become the melancholic schizophrenic

Surrounding myself with people
Even though I want to push them away
Wanting to be alone
Knowing I will never be

Alone

How can I be when you
Are always with me
You will always be with me
How can you go
When I can't say goodbye?

Shine On

One of the things I miss the most about my dad are Sunday mornings that were spent lining up his various dress shoes outside the front porch and polishing them until lunch time.

It was a very ritualistic event. First we'd gather up all his dress shoes and bring them outside. Then we'd drag his shoe shining kits and set up our respective benches. Then he'd light up a cigarette and get started while waiting for one of us to bring him an ice cold beer. And over the strains of Frank Sinatra or Julio Iglesias we'd spend the better part of 3 hours shining, buffing and polishing about 30 pairs of shoes.

Those were good times. Over the smell of cigarette smoke, San Miguel Pale Pilsen and Kiwi shoe shine polish my dad and I would talk about anything and everything under the sun. When I started going to Catholic school, my regulation black shoes were included in the pile of shoes that needed to be shined. And when I started working my leather shoes got the same treatment.

He was always so scrupulous about shoes - how clean they had to be, and how important it was that they were well polished and maintained. He would always tell us that the state of one's shoes reflected a person's habits, sense of self-worth and work ethic. A person who takes pride in himself and isn't afraid of hard work should always, always, have clean and well polished shoes.

I always thought that it was about vanity, until I was about 10 and I asked him why he always took such pains to make sure his shoes were clean and why he always made sure he polished them himself. Then he told me this story:

My dad didn't come from money. He was only about 5 when my grandfather passed away from a heart attack, leaving my grandmother, who was a school teacher, with 6 kids and a small income. To help his family make ends meet he used to sell cigarettes to US army officers that were stationed near his hometown in Masbate. He then moved on from selling cigarettes to shining shoes because the margins were bigger and you could get a tip on top of everything else. For a little kid who wore slippers to school, those big shiny army boots were something he told himself he'd have one day.

When it was time for him to go off to college, my grandmother and my aunt, the eldest in their family, pooled together what they could so that he could go to university in Manila. He went to FEU to study Political Science, in the hopes that one day he would become a lawyer just like my grandfather. He arrived in Manila with 2 white short sleeved shirts, a pair of pants and 1 pair of black leather shoes.

He used to tell me that the second shirt was a big thing, since it allowed him to make sure that he always had a clean shirt to go to school in. When he'd get back to his dorm room he'd immediately wash whatever shirt he was wearing so that it would have the whole day the next day to dry up and he would always have a clean shirt. Since he didn't have much of a wardrobe --- it was a source of pride for him that no matter what happened.... his shoes were always clean and presentable because he polished them himself.

Even while in college, he'd still take the odd shoe shining job to earn extra cents for food, or to help defray the costs of his going to college so that he could make life easier for my grandmother and my aunt. So he never forgot those shoe shining skills.

He had to drop out of college in his 3rd year, because he had younger brothers and sisters who also had to go to school. He applied to PAL as a purser, lied about his college degree and started working.

A few years later, at a hiring event, he applied as a Medical Representative to Mead Johnson and the rest is mythic Eppie Titong history.

He became the youngest president of a multinational pharmaceutical in the Philippines when he was 39. He finally finished college, and was able to earn masters degrees from Columbia University and Insead. And when he retired, he was the head of a Fortune 500 company.

But through all those years, and all those achievements, he still spent every Sunday polishing shoes. From the GI boots, to his single pair of college shoes, all the way to his handcrafted fancy dress shoes --- he polished each and every one of them himself. More often than not, he said, to remind him of how far had he come --- on sheer hard work and determination --- and also so he would never forget his humble beginnings so that he would always be grateful for what he had.

To this day, almost 7 years since he's been gone, his shoes are still in his closet. Like they were waiting for him to come home and dust them off and shine them again.

I miss the smell of cigarette smoke, San Miguel Pale Pilsen and Kiwi shoe shine. I miss those long conversations spent covered in shoe polish.

But his stories, his lessons, and the shoes, shine on.

If you picture it.... it will come.

Well I was blog-stalking my friend Bessie, and I was tickled by her latest post on "visioning". She wanted to go to Bellarocca (who doesn't) and she kept a brochure of it in her bag and kept "seeing" herself there. Lo and behold she's off to Bellarocca this Valentine's day. Lucky gal!

John likes to think that other than the novena to the Holy Mother, I conditioned my own body to ovulate --- hence this new baby. I keep picturing myself with another baby and ta-daa: she's on her way.

So if seeing (and believing) can help things come into fruition, then these are the things that will be playing on slideshow in my mind for the rest of the year:

A healthy, happy, beautiful, intelligent and normal baby girl in June.

The iPad (with Wifi) in April. All apple haters --- please don't bother commenting. iWant.

Where John and I will spend our 10th year anniversary next year. 3 weeks of shopping, sightseeing, eating and no kids. Hahaha!

The alternative venue for our 10th year anniversary. Same itinerary.

The PS1. What I'm buying for myself for my birthday if I have any money leftover after giving birth and sending Pilar to Everest (highly unlikely? who knows?)

Our very own Frank Lloyd Wright-like house with ginromous backyard. This is a rolling target. Something that hopefully we can accomplish in the next 5 to 10 years. Are you reading this John? That's right buddy --- you've got a deadline.

But the most important thing to me (us) right now is the baby. So I keep seeing a long, closed cervix and a little bundle of pink that looks just like Pilar.

The rest can follow.

Dear Cervix

I just wanted to take some time out to say: thank you for staying closed, and keep up the good work.

Now I know we haven't always gotten along. It hasn't escaped my attention that it was at this very same point (20 weeks) last April that you weren't able to keep it together and we lost the twins. And in 3 weeks will be the same point in July of 2008 that you opened up (without any warning mind you) and we lost Ines.

But what's past is past, and I want you to know I don't hold any of those things against you. We were in it together and I know I had my short comings too.

What's more important to me now is that we are working together again, and this time things seem to be going much better. True, you gave us a bit of a scare last December by opening up a little --- but I think once we stitched you closed you got the message.

Like I said, the important thing is that today you are closed. You are not funneling and you are holding at 3.7 cm. I am hoping and praying you will stay closed in the next 3 weeks, and I hope it's not too much to ask that you stay closed until the 1st week of June. That's week 36 and that's all we're hoping to hit.

I'm not sure if you're the kind that succumbs to bribes, but let's make a deal: if you behave, I'll behave.

I promise that I will not shop, take long walks or lift anything over 5 pounds. I promise I will spend at least 12 hours a day lying down. I promise I will eat vegetables and fruit at least once a day. And I promise to keep my stress levels down. I will diligently drink my meds at 8AM, 4 PM and 12 MN.

I will forego date night, sex, dinner with friends and the Debenhams Blue Cross sale.

All this... and all you have to do is not funnel, stay closed, and keep yourself at 3.7 cm till June.

Sounds like a great deal.

Are you in? Great. See you next week.

Random Thoughts

I had a number of things I felt like blogging about this week, but couldn't seem to find them time (in between my 3 hour naps) or the compunction to write them.

One was supposed to be another mush blog about John. Another was about this agonizing decision John and I need to make on whether or not to place Pilar in another school. I've been meaning to write an introspective article on my life this past year, and perhaps the last decade. There's also this piece I've wanted to write about happiness.

But... sigh... inspiration eludes me.

So instead I while away my time watching trash tv, surfing the internet, eating my way through boxes of chocolate covered nuts and drawing glitter tattoos on my daughter's various appendages.

There aren't a lot of options open to you when you're stuck in bed.

Still this life half lived is still a life worth living.

Quotable Quotes

Sometimes I forget that Pilar is only 5. Sometimes she speaks like a teenager. Or a 30 year old. We don't know where she gets it from.

Just the other night she was asking me for another candy bar, knowing full well she had already reached her nightly quota. John handed her a small Hershey's Kiss (violating our standing rule and earning himself major pogi points yet again). As she walked away with her loot I told her: "P, that is absolutely, positively the last piece of chocolate you're getting tonight." She gave me a look, looked at her dad, raised an eyebrow and said (complete with a smirk): "If you say so...."

Lately she has also taken to prefacing certain things with the ominous statement: "Mommy, I have to tell you something. But before I do, I want you to know.... it was an accident. And I'm sorry." (That's verbatim. I didn't add any extra words). You know nothing good is going to follow after that statement.

Our new favorite is her hardline stance on her future sibling. As a girl, Pilar is looking forward to having a baby sister. She's always telling us about how she's going to love the baby, take care of it, feed it, share her toys with it. One day we totally stumped her by saying: "But P, we don't know yet what the baby will be. What if God gives you a baby brother?" Without batting an eyelash Pilar told us: "Well we'll just have to send him back to Jesus and ask for a refund."

Ah my beautiful, precious girl.

That's All

John secretly revels in the fact that I am madly in love with him whenever I'm pregnant (well, more so than usual). And since I've been pregnant pretty much for the last 2 years -- he's had a good run.

I'm guessing it's the body's own way of ensuring that I don't murder him in his sleep knowing full well that its his sperm and our growing collection of vintage porn that's gotten me in this "situation". May be it releases extra endorphins whenever he's around, or it's rewired my pheromone receptors to perceive his as I would the smell of a nice, new leather bag or a loaf of freshly baked bread (my two favorite scents) -- delicious and irresistible.

So instead of looking at him and thinking: YOU are the reason why I can only shower once a day and can't go to the Zara sale.... I look at him and think: I love you.

He doesn't make it easy to repress these mushy feelings of mine. It isn't enough that his usually annoying habits don't bug me anymore. He takes it an extra level by being unusually wonderful during these trying times of ours.

I watch him spend countless hours keeping Pilar amused because I can't help take care of her. My husband, who has the attention span of a gnat, can spend 3 hours doing sand art bottles with our 5 year old while carrying on a conversation about the varying merits of the disney princesses versus the other characters on playhouse disney. Today they are out on a date, just the two of them.

He patiently emptied my bed pans while we were at the hospital, despite the fact that its a chore he has to do 3 to 4 times an hour since I have a bladder the size of raisin. He would brush my hair and wash my face when the IVs clogged my veins and caused my hands to swell.

He spent 4 hours helping my indecisive and neurotic brother buy a new TV. And another 2 helping him set it up at his new flat.

He is easy to love.

Yes he is cranky, short-tempered, messy and hard-headed. And he snores like freight train. He has faults. But they only serve to magnify, not diminish, all the other qualities about him that make feel like I won the bloody "man" lotto when I married him. Hahaha. Lucky me, eh?

He once told me, when we were about to get married, that he worried sometimes that he might not be enough. I was leaving behind the country clubs, the drivers and expensive cars, the maids, and my dad's credit card for a life of mortgages, no maids, and a budget. We were just starting out -- and he wanted us to make it on our own. Just us two. He sometimes felt like that old standard song "That's All" whenever he thought about what exactly it was that he could give me.

And when I think about it now, as I did then, "all" I ever needed (will ever need) is him.



I can only give you love that lasts forever,
And a promise to be near each time you call.
And the only heart I own
For you and you alone
That's all,
That's all...

I can only give you country walks in springtime
And a hand to hold when leaves begin to fall;
And a love whose burning light
Will warm the winter's night
That's all,
That's all.

There are those I am sure who have told you,
They would give you the world for a toy.
All I have are these arms to enfold you,
And a love time can never destroy.

If you're wondering what I'm asking in return, dear,
You'll be glad to know that my demands are small.
Say it's me that you'll adore,
For now and evermore
That's all,
That's all.

Waiting to Exhale

I am going to take advantage of my limited "sitting time" to blog a little.

I've been meaning to write an introspective blog about the past year (2009), may be even about the past decade --- most especially on how different my life, and I, have become in such a short period of time. But with a tummy full of pancakes and reruns of TMZ on the TV I don't think I have the intellectual wherewithall to do it. Besides, as per the timer on my table I only have 20 minutes left before I have to lie down again.

I have spent the past couple of weeks buried under a shroud of anxiety over my cerclage. Now that the procedure itself is over you'd think I'd feel a little less stressed, a little less paranoid. But I still am. Every trip to the bathroom is followed by close inspection of tissue papers for spotting. Every tummy cramp, nudge, tightening is met with bated breath to see if it'll develop into a contraction. I know that the anxiety is not helping/healthy. I know that people mean well when they tell me to relax. Easier said than done my amigos. After losing 3 babies to premature labor I think I have earned this neurosis.

To help manage my stress I read, take long naps, watch nonsensical television and pray. I stay strong by reminding myself that it has only been through God's grace that we have been able to get here, to get this far. His grace will see us through whatever comes next.

Yes, I have become a Jesus freak and that's ok by me. In our long late night conversations, I feel like He's the only one who really understands me (I think the one-sidedness of our conversations goes a long way). Hahaha.

I don't think I'll be able to relax or take a deep breath until this baby is in my arms. But that's ok. Only 20 more weeks to go. I can hold my breath for that long.

The Nicest Thing

Read this in today's Inquirer, The Daily Gospel section which covered Mark 6:45-52:

Jesus did not come to spare us
the challenges of life.
Jesus cam to be with us in them
so that when, like the disciples,
we find ourselves straining
against the tide
we, too, can come to see life differently.

Perspective/Compromise

I had the worst job interview today.

The man I met with asked me a simple but insightful question, and before I could stop myself the words: "To be honest, I hadn't really thought about it" came out of my mouth. To be fair to myself --- I really hadn't. And rather than bullshit this obviously intelligent person with some marketing mumbo jumbo I gave him the truth.

Needless to say he was a little under-whelmed.

I don't blame him, it was not my finest (half) hour.

So I dragged the carcass of my ego 4 blocks to Shangri-la Mall and met up with some friends for dinner. And a pity party ensued. Well, a pity party for me and Jaims while Steve and Jill tried to give us constructive advice.

Jaime drove me home afterward and we sat in his car and decided to prolong the pity party a little. So we spoke about our respective personal existential angst which is mostly grounded on the same thesis: Coming to grips with who you are now, when it is so far from who you always thought you would be.

Now we both agree that in theory God should smote us both with lightning for being ungrateful bastards. We both live good lives. Very good lives. We are both aware that we are blessed.

But when we look at the lives we lead, we feel twinges of poignancy (see Jaims -- I can spell it even if I can't pronounce it) ---- realizing the compromises that we have made to help us get to where we are today.

Should we even dream that the compromises we make today will someday help us become even better than the people we always thought we would be?

I hope so.

I left my career to become a mother, always keeping in the back of my mind that it was always something I could go back to when Pilar gets a little older. When she doesn't need me to be around so much anymore. I always believed that even if I took a 5 year break -- I could always go back to work. Because I was good at what I did and I could be so again.

Today showed me that may be I am not as good as I always thought I was. May be I cannot leave being mother to have a career again.

Perhaps mother is my new career.

One I never thought I'd want to have.

This is my compromise.

Will it help me become better than the person I always thought I'd grow up to be?

I hope so.

-----

When I finally crawled out of Jaime's car --- buoyed by the knowledge that a) I am not alone; b) there is hope; c) there is someone crazier than I am --- I found Pilar passed out on our bed still in her play-clothes and not in her jammies (obviously her Pappy had fallen asleep before she did). And as I tried to gently change her clothes she groggily opened her eyes. She asked me: "Are you going with me to school tomorrow?". I asked her: "Do you want me to go to school with you?".

She said: "I always want you to be with me. I miss you when you're not around."

Compromise is not a bad thing.

Fight or Flight?

I have been obsessively scouring the internet of cheap airfares to the US, this despite the fact that we have just come from vacation (although traveling with a 4-year old is NEVER a vacation for anyone).

I don't know why I have itchy feet syndrome. Why being home just makes me anxious and raring to be anyplace but here. May be because when I'm home I just have a tendency to veg-out. I can lie in bed all day in my pjs watching God-knows-what on TV or surfing the internet. I know there are soooooo many things that I should be doing, but I just can't muster up the energy to do them. Things to fix, things to pack away, things to give away.... it stresses me out just thinking about them... and yet.... I can't be bothered. I feel lazy and tired and.....

I have purposely refused to be introspective the last couple of months. It just depresses the living hell out of me. I try not to delve into my own psyche too deeply --- I know what's waiting down there for me. They are always in the thoughts that I never let come to fore. Whenever thoughts of them come up, I purposely push them back down. I am tired of the mourning that never seems to end, and the infinite sadness that comes with it. But it is always there, just waiting.

So here I am --- yelling at people from Northwest that their online promo is nothing but baloney (damn their ticket designators and fare basis crap!). I know that I can't run away from my own thoughts, but I'm determined to try anyway. I realize that they will always be with me, and that the sadness will be here for a while. I know as soon as I unpack my suitcase from whatever "vacation" I've conjured up for us, I unpack my emotional baggage as well.

It is strange to be Sisyphus again.

Let's Hear it For the Boy

So the hub turned 40 yesterday. :-)

He didn't want a big party.

He didn't want to go out of the country.

So we just spent the weekend at Anvaya with his family.

And boy am I still tired. (details in another post)

While at Anvaya, I was able to organize a special dinner for John at the Wine Cellar. It went really well. The food was great (pumpkin and lobster bisque, spinach and mushroom salad with bacon and cognac vinaigrette, filet mignon with butterfly prawns and truffle infused mashed potatoes, and decadent chocolate cake with french vanilla ice cream and cheese cake with fresh fruits) and the set-up was amazing. The only flies in the ointment were the 3 little rascals that kept us from having a civilized sit-down dinner by constantly threatening to jump into the koi pond and blowing out all the candles that were lit for mood lighting.

Still it was a nice dinner.

While he really appreciated all the planning that went into the dinner, nay, the whole trip, I know it wasn't really John's scene. He's not into the big production numbers or fancy events. I'm pretty sure he went along for the ride because he knew it made ME happy to plan something big and fancy for him. At heart, he's really just a simple guy.

So come Monday, since he took the day off, I finally let him celebrate his birthday --- his way:

First we dropped Pilar off at school, which really made him happy since its something he never gets to do. He went around the school, met her friends, and had his first glimpse of the Mommy Pit (details to follow in another post).

Then we headed off to Megamall because its his favorite mall (next to Greenhills).

When it was time to decide where to have lunch --- there were all sorts of options (us being in Megamall). Expensive ones, mid priced ones, and cheap ones. He was still trying to be nice and started suggesting places he thought I'd like to eat in. But I took one look at him and said 3 letters I knew would make his day: K-F-C?

John loves KFC. Seriously. It is for this very same reason that I hate KFC. Because when you're married to John you will eat in KFC a lot. A LOT.

But since its his birthday, KFC it is.

After lunch, I don't even have to ask what we'll do next. It's the Power Books-Comic Quest-Filbars-Book Sale route. It is always the Power Books-Comic Quest-Filbars-Book Sale route when we're in building A. If it were Building B then it would be the Ace Hardware-Department Store-Cyber Zone-Tutto Moda route. My man is a creature of habit.

The morning is capped off with a visit to Dairy Queen for his standard 16 oz. Cashew Caramel fix.

We leave the mall full of chicken, comics and calories. And John couldn't be happier.

Like I posted on my status yesterday: It takes a day spent like a 7 year old boy to make my 40 year old man happy.

54 Days

Two things are going to surprise a lot of you when you read this post:

1. You will find out that I actually pray. And that I have prayed novenas.

2. That the person who gave me this latest novena is Jaims. (this part is for those of us who know him) ;-)

I just finished the 4th day of the 54 days that is required for the Holy Rosary Novenas to Our Lady. It's a 54 day novena, divided into 27 days of petition and 27 days of thanksgiving (something that you should still pray whether or not your petition is granted -- for as you know, or may eventually discover, God doesn't always give us what we want but He does give us what we need).

I can't remember if Jaime gave me this novena when I was still pregnant with the twins, or after I lost them. All I can remember is that 1) I was shocked he even knew what a novena was (hahaha); 2) he says his family swears by it, and 3) that he gave me his own copy of it as soon as I expressed interest in it. Which is just the kind of friend that he is.

It has been sitting on my shelf for quite a while now, frankly, gathering dust. 54 days is a big commitment you see. 54 straight days. No skipping, no doubling back (well you could technically say 2 in one day if you happened to forget --- but where's your commitment if you did that?).

Then I realized that I have prayed a novena longer than that.

When I was trying to conceive Pilar I found the Novena to the Sacred Heart of Jesus in the makeshift chapel of our old UnionBank building. It was just there on an empty seat next to me. And when I read it, I really felt that it spoke to me. It gave me the words to express to God how much I wanted to have a baby. So I promised God, after I prayed the novena for the first time, that if he would bless me with a positive pregnancy test I would pray that novena every day until my baby was born.

254 (++) days later (no skipping, no doubling back --- honestly!) He gave me Pilar.

The Novena has not always worked. Or not always in the way we hoped it would. It went on to give me 2 more positive pregnancy tests after Pilar. But she remains my only child. For now.

I will be the first person to tell you --- that I am not the most religious person you will meet. I may be closer to the opposite end of the spectrum. I am a non-practicing Catholic (blame the Jesuits and too many interesting books on the ordinary origins of sacred things). But certain novenas and prayers have really touched my life. One was the Novena to the Sacred Heart, the other is this:

When I lost my twins, John's Tita Cecile did the nicest thing that anyone could have done for me --- she sent me the Novena for Mary, Undoer of Knots. And let me tell you --- that novena helped calm my heart more than anything or anyone could those first couple of months. I am eternally grateful to her for sending me that book.

So last Monday I found the courage, nay the fortitude, to start the Holy Rosary Novenas to Our Lady. Can I just share that at the end of each mystery you pray for a particular grace or virtue (eg. the virtue of resignation to the will of God)? And each every day the virtues that the novena calls for are the same virtues I myself feel like praying for. The novena makes me feel like I am speaking/praying from my heart.

With 50 more days to go, I hope I feel like this every day.

P.S. I am not afraid to share that I am praying for another baby. That if it is in God's plans for us, then I hope he blesses us with another child, hopefully another child we can conceive naturally. And if it is not His will that we have more kids, then I am also praying for acceptance of His plan, I am praying for healing, I am praying for forgiveness (from Him, my babies and from myself). I hope that whoever is reading this prays for me too. :-)

P.S.S. Anyone who wants a copy of any of the above mentioned novenas...just holler. :-)

Mr. E. Coompy

This is Mr. E. Coompy

He is the latest addition to our growing menagerie of toilet-roll-with-pipe-cleaners-and-glue" pets. Mr. E. Coompy is the name that Pilar gave him.

He epitomizes the quandary that I am in.

On the one hand, he stands for what my life has been this past year and a half: nanny, personal chef, maid, pet, toy, friend, teacher and magician all rolled into one. I am Mommy.

On the other, I see Mr. E. Coompy and realize he is my biggest "achievement" of the day. So I wonder: What the.....?

Growing up, this is never who I thought I'd grow up to be. Lawyer, theater director, writer.... these are things that come to mind. But Mother was never part of that list.

I was groomed to be a Master of the Universe. My father always told me that I would grow up to be someone very important someday.

So as I end my day packing away Dora and her friends, wondering about tomorrow's menu and making mental reminders to arrange for a play date in the afternoon --- is this all there is to me now?

Is my life on hold, as hers goes fast forward?

Because as much as I love being with her, being there to watch her grow and be such an integral part of her life.....I miss the life... the me.. I had to give up to be here.

Not the work, but the sense of fulfillment it gave me. The sense of self, of worth, that I got in a job well done. The little personal achievements, milestones. The ego-stroking. The love of self that I felt knowing that I was good at what I did, and people knew it.

May be it boils down to a question of who do I love more? Myself? Or her?

The answer will always be... her. So much more than myself, or the version of me I'd always thought I'd grow up to be.

So I pack away these thoughts and doubts along with her jigsaw puzzle pieces.... and the other pieces of my life that puzzle me.

I may not be the Master of my Universe. But her world revolves around me (for now) --- so may be I am the Sun in hers.

And at least I was able to fulfill my father's prophesy: I AM someone very important. To the one person who matters the most.

Never Shake Your Booty While Pushing a Shopping Cart

(Intro: Queen: Pressure... pushing down on you....)

I like going to the grocery store. More so when I'm by myself. I find wandering up and down the aisles relaxing. I get a little exercise and get my "shopping" fix even if it is just over canned goods and laundry detergent.

My usual plan of attack is this: 
1. Go through pantries, freezer and fridge and draft shopping list.
2. Have driver drop me off at any of the following: SNR, Parco, Hi-Top, Rustans or Shopwise (SNR and Parco being my groceries of choice).
3. Grab eco-bags and shopping cart.
4. Turn on iPod and select band of choice for today's shopping excursion.
5. Waste 2-3 hours going through each and every aisle.

The music I play while I do my grocery shopping generally reflects my mood and outlook for the day. 

Am I feeling contemplative as I analyze how many wash loads I can get out of a 4 liter bottle of fabric softener? Then break out the Sigur Ros. May be some Radio Head.

Are the rising prices of chicken and fish making me depressed? How bout some Damien Rice and Sarah MacLachlan?

Are the badly stacked piles of toilet paper making me angry? That calls for some Stereophonics. May be a couple of vintage glam rock tracks from Guns and Roses and Poison.

But generally I like shiny, happy music while I do my grocery shopping. Katrina and the Waves kind of happy. I like listening to some ska like Save Ferris and Letters from Cleo. A little gay Brit pop from Right Said Fred and the Pet Shop Boys. Some vintage Queen.

A word of caution though: never let yourself get to carried away by what's playing in your ear. This has happened to me one too many times.

In Shopwise I once bumped into an ex-office mate while belting out the chorus of a Mariah Carey song in the canned goods section (I blame the noise-canceling headphones which apparently really DOES cancel out all noise --- including your own).

In SM Hypermart I caught one of the LEAP preschool mommies staring at me as I grooved to Quincy Jones' Q's Jook Joint while squeezing lemons amongst the produce.

And today...today will live forever in infamy. 

I was playing Under Pressure by Queen as I was on my way to the check out counter of SNR. I didn't realize that the pulsating beat of dum-dum-dum-du-du-dum-dum (so reminiscent of Vanilla Ice's Ice Ice Baby) had driven me to subconsciously do a mini Running Man while pushing my shopping cart. It was only when I looked back to go back for some canola oil did I realize that all the sales people from aisles 10 onward were staring at me and laughing their asses off.

Beware the iPod while doing grocery shopping. Damn those block-rockin beats. 

(Extro: Groove Armada: I see you baby...shakin that ass....)

The Tenth of an Inch Difference Between Heaven and Hell

....is accepting things as they are or wishing them to be otherwise.  

It's been a tough couple of days. This has been my life ---- long stretches of being ok and normal followed by sudden bursts of depression.  

No one really gets to see it. I've become very good at hiding how I feel. The only one who ever senses it (and gives me a wide berth and lots of patience because of it) is John.  

The insomnia's back. Long, late sleepless nights spent staring at the wall. Or writing in my journal. Days that are spent trying to catch up to lost sleep.  

The short temper.  

The tears. 

I slipped in the laundry area again last night, wearing the same slippers I was wearing when I fell that awful night. In my anger and anguish I threw them in the trash. I'd burn them if I could. It reminded me of what happened. And I started wishing again that I never wore them that night. Or that I went up as soon as dinner was over. Or that I didn't got down at all.  

Wishing for things that I cannot change. For things that, I know now, could not have changed anything.  

The most awful realization I have had to make in my sad journey towards letting my babies go --- is that they were never mine to keep. 

Awful, yet freeing at the same time.  

May be one day this thought won't make my heart feel that it's being squeezed in a vise. May be one day, writing these words won't make me cry anymore.  

May be one day I'll be able to bridge that distance and find peace.  

A tenth of an inch doesn't seem that far.

Here We Are Again

I haven't had the heart to update this blog.

I couldn't find the words to say: we have lost 2 more babies.

We hadn't even gotten over losing Ines, and now we have to add getting over Carmen and Salvador (our twins) to this impossible task.

It has been 46 days since we lost the twins.

I still don't have the words.

Crossed Off the Bookshelf

So since I've been stuck at home and I have watched all the episodes of all the tv shows that I like....I've been burning through books like nobody's business. It's a good thing Fully Booked gave me a 20% discount otherwise we'd be broke.

Just a quick run through of the books I've finished in the last 3 weeks and my 2 cents worth on each:

1. The Nasty Bits by Anthony Bourdain - I'm a big Bourdain fan. I have a copy of Kitchen Confidential and A Cook's Tour, plus his fiction novel Gone Bamboo. He's a funny writer (he writes like someone I should be friends with) and makes me feel like I should be eating better food and learning how to cook. He's irreverent and I bet Jamie Oliver hates his guts. :-)

2. Heart Sick - pure pulp fiction. The literary equivalent of a popcorn movie. Fun, fast and totally shallow. I forget who wrote it (my sister has my book right now) but its one of the better murder/mystery novels I've read in a long while.

3. Love the One You're With by Emily Giffin - chick lit. Blech. I actually like chick lit. But there's something about the main character that bugged the living crap out of me. I felt totally unsympathetic with her indecisiveness and childish reasoning. And the premise, I mean....really? Choose between your wonderful, loving, successful, handsome, rich husband --- or your emotionally stunted, brooding, passive aggressive ex-boyfriend who dumped you for no reason. What kind of choice is that?

4. StarGirl by Jerry Spinelli* - what a great book! All teenage girls should be made to read this book. What a terrific treatise on being free to be whoever you want to be. I've always felt that conformity is overrated. Why should we waste time seeking the approval of others when what really matters is being true to one's self. Stargirl is a wonderful testament to that. It's funny, poignant and stirring. I can't wait till Pilar is old enough to read this.

5. Holes by Louis Sachar* - you would have thought it was a short story with how fast I read through this book (6 hours straight --- although inclusive of lunch, afternoon nap and 10 million bathroom breaks). I can understand why it won a Newberry medal. Though the ending was predictable (although I am 34 and this book is targeted for the 15 and under crowd --- so it should be no surprise that I knew what was going to happen halfway through the book) it didn't detract from the book's charm and I was still eager to read through the whole thing just to see how it would pan out.

6. When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris - here's another guy who writes like he should be my friend. I can just imagine the conversations we would have. The minute I finished reading it I immediately called my friend Jaime and told him that this is what he would be like if he were a smart and witty gay writer.....instead of just being uhm...gay. :-) Actually his sexuality is only anecdotal to his random musings on life, family, fashion, and whatever the hell else caught his fancy. I found this one much more enjoyable than his other collection of essays Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim.

7.On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan - I have always promised myself that I would own/read an Ian McEwan book before I die. Largely because he has like 6 books on the 1001 Book You Must Read Before You Die. But to be honest, I haven't finished this one yet. His books are like Merchant/Ivory movies --- beautiful, lyrical, profound....and a tad boring. I keep starting and stopping. It feels a little like work to get through it. So I'm putting it back on the shelf for a while.

I also read Everything You Need to Know to Have a Healthy Twin Pregnancy but I doubt if you'd want to hear about.

I highly recommend The Nasty Bits and When You Are Engulfed in Flames, as well as Star Girl and Holes.

* Star Girl and Holes are books for kids by who says you have to limit yourself to adult fiction? :-)

Life is Short.

Last week, I was already mulling over the thought that life is short. Its a trite phrase I know. But watching my mom recover in the hospital, hearing about that poor little boy in Ateneo, and finding out about an old office mate who suffered a stroke (at the age of 36!) really drove it home for me.

Life is short.

Then today I read a friend's blog about the passing of her brother's girlfriend. And all I could think of was: life is short.

As I get older, as my life becomes more intertwined with others, its a thought that scares me and yet fills me with a strange determination.

Life is short. We will lose people we love. 

It doesn't mean we stop loving people. We open ourselves up to the eventuality of loss (and don't kid yourself that loss isn't inevitable) to allow ourselves to love fully, to appreciate the people that we love, to realize that each and every day is an opportunity to love and be loved.

Losing a parent taught me to cherish the one I have left. And after years of struggling to know her and understand her --- I can now see my mom through eyes that realize how much she sacrificed for us, how much she loved me in her own way. That she raised me in the best way she knew how. And that a lot of what I am, I owe to her.

It taught me to open my heart to my in-laws so that they could (in their own measure) become parents to me. It has taught me to love them unconditionally, to love them on my own terms --- not as John's parents, but as people who truly love me and care for me who I love and care for in return.

Losing a child taught me to cherish the one I have now. That she is, and always will be, a miracle -- a gift from God. I love her unreservedly and wholeheartedly --- and if that will turn her into the biggest brat in the world I don't care. All our days start and end with me telling her that I love her and she will always know that she is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

It also taught me that even in the light of such tragedy, life goes on. Moves on. That new life can light even the darkest corners of our hearts. 

Life is short. Time is running out to do the things that will mean something to us. 

I quit my job a year ago. A job, that despite the tremendous pressure and 14-hour work days, I actually really liked. I quit it to do 2 things that I felt were more important:

1. To try to have more kids
2. To be a full time mom

I'm 33. I'll be 34 at the end of the year. Each year that passes, my fertility issues compound upon themselves. I didn't want to wait any longer to try and have more kids, only to realize I had waited too long. 

Pilar, at the time, was 3 turning 4. She would only be that age once, and I had already missed so much. The child we had waited so long to have --- was growing up without me.

So even with my dream (of becoming a Marketing Director) so close at hand --- no one, except for my ex-boss and I, will ever know how close --- I chose to leave it all behind to do something I always thought of doing but never thought I'd do.

And while I am now no more than a glorified part-time nanny/cook/human incubator for two --- I have never regretted that decision.

Because life is short.

I am holding my loved ones close and trying to make dreams come true.

When do you let go?

There's been a lot of confusion about the status message I posted the other day. A lot of people have been worried that there's something wrong with the twins. First of all let me assure everyone that the twins are doing great. They're both on track and are already beginning to show distinct personalities. One quiet and shy (like John). The other --- not quiet and shy (like me). But thank you for all your prayers and well wishes.

The post was about my mom.

She was hospitalized last weekend for an infection, and yesterday her doctor met with us to discuss some very hard but very necessary decisions that we needed to make on her behalf.

You see, my mom has Progressive Supranuclear Palsy. It's a very rare degenerative neurological disease that has caused total body paralysis. She no longer walks or talks. She cannot make voluntary movements. And dementia is the final, awful phase of her disease.

Because it is degenerative in nature, all of this did not happen to her in one fell swoop. It happened in sporadic episodes. First the ability to keep her balance, then ability to move her legs. She became incontinent, and then lost the ability to swallow. That was the hard part. Because of that we had to put in a tube in her stomach where we could feed her with liquid food. Then we had to put a tube in her throat to suction saliva and mucus that pooled in her throat.

Now she can no longer move her head from side to side. And sometimes she forgets to blink.

More than the physical toll on her body, the disease has been hardest on her spirit. 

My brave, strong, hard-working mother has been reduced to a shell of her former self. It's cold consolation that she no longer understands the daily struggles she has to go through.

If you knew my mother back when she was still well, you would understand why seeing her go through all this is so hard. She was such a tireless person. She raised 4 kids full time, ran our household like a captain runs a ship, and was the kind of wife any man could be proud of.

I remember when we were kids, my dad would throw these dinners at our house and my mom would cook everything from scratch. From the bread, the main course to dessert. Then in between all that cooking she would find the time (and the strength) to make sure the house was spotless, the kids were presentable, and fresh flowers were on the table. She could do this for a group of 4 to 40. With just a day's notice.

Even now part of me wishes I could be half the home-maker my mom was. 

And that's the perfect phrase to describe her: a home-maker. 

She made our house a home. The kind any kid wishes he could come home to. Where every thing was always in order, and there was always good food around. The kind where you learned the values of being responsible, diligent and hard-working. And the kind that gave you life skills you never thought would be important, but now that you're older and on your own are essential: how to cook, how to clean a toilet, how to market, how to train household help, how to launder and iron. And most importantly - how to raise decent God-fearing kids.

And now the whirling dervish that was my mom in action lies quietly in her bed. Instead of hearing her yell at us in Bisaya to pick up after ourselves, all you'll hear now is the not-so-quiet hiss of the suction machine that keeps her from choking.

I have not heard her speak in almost 4 years. And I miss the sound of her voice. Raised in anger or quietly whispering words of reassurance --- I'd give anything to hear it again.

And now back to the hospital.

They have asked us to review this document that outlines several medical procedures. Beside each medical procedure are boxes marked: "Withhold" and "Withdraw". 

Because her hospitalizations are becoming more and more frequent, her doctors have advised us that she may be in a state of deterioration. The next major infection could be her last, and the next time we bring her to the hospital we may not be able to bring her home anymore.

So they want us to specify how far we want them to intervene medically. This is something we have to specify because unlike someone who gets into an accident and has a chance of surviving, my mom is "medically futile". Meaning no matter what we do she will never be cured, she will never get better. All we can do for her is manage her "quality of life".

Medically futile is the saddest phrase I've ever heard. More than terminally ill. At least terminally ill has end. Medically futile can drag on for years. She has been sick for almost 8.

So now we have decide whether or not we agree to let the hospital do the following (in case the worst happens):
- CPR
- Defribrilator
- Dialysis
- Nutrition
- Invasive procedures (like central lines, etc)
- Intravenous fluids
- Ventilator

Some are easy like Nurtrition and IVs. Why on earth would we withhold those?

Dialysis is on the fence. It's painful and invasive but the alternative is pulmonary edema (which is like drowning out of water).

CPR and de-fib form part of a DNR order. Do not resuscitate. 

It's like asking us: At which point are you willing to let your mom go?

How much of this is the need to give her the best medical care, and how much of it is our desire to keep her with us a while longer? Because even if she's no longer herself, she is still our mother. At least we can still see her, touch her, kiss her and tell her that we love her.

These are questions we were faced with before with my dad. And it's so painful to be faced with them again for my mom.

I have signed 2 Do Not Resuscitate orders in my life. One for my father. One for Ines.

Where will I find the strength to sign another one?