LISTS

The earthquake shook the last sliver of sleepiness that was stubbornly clinging into my fogged nerves; a magnitude 6.9 reminder that I had to wake up and go back to the hospital and face the inevitable. Looking around me, gazing at the shaking trees outside where I blindly ran when I felt the vibrations and realized what it was, I reminded myself that I was having my own personal upheaval, a tremor that started the night before; when I received that phone call.

            “Hello Tita, is everything okay?” I asked looking at the caller ID on my cellular, my heart suddenly beating a staccato, she never calls. Not at that time.

            “It’s Papa, we’re bringing him to the hospital,” came the answer.  Just like that, frank and to the point.

            Papa, my grandfather, the father figure that was a constant fixture in the summers when I was growing up; that tall, silent man wearing the tattered denim jacket, a Good Morning towel wrapped like a turban around his forehead.  The Chief as he was called by his men as a sugar room manager during the long gone hey days of the sugar industry in Negros was a simple man, prone to long bouts of silence as he observed everything and everyone around him.  Content to tinker with the myriad collection of electronics that he hoards on his table, content to read any of the books that seemed to fill every available space in the old house that has been the family home for decades.  He was content to see the smiles of his numerous apos, Me, being the eldest of 16; an eclectic bunch with all of our own eccentricities and craziness. He was happiest in the late afternoons, on the roadside sitting right outside the gate, a bottle of Gold Eagle in his hands.

            All these came back to me as I listened to his youngest daughter, my Tita Annie on the cellular.  I did not know what to say but still I managed to mumble.

            “Pick me up when you pass by,” I said, shutting down the computer I was in front of.  Forgetting to even save the movie I was editing for the student film festival.  It was late, and as I walked out of the school into the quiet street, I remembered Papa’s words earlier that morning before I left. 

            “Come home tonight,” he reminded me. Simple as that.

            We took him to the nearby City Hospital.  He was complaining about not being able to breathe despite the oxygen tubes connected to his nostrils.  The resident doctor felt he needed to be taken to a private hospital that same night, we decided to take him even if he refused to. Even when he was adamant that he would rather wait for morning and have the X-rays and the tests then.

He grimaced with every bump on the road, he sighed when he was taken by the orderlies from the ambulance to the emergency room.  We really did not expect things to move as fast as they did last night.

            One moment, Papa was lying on the bed speaking to a rather pretty young doctor who was checking his vital signs and the next thing we knew was that a cardiologist was pushing a tube into his mouth as he lay gasping for breath, tubes and machines beeping mechanical beeps that sounded way too reminiscent of hospital dramas to be taken in stride.  He must have been in so much pain.  I saw him flinch when I took the rings from his fingers as the medical staff tried to suction the liquid that was blocking his lungs from breathing. 

            Mama was stoic.  She just sat there beside Tita Annie and Nanay who got to the hospital a few minutes after we did, cradling the bag filled with Papa’s things. 

            He had a heart attack.  One of a series of heart attacks that we did not even know about, if not for the liquid stuck inside his lungs, we would never have known about it as well.

            It took them two hours to stabilize Papa.  A hundred twenty minutes of not knowing what to do, stray thoughts way too negative to voice out plaguing our minds as we waited for the doctors to say that he will make it.  We called everyone in the family, or rather, they did " I wanted to detach myself from what was happening although I was finding it impossible to do so.  Some came to wait the minutes with us outside the ER during that suspense filled moments of waiting. 

            The hospital had that intruding antiseptic smell, something distinct that one always associates with hospitals and medical rooms.  As the clock continued to click the minutes, the smell began to be intoxicating that I had to leave and grab a cigarette outside; I could not bear to see the despair running on the faces of my aunts, my mom, my Mama and my cousins.

            Thank God, finally Grandpa was stable enough to be transferred to a room.  But he looked so much different from how he looked hours before.  Gone was the twinkle and glint of humor that was ever present within his eyes, gone was the tender touch and the jests that he could not help but deliver for all of us when he sees us.  What I would have paid to hear him say:  “Who are you again?” his line every time I would go home to the ancestral house after a long absence.

            The Intensive Care Unit was somewhere I have never been to.  It was frightening to see the tubes and countless machines hooked up to Papa when these same machines and blinking lights were something I only saw in movies and teleseryes that almost always ended in a tragic scene.  This was not the youthful lolo I got to know these past thirty five years, this was a nightmare.  I somehow had the crazy thought that I was living in somebody’s version of a cruel prank, except that for some reason, the prank was on me. I could not bear to see someone so active and content in life be dependent on the whim and trained rigidity of the nurses and doctors of the ICU.  

            I left.  It was almost five in the morning and as the sun peeked over the horizon to bring light to a new day, I was drifting off to sleep while riding the jeepney home.  I had to accept and digest everything. And sleep came.

            I did not know how I was able to go home.  The last coherent thought I had was thinking about the rays of the rising sun as they hit the stalks of the sugar cane leaves when I passed by the fields, that was the last scene I remembered before I fell asleep on the ride home.  They reminded me greatly of the sparkle in Papa’s eyes.

            The earthquake finally stopped.  The thirty-second shake was enough to jolt me out of my thoughts, transporting me to a replay of the last sixteen hours.  Not even a day has passed since we took him to the hospital. 

            My phone rang while I was in the shower.  I could not help but feel my heart’s palpitation recalling that the last call was that of Tita Annie’s informing me about Papa. Seeing my Nanay’s ID on the cellular screen did not help.  My wet hands were trembling as I haphazardly dried them, pushing the call button to answer the incessant ringing.

            “Hello?”

            “Come back to the hospital,” was the simple reply.

            “Why?”

            “Papa’s heart stopped.  He had another arrest, just before the quake. “A pause.  “They revived him.  Thank God.  But come as quickly as you can.  Another attack and he might not survive.”  I could hear the silent tears that my Nanay was shedding.  I could feel the tears behind my eyes but they would not come, I refuse to let them come. 

            I never finished the shower.  I immediately dressed and for some reason the trip back to the hospital was vivid, I could remember each kilometer, each music, and each conversation that the other passengers in the jeeps were talking about. 

            “That earthquake was so strong.”

            “And you can even see the ground move, it was almost a minute.”

            They were all talking about the quake.  If they could only see and feel the tremors that were running through my nerves then they would have thought differently.  The earthquake somehow did not stop inside me.

            The harsh lights of the ICU greeted me.  I could not begin to describe what I was seeing.  Papa aged ten years in the hours that I was absent.  The monitors and the flashing beeps of the machines were too vulgar.  The hushed silence of everyone was too painful.  As a rule, only two can be at the glass walled room at the same time.  By shifts we took turns watching in fearful suspense as the beeps continued on.

            Papa was awake most of the time.  Despite what was happening to him, he never gave up on life nor gave up on what he wanted most and that was to see each and every one of us, his children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and Mama most of all.  For the first time in years, I saw my aunts and uncles speak without the barriers that have sprung between them.  I saw my cousins huddle as we faced a common obstacle in our lives.  Maybe, it was meant to be so that the differences and misunderstandings that we have made amongst ourselves are forgotten and we had to start anew.  The common ground now was Papa and underlying is the almost insurmountable bills that were lurking in the corner. We did not have much, and even if we dug deep into our pockets only a few would be able to hand in for the cost of what we were facing.

            Through it all, Papa was observing.  Gesturing for a piece of paper and a pen every time he wanted to say something since he could not voice out with the tubes running from one of the life supporting machineries to his mouth, his lips taped to secure the tubes.

            That’s when the list started.

            I did not know about it at first.  But like any other issues or episodes within a close knit group, or a family that was, if for the time being mingling and talking and being a family, I was bound to find out about it.

            “I have to go home, the kids will be anxious for news,” I said referring to my younger cousins left at the house I lived with Tita Annie’s family and Mama and Papa. It was after a day of doing shifts with two other cousins.  Tita Tanya was there then, having just arrived from Manila where she has been living for the last two decades.  For some reason, my Nanay’s and Tita Lani’s faces, another of her younger sisters were crestfallen; as if they carried the weight of so much more than what Papa was experiencing.

            “I’m sorry I can’t give you some money for fare,” Nanay said.  I never expected her to but somehow it sounded awkward.

            “That’s okay, I have money.  Is everything okay?”  I asked.

            “We have to share for Papa.  I just don’t know how and where we’ll get it.”

            I felt destitute then.  Having left a good paying job the past year in exchange for more time with friends in family, I did not have much to spare.  My mother, teaching in a local high school was of meager means.  Papa needed everything we can possibly share.  I was silent, as silent as the looks that were exchanged between the sisters.  But it did not know until much later what was hurting them most.

            My cousin, who decided to go home with me, was silent during the ride home.  It was only when we were discussing about grandpa that I found out and everything became clearer.

            “There is a list,” he said.

            “What list?”

            “A list of money that Tita Tanya is jotting down.”

            “Money for what,” I had to ask, even when I knew what the answer will be.

            “What everyone is sharing for Papa.  In fact, she even said that we should be ashamed of ourselves in coming to hospital and expecting people to shoulder our fare, our food when we don’t even contribute for the bills.”

            I was speechless.  I suddenly remembered Nanay’s hurt face, the moisture that was beginning to spill from her eyes, tears that she never wanted me to see.  I felt pitiable.  For Nanay and Tita Laniwho even if she had some to give but because of her daughter giving birth any day now she can’t afford to and most especially to myself.  I pitied myself for not being able to share in Papa’s life.

            I did not go back to the hospital since then.  Much as I wanted to see Papa, much as I wanted to spend some time with him as he recovers, deep inside I felt that what I had to offer was not enough for him to appreciate. 

            My cousins, siblings, nephews and nieces, aunts and uncle were there every day.  Nanay sold some of the stuff she bought with her hard earned bonuses in order to have her name listed on that God awful list that was beginning to be the center of all news coming from the hospital.  I listened to all the stories, all the details and all updates without fail.  Being with Papa as he recovered enough to be transferred to a private room after five days in the ICU.  I never saw that room. I chose to separate myself from the list because I felt destitute in not being able to be listed much as I wanted to.

            Sixteen days Papa stayed at the hospital.  Two weeks of bills and medicines and visits.  He was looking for me, but they told him that I had stuff to do, events to finish, responsibilities to face; but none of them were as important to me as he was.  I just did not have the face to see him without thinking at the back of my head that I did not help; that my name was not on that small notebook with names and corresponding amounts as if they were items for sale or goods with their own values beside them.  That when the pesos equaled more zeroes then the name was more valuable to Papa and hence to everyone else.

            It was not only me who felt that way.  In fact, almost everyone else felt that they did not measure up.  Papa was oblivious to it all.  He never knew what was going on outside the safe haven that was then Room 502.

            He eventually got well.

            Well, fit enough to go home and be in the company of his books, his knick knacks, and his younger apos that he has not seen in weeks.  Fine enough to go home and see me again.

            I rode in the ambulance that took him home that day.  For once, I chose to forget about the list and went to the hospital the day of his home coming.  By some fortunate chance the list was not coming home with him.  It was my chance to show him that even though I might not have shared a single peso to merit my name listed still he had my time and presence, cheap as it might have been.

            Papa was never the same.  He was weaker, more brooding, and dependent on the oxygen tank that we had to bring with us home.  What was important though, was that he was home.  Something that he wanted to do all those days in the confines of the medical facility; even to the point of trying to convince the doctors to send him home even if he had to sign the release himself.  He never wanted to be sick; he never wanted to be a bother.  He did not realize that he would never have been a nuisance to any of us.

            We still took turns looking after him.  That first night, Lester, my younger brother chose to stay with us and we took the first shift in making sure Papa was comfortable.  We talked well into the night.  Me in front of the laptop, Lester beside Papa, assisting him to turn or to sit up or to have a sip of water.  He never slept.  And as the dawn slowly came to signal a new day, we had to give him some medication so that he can get a much needed rest from pains and aches that he had been complaining about all throughout the night.

            I realized that the list was not important.  Despite the countless names that was sure to have been there to accumulate the astounding amount that the hospital claimed, what was more important was that Papa was there with us.

            Life was slowly easing up on us.  The next day, we were able to breathe better knowing Papa was home. We were very sure that he was on the road to recovery and be the same youthful, jesting, strong presence that we have always assumed to be there; we had to adjust but these adjustments were small and manageable just as long as he was there.

            The list was forgotten, it was there but we just forced ourselves not to think about it.

            My cousins and some others took over the second night. And on the third I got another call to go home and spend time with Papa again.

            I rode with Tita Annie from work since they had to refill the oxygen tank.  When we got home, Papa was asleep.  It was a fitful sleep, for once not induced by medication.  In their room, Mama was also resting having been at Papa’s beck and call throughout the day.  We all took a deep breath, thankful that the old ones were able to rest even for just one night.

            It was not to be.

            Papa left us in his sleep.

            We were having dinner then.  My cousin John, his wife Nina, his younger brother Joseph and his Mom, Tita Annie when our attention was called that Papa was choking in his sleep.  I barely tasted the Shawarma rice John brought home when we all flocked beside Papa’s bed which we put in the sala so that it would be easier for us to attend to him.  He was gone, no pulse, no heartbeat, no nothing; what was left was a husk that was not him, he was just never there anymore!  He just really wanted to go home.  And now, he has finally gone home to where everything is so much sunnier than what we mundane could have offered.

            For one crazy moment I had a thought.

            “How helpful is your list now?”

            Mama did not know what was happening.  She was sleeping peacefully in her room when outside, the turmoil of what we were facing was beginning to seep in into our consciousness.  I calledNanay during those senseless moments that we did not know how to move on. 

            “Papa is no longer with us.  He just slept.  He must have been very tired,” was all I could afford to mumble.  She was almost silent on the other end of the line.  The rest of the people there in the house called everyone else.  There was no list to follow, it was just how things progressed.

            Mama eventually knew about it of course.  She found out two hours after Papa left.  As always, she was strong about it.  In fact, she received the news so much better than any of us did. 

Children came, in-laws, cousins, siblings, and of course the bearer of the list.  But we were not really particular about it then.  Nobody talked at length about that infamous list that has hurt so much and so many of us.  Although, by that time, almost everybody knew about its existence.

            The old house was too small for all of us.  There were seven children, five in-laws, sixteen grandchildren and innumerable great apos that the five rooms of the seemingly huge ancestral house was not enough to hold all of us during the nights that we were all there to spend the last days that Papa was to be with us; although two of the children were in absentia since they were abroad.  Of course, amongst ourselves the list was a topic that from time to time was mentioned.  It was of importance to all of us even if its reference was taboo.

            One other cousin, DJ, coming home from Manila kept it all to herself.  Like me, she was hurt and confused.  But luckily, for the first time we cousins got along and became our own shoulders to lean on.  And though she stayed for but two nights during Papa’s wake, she was one of the voices that made Mama stronger and our relationships more close knit.

            Papa stayed with us for a week more.  During those time nobody had the presence of mind to gather his things and pack them all away; either that or no one among us really felt up to it, we were perhaps in denial of what was obvious.  But eventually we had to move on.

            The wake ended as these things are meant to end.  There was a funeral that I barely remembered except for the fact that I sang in the service; some alternative rock song that distinctly reminded me of Papa.  The necrology was sad and adequate, but I was numbed by then.  What was going through my mind was that Mama begged off attending, choosing to stay at home and wait for all of us.  Perhaps, she wanted to think of Papa as in an extended vacation; something that he has never gone to " a vacation that is.

            The first night after Papa was finally laid to rest was when we discovered the other list.

            After putting it at the back of all our minds, we had to face the music.  Boxes of books were packed, clothes were distributed to those who want more substantial remembrance from our Papa.  Most of the shirts were new, still in their plastic packages with tags and stuff.  His cellulars went to those he mentioned leaving the gadgets to. Envelopes of letters and documents were found.  His transcripts from a Hollywood school of electronics where he finished his correspondence education, old pictures that saw the light of day after so many decades, legal papers that we have been looking for to support a claim of inheritance that he did not get, identification cards from all his work places, yellowing salary slips that mirrored amounts barely enough to support a grade-schooler but then was a fortune, and a lot of other things that made us all gulp and mutter to ourselves.  Even Mama did not know about half of what we dug out.  We did not even know that he was a U.S. veteran, acting as a courier during the Second World War.

            Papa was a mystery that was slowly becoming more and more clearer to us all.  And amidst all these was his little black book.

            My cousin gasped as he opened the worn notebook, its edges frayed and the pages stained in places.  We all looked at him in wonder, fearful that he saw some document that would shock us all.  And for reasons other than what we thought, it somehow did.

            “My name is in here,” he hesitantly said, his voice shy as he looked at all of us deep in our own piles of whatnots.

            “Here, where?” I asked.

            “In Papa’s list,” was the simple reply, handing over what he was holding.

            I looked at the open page and could not bring myself to hand it to the others who wanted to look as well even though tears were beginning to blur my vision making it hard for me to see the tidy little letters of Papa’s handwriting.  When I got to my own name, I just broke down and handed what I was holding over to someone; of the those who were crowding to see what we have discovered anew.

            Papa had his own list.  Unlike the list that have made our past days uneasy, his list stretched for years, but, like the other one, it had names and amounts and other things besides.  Page after page, line after line, day after day, unfailingly Papa jotted down all kindness given him by everyone.  Dates were noted, the weather for that day, the visits, the guests and amounts from as small as 50 cents to the thousands that were given to him by everyone was saved in his own version of a diary.  Books I brought him, candy given by the little ones, cards, t-shirts, food and even the bottles of Gold Eagle handed to him by whomever was all there.  Without fail, he was consistent up to the date that I got that first phone call and we had to bring him to the hospital.

Of all the surprises Papa had for us that was the bomb.

            Mama kept the list to her chest.  Silently, we went to bed that night thinking within ourselves on the things that Papa gave us.  What sacrifices he must have given for us apos to trudge every afternoon without fail and pester him for snacks, what joys he must have not chosen to make sure his children were schooled and brought up with the best of the rest, what choices he must have done to welcome us all home even when times were hard.  As much as we grew up with Papa’s silence and smiles, his list said it all; his thanks, his appreciation and his love for those that chose to count and see as a burden what they could offer to him.

          In the end, it was Papa’s last gift to us all. It was also his last reprimand.  Somehow he was telling us that what matters most is not that amount that could have saved him but the little things that made his life worth lived.