Emotions as a Universal Language
Calauag, Quezon, Philippines—In April 2014, my sweet Lola (grandmother) passed away at the age of 102. Because she lived far away in the province, not a single family member could get there fast enough to be at her side. But soon after receiving the news, we rallied together from around the Philippines, California, Washington, Maryland, New Hampshire, and Virginia to celebrate her long and beautiful life—mom, dad, brother, sister, four cousins, four aunts, and an uncle.
On bereavement leave from work, the one-week trip was a whirlwind.
The long flight overseas…A meetup in the capital city of Manila for an overnight at the Dusit Thani hotel…A wake-up to the hotel’s breakfast spread comprised of all things tropical and Filipino—fresh papaya, pineapple, and banana; fresh mango juice; garlic fried rice with a fried egg and longaniza; pan de sal. And of course, coffee…A hop into a van, joined by mom and dad, and a plethora of Filipino snacks, for the onerous 6-hour drive to the province, where we’d unite with the rest of the gang…Then two days of preparation. Two days of services and celebration. A day to drive back to Manila for an overnight. And then the long flight home.
Once in the province, we were accommodated in various homes around the neighborhood of this provincial town. The last time we had all gathered in Calauag, was for Lola’s 100th birthday celebration in 2011. But our routine was, as it had always been during our countless visits to see Lola since we were kids. Each day, we gathered at Lola’s house to eat to our hearts’ content and talk away the hours in the living area where electric fans did their best to keep us cool. When we couldn’t take the heat anymore, we’d pile into Lola’s bedroom for a blast of air conditioning. In between meals, we wandered the streets behind Lola’s house to check out the fish and produce market at the waterfront. Or walk down the street for an ice cream or halo halo. And during this whirlwind of a week, one or a few of us made a beeline back into our own air-conditioned bedrooms for a snooze a couple of times, to both escape the heat and relieve our jet lag. Then, along came the solemn and ceremonial church service and walking procession to the burial ground.
What most stuck with me from that week was the day the 13 of us had gathered at the house for one more meal together. We ate heartily, knowing it was our last day to enjoy the local Filipino food. We cleaned up and took a bunch of family photos. It was then that Lola’s caregivers asked to share a few words with us.
Their names were Mayie, Minda, Analyn, Neneng, Basion, and Lorna. They ranged in age from 20- to 60-something years old. These sweet women had been Lola's caretakers for at least the last decade of her life. Some for longer. They shopped and cooked for her. Cleaned her home. Bathed her. Brought medicine. Held her hand. Shared stories and sang songs with her.
All week they had been busy taking care of us as they had taken care of Lola. Especially, cooking the most fabulous Filipino food! They also helped with funeral preparations. Had any of us stopped to ask how they were doing? After all, they were the ones at Lola’s side when she passed away.
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At their request, we stopped what we were doing, took a seat around the living area, and quieted ourselves to be present in the moment. Then, one by one, each caregiver stood before us and spoke of the last few days and hours with Lola. Their words were at first calm and measured. But soon, lips quivered, voices cracked, and tears fell as they endeavored to be heard through the rush and release of their pent-up grief.
They spoke of how her breathing changed. How she shivered at times. How she thanked them daily over the course of her last few days, knowing she was about to leave the earth. And how she had asked for her six children and her beloved husband. They spoke only in Tagalog. Though my cousin interpreted here and there, I was gripped more by the sound of their voices and suddenly found myself trembling with tears. The truth was, I didn’t need much translation.
I didn’t need translation to feel their pain and their anguish. I didn’t need translation to hear the tenderness in their voices. I didn’t need translation to recognize just how much they yearned to be seen, heard, and embraced. And I didn’t need translation to understand that they loved and cared for Lola, through to her very last breath.
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Upon leaving to return to Manila, I found it difficult to say goodbye to Lola’s caregivers—for their eulogies of sort had been the most deeply personal and emotional moment of our week in Calauag. One that remains forever etched in my heart.
#1world1people
