PART I : Thank You!
I braced myself for yet another hospital trip on my birthday last February, especially since I’d spent my last couple of b-days, confined for busted lungs in 2013 and last year, for breathing issues.
My super stressed guardian angel may have been working overtime this year because d-day came and …nothing.
Nothing.
No drama? I checked my pulse. 15 beats in 10 seconds at resting state. Oh.
It took about a full minute before it finally dawned on me that there really wasn’t going to be any E.R. spectacle this year.
I sprang up, rushed to the TV room, switched on the karaoke machine, and belted out Starlight Express by El DeBarge.
Twice.
A celebration was called for!
It’s my party and I cray if I want to…
So then here I was at home (see above pic), aptly dressed like a gift-wrapped sashimi.
Oh pffft, this outfit was already a steal at 70% off!
Sporting my usual camera-shy constipated look, I glanced, panicked, towards the door.
Wait, so since no one RSVPd …
Defensive much?
Alas, apart from this rather (cough) minor SITUATION, the truth is I do have a lot to be grateful for.
So before anything else, I’d like to say THANK YOU!
Salamat po!
I started this blog in 2013 as part of my grief therapy after my father passed away.
Express, create to heal, and hope to Obi-Wan Kenobi it works, that sort of thing.
My birthday this year was a first since Dad died that was quite … steady.
No guilt-induced hyperventilations, no more pangs of regret, almost.
It used to be so messy that my lungs had all but shut down, like it could only take so much cr*p from me.
When the weighing scale hit an 89-pound low, my doctors held a closed-door conference.
Once, my sister Natasha was sleeping soundly beside me on the hospital bed.
While I, was wide awake, nervous, so I made a game out of pinching her nose to halt her snoring. (Don’t tell, she swears she’s never snored in her entire life, her husband Toby disagrees)
She woke up pissed and transferred to the sofa.
It’s really true what they say you know, I said to her while I dusted off imaginary dirt on the white bedcover, that when somebody you love so much dies, a part of you goes with them…
My sister was thoughtful for a moment. And since Natasha is just so wise, loved our father more than I could ever say for myself, she answered, while it may be true that a part of you died with Dad, it’s also true that a part of Dad is alive in you, you’re half him remember?
It was as my sister said, ultimately my choice, whether to succumb and simply wither away or try to fight it out and embrace life, so Dad can live longer too, within the both of us.
Maybe I’m stronger now. I certainly feel stronger.
Maybe it’s because 2015 promises to be a fantastic year. ;P
I’m also circuit training for the first time which, according to my coach, should slash a full inch off my waistline by June, I’m so ready baby…
I think.
- Word.
You know when you go to a couturier and would be asked about body types…
Dear, are you a pear? Inverted pear? Or perhaps petite?
Pooh, I would offer.
As in…?
Yes, that one.
Gasping, the couturier would hold both my hands in sympathy, Pooh err poor dear…
Seriously though, circuit training has made my eyesight clearer and in due time, my coach assured, my skin will glow so bright it’s like I’m perpetually strolling in a sunny meadow.
Kinda creepy but…
I never thought that sharing my diary would do amazing things to my mind and soul (and lungs).
So thanks very much for putting up with me!
Please let me hear from you too :
alessandra.manila@gmail.com
Who knows, a gift from may come to you.
Just my way of saying thank you!
PART II: A very belated Valentine story
Rebel Heart
is Madonna’s Most Consistent Album in a Decade, wrote TIME.
Well, Rebel Heart also reminds me of the slam book craze in High School.
A slam book, says Wiki, is a notebook (commonly the spiral-bound type) which is passed among junior high school students. The keeper of the book starts by posing a question (which may be on any subject) and the book is then passed around for each contributor to fill in their own answer to the questions.
Slam book questions ranged from the super annoying, Do you chew on your straws? to WTF ones like Who’d you rather Mr. Roger’s puppet or Tinky Winky the purple Teletubby?
Pardon my French.
However, 90s kids can attest to the fact that the most popular slam book question was… What is love?
Oh, yes.
- Duh…
I got curious as to what I wrote ages ago so I browsed through some of my old High School slam books again.
During my Freshman year, I scribbled, Love is blind. Totally not original, just copied from the older girls who were threatening me to hurry up with my answer or else…
One time, I jotted down, Love is God. I think this was when I was trying too hard to please the priests in school.
Another year, I wrote, Love is not a feeling, but a decision. Crappy answer, probably was just showing off that I was already into M. Scott Peck, when this was supposed to be a college-level read.
Funny how I’d written so many answers, yet couldn’t tell which was truly mine.
One Summer, about a thousand teenage girls, including me and sister Natasha, were invited to attend a seminar by a group of women who were advocates of reproductive health.
They were worried about the increase in number of teenage marriages in the country and all that.
Most of the talk bored us kids to tears.
Then all of a sudden a lady in pink t-shirt took the stage. She grabbed the microphone and asked if we wanted to know the secret to an amazing life.
Yes! the crowd roared.
Not really, I muttered under my breath and my sister turned to me, Shhhhh!
Well, it’s simple, assured the vivacious lady in pink. Then after a brief pause proudly announced, COLLECT, COLLECT THEN SELECT!!!
Woohoo, the all-girl crowd broke into a rapturous laughter then applauded.
My sister cheered too.
♦
The heck is kolek, kolek? I asked my sister as we were rushing out of the auditorium.
Apparently, I missed the punch line.
You’re so dense, my God! My sister squealed.
I stared at her blankly.
It means, Natasha finally obliged sighing, don’t get married right away, okay, get into as many relationships as you can, explore, experiment, then when you’re ready, go!
Oh, I frowned, narrowed my eyes, everybody doing that? I was disappointed.
What the–?, Natasha gave me an accusing stare, yes, sister, everyone!
It all began with a simple act of rebellion in High School, really.
Before I knew it, I was already a working journalist.
It was June 2012, a month before my father would pass.
Dad and I sat side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder on a stone bench facing the massive exterior of Mount Elizabeth.
Dad had just finished another routine check-up with his doctor.
We wanted to stroll down the whole stretch of Orchard but he would be out of breath after taking a few steps so we had to stop and rest anywhere we could.
My sister was also in town with Toby whom she’s marrying that December, to support Dad.
Dad got to know Toby well and approved of him.
My sister’s wedding. I would not shut up, which was totally ruining the pictorial.
Oh to be young, wild and free!
My sister Natasha went on to have amazing relationships with truly well-spoken boys — a couple of doctors, among others– all gentlemen and fun to be with, as I had hung out and even taken road trips with them too.
Mom and Dad took delight in welcoming them at home for dinner or just to play billiards.
I think Dad, the way he craned eagerly towards my direction when I’d come home sometimes, anticipated the same …uhm …excitement from me.
Instead, nothing.
Nil, zip, zilch.
Oh Daria! my sister would sigh, posing dramatically like she’s going to faint, where art thou love? love-ey cometh taley vous? then we would crack up.
Ah Blessed Daria Morgendorffer, the sardonic siren and diva of antisocial butterflies, my icon.
I loved being Daria, it was refreshing to me.
But to others (read: people of sound mind), not so much.
They did not dare ask my father.
But to my Mom, the questions were pointed, unkind, Is she… abnormal?
As Mom recovered from the shock of the attack, my sister would simply butt in, she tries very hard to be, don’t worry about her.
Others would just cast the bait, So your true love is…?
Through the years, my one-word repartee would either be Christ (as in the Savior) or … err Dad (mine).
Once, Dad was fed up with my name-dropping him all the time, he reminded me, I can’t be your true love.
I know.
You did not choose me.
I know.
Dad said the beauty of finding love is in the freedom to choose. Because it also means you’re willing to put yourself on the line…
♦
As I rested my head on Dad’s shoulder while we sat side-by-side on a stone bench facing Mount Elizabeth…
Rebellion, I declared.
What? Dad heaved his response.
Love is Rebellion.
He chuckled, shook his head.
What? You’re a rebel! I exclaimed.
During the years of Dictatorship, men were forbidden to wear their hair long. But instead of heading straight to the barber, Dad grew his hair to his waist. The military had to hack his hair off with a pruning shear, slitting his face in the process. As he bled, they kicked him to his knees, kicked him in the face, on the shin, on his stomach and left him for dead. Dad laughed and laughed and laughed throughout the whole ordeal.
♦
My parents were married for 35 years until my father’s death.
To this day, Mom would still gush how fortunate she was to have had Dad who’d been faithful to her from the beginning, until the end.
I have no doubt it was true love, but I always suspected, it was also Dad’s way of rebelling against the norm of Philippine society where men (and women) take vows– err– a little too lightly.
(peace folks, just stating facts here!)
Love is Rebellion, my truest answer, had the slam book craze not ended in High School.
The German rapper, I mean philosopher Immanuel Kant argued that humans are imperfectly rational creatures.
And that we are by nature motivated by self-interest, self-preservation, sympathy and happiness.
Hmmm.
Is this why doing Good for Good’s sake is as depressing as a corny blog post? (sorry guys)
And that Loving for Love’s sake is…uh…as Eminem succinctly articulated in three words, Fack fack faaaack!
Love is Rebellion,
against self-preservation,
against self-interest,
and the neediness for that round-the-clock validation.
Sure, there have been great love stories throughout history.
I did a report once about a mother who chose to die during childbirth so that her newborn can live.
We’ve heard of Rulers forsaking power and kingdom for that one true love.
Or a grieving husband’s wish to make his beloved immortal by building a timeless monument.
Romeo and Juliet.
Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett.
Miley and Patrick. (Okay…time to quit my Pop Sugar subscription)
Who could blame us for wanting that great love story to be our story?
♦
As I sat side-by-side with my father on a stone bench facing Mount Elizabeth, I felt that I needed to tell him my love story, at least my side of it.
Maybe it was also the sense that we were running out of time.
I have this ideal, Dad…a rebellious ideal...
Saying it out loud, I already felt lame, like I’d missed out on a lot of things.
Maybe I really did, miss out on a lot of things.
But what is rebellion, if not poignant?
What good is a rebellious heart, if it cannot indulge in some desolation…
There will be only one for me, I said to my father. Nothing snazzy, but that’s my love story.
I admire others who have such ingenious ways with words. They will pluck the moon and serve it on a silver platter to their love or traverse seventy seven mountains and even slay a couple dragon bitches to reunite with their love…scrub floors on a daily basis and prepare five-course dinners…give up own mind, limbs, freedom of speech… secure those must-have silicone hip implants…
The extent of my sappy poetry, I told Dad, was this: I will give myself — and everything that goes with it– to only one. Just one. In this lifetime.
Unfortunately, there are no seconds and thirds for this rebel heart…more like first and last.
Poor Dad could only smile, but he smiled up to his eyes, a rare occurrence since he was already in so much drug-induced pain.
Didn’t know Alessandra was such a hopeless romantic, he was now being playful, all of a sudden in great spirits.
I smiled my widest fake smile, then frowned.
No, not really.
And as I stormed off, towards Orchard Road, my father’s fit of giggles echoed behind me, a rare occurrence, and the last one I will hear from him.
As usual I am name dropping here my favorite Jesuit, Fr. Pedro Arrupe and his love prayer.
Fall in love, stay in love and it will decide everything.
Cheers!
Nothing is more practical than
finding God, than
falling in Love
in a quite absolute, final way.
What you are in love with,
what seizes your imagination, will affect everything.
It will decide
what will get you out of bed in the morning,
what you do with your evenings,
how you spend your weekends,
what you read, whom you know,
what breaks your heart,
and what amazes you with joy and gratitude.
Fall in Love, stay in love,
and it will decide everything.