TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS…
Part of me is still the eight-year-old crybaby that I was. Mr B said I’m volatile. Mr Reid asked Ms loveLydia to remind me not to be touchy and a worrywart. My bigbrotherbear labeled me “mangit” (Ilocano for crybaby). When he hears me sniffling, ‘kazin’ Jayz tells me to be kind to myself and don’t make myself uglier than I already am (”lalo kang pumapangit kapag umiiyak ka, pangit“). Those words, and I’m back to my perky self. It doesn’t take much to cheer me up. Try dangling a Kisses under my nose… or laughing at my state like my dearest friend does, “ha ha ha! depressed ka nanaman, ano?”. It will surely pull me out of a lousy mood. It’s just amazing how some people instinctively know you’re down in the dumps, without you having to spell it out. That alone is enough for a moral booster. It’s great to be reminded that somebody cares and is sensitive enough to my feelings. Humor me. Make me laugh till I “fang pi” (Chinese for fart).
Three weeks ago, I came to know Ms Mila. She works as the Program Director of Silver Lake Adult Health Day Care Center in Los Angeles. My mother had just been discharged from the Good Samaritan hospital then. I panicked when I can’t reach her in her apartment’s landline. On the nth try, her roommate said she had moved out, and the lady gave me the Center’s phone number. Upon identifying myself to the one on the other end, my call was passed on to my mom’s social worker –Ms Mila, the new torch bearer in my life. Today’s the third time I had spoken to her over the phone, aside from exchanging emails. Her soothing voice keeps me from bawling. In her slow and soft words, she relayed to me how the session went with my mother (and mom’s friend tita Femy). The session was about my writings. Contrary to what I feared, mom took “Coming Home…” with an open heart. She talked about my other writings which I sent her before. The delicate articles which I was afraid she’d take negatively, I didn’t send. The one being read to her by Ms Mila is one she hadn’t read before. As Ms Mila was describing how the session went, how the three of them in that room were crying, the tightness in my chest is ever present, tears just keep flowing. It remained that way the rest of the day, be it on my walks, on crosswalks, on writing this, on board a bus…I was facing other passengers’ backs, lucky that nobody’s seated beside me, and my face was towards the window. If anyone dared ask what the matter was, I’d say, “My sick heart is bloody bleeding. I just can’t stop the leak in my eyes! Got a Twix there, buddy? That’d help.”
You see, Ms Mila offered to be the bridge between my mother and I. She started with that article –my message to my mom. Just a few more steps . . .
I cried a river today but it’s a great day, after all. I managed to get a very important appointment one-plus month from now. I’m heading home to my “source” (as Ms Mila puts it).
Twenty-seven years ago, on the 16th of October, my mother set foot in America. I was an eight-year old crybaby then. Hah! I won’t be forever that way, baby.
