A PREGNANT PAUSE
Yesterday, I had my second false alarm.
I started feeling contractions at around 6:00 PM. I followed my doctor's instructions, gulping down huge amounts of water and lying on my left side in bed. When they still hadn't subsided by 8:00 PM, I asked Lorenzo to take me to the hospital. I felt bad, knowing he had to report to Camp Parks early the next morning for his Army Reserve training, but he was very understanding.
My husband and I share the same goal in this pregnancy: making it as close to 40 weeks as possible. Even 37 weeks, already considered full term, is good enough for us. Unfortunately, I had just barely passed my 34th week at this point. It was still too early for my baby daughter to be born.
Lance came at 34 weeks. With both Lance and Troy (who came at 36 weeks), we waited too long to go to the hospital. We weren't about to make the same mistake three times in a row.
Good thing Lorenzo discovered a faster route to Doctor's Medical Center when he last brought me in for contractions, exactly four weeks ago. By the time we rounded the bend, just within sight of the hospital, I was besieged by a HUGE contraction, and all my misgivings flew out the window. Yes, this could be a false alarm, but it could very well be the real thing, too. This time around, I wasn't taking any chances. Considering my track record, I'd rather err on the side of caution.
When we finally reached the hospital, I was so relieved, I didn't even mind being wheeled in on a wheelchair. Anything to combat the force of gravity on my gravid womb. Just being in the confines of Doctor's gave me a sense of calm. It is the best hospital within the vicinity, sporting a very capable Level 3 NICU facility, able to handle even the smallest babies. If you were at risk for pre-term labor, this was the place to be. With my history of premature births, I was very familiar with the acronym NICU, short for "Neonatal Intensive Care Unit". Luckily, Lance and Troy didn't have to be brought into a NICU, despite their early births. But if my baby daughter ever came early like her kuyas, it's good to know there's a NICU so close at hand.
As luck would have it, the Maternity Center was full to the rafters last night. I ended up being wheeled to a separate treatment room. This room was stripped down to the basics, with the requisite examination table and maternal/fetal monitors and not much of anything else. Lorenzo and I had the same feeling of deja vu upon seeing my quarters. This room was just a step above the infamous storage room at Kaiser Santa Clara, where I ended up giving birth to Troy.
When I had Troy, my labor progressed so quickly that they didn't have time to prepare a proper LDR (labor and delivery room) for me. In fact, they barely had time to get the storage room in order. Lorenzo tells me the bed preceded me by a mere couple of minutes. At that point, I was just happy to make it to the hospital. Any more traffic on the road and Lorenzo would've had to deliver the baby himself, right in the confines of our minivan.
Not that I doubt my husband's capabilities. It's a little known fact that Lorenzo assisted in Lance's delivery. During a critical period when I was in labor, Lance's heart rate dropped to 53 beats per minute, extremely low considering the normal range was 150 or higher. At that point, my LDR nurse (a Filipina named Maria Fe) decided to deliver the baby without waiting for my OB-Gyn, who was en route. She needed all the assistance she could get, and Lorenzo gamely joined the two other nurses who came to help. Between the four of them, they managed to brace my legs open when it was time to push. In between pushings, Lorenzo mopped my brow and tried his best to soothe me and ease my discomfort.
One of Lorenzo's most memorable moments happened during Lance's labor. I was hugging him while they were trying to insert my epidural. My poor husband had to witness my (extremely incapable) anesthesiologist stick that HUGE needle in my back SIX TIMES before finally getting it right. Everytime the doctor would pull the needle out, blood would spurt out of my spine, and all Lorenzo could do was watch with mounting irritation while listening to my moans of agony. It is a testament to labor's pain that I didn't even feel the needle entering my back due to my contractions, which were coming one on top of the other at that point.
When my epidural was finally inserted, I heard the nurse say, "Would you like some orange juice?". I was about to answer when I realized she was talking to Lorenzo. My husband had turned an interesting shade of grey. He gratefully accepted the offer, sitting down to steady his legs after the ordeal. Lucky for the anesthesiologist, who promptly withdrew from the room, narrowly escaping Lorenzo's wrath. We later discovered that the epidural came much too late to do any good. By the time it was administered, my cervix had already dilated to 10 centimeters, due to the strength of my contractions.
Last night's contractions were no way near as excruciating, but they were starting to scare me anyway, not so much in terms of intensity, but in terms of regularity. My bedside monitor told the whole story. As each contraction came, a little "hill" registered on the charts. Within minutes, it was apparent that the "peaks" and "valleys" were coming at an alarmingly regular pattern.
My nurse got in touch with my OB-Gyn, Dr. Susan Podolsky, who instructed her to inject me with a dose of subcutaneous terbutaline. Terbutaline is a broncho-dilator commonly used in asthma patients. It also acts as a smooth muscle relaxant, so it is commonly prescribed in cases of pre-term labor, when uterine irritability is detected. I guess my history of pre-term labor has something to do with an irritable uterus.
Great. Of all the wombs in this world, why did mine turn out to be such a drama queen?
When I was pregnant with my eldest son, Max, my ex-husband had to take me in for a non-stress test every other day due to threatened toxemia. This condition, also known as pre-eclampsia, is often indicated by pregnancy-induced hypertension. I read about it, and it seemed to be more common with first-time pregnancies. One of the explanations they came up with was that my body was rejecting the baby as a "foreign object". Even then, my uterus was already trying to show me who was boss.
I was placed on home-monitored bed rest at the time, with a nurse overseeing my care. Bed rest seems to be a common thread in all four of my pregnancies. I guess I carry the Filipino term "maselang magbuntis" to a whole new level. Max ended up coming at exactly 40 weeks, the only time I ever succeded in carrying a baby to term. Bed rest wasn't good enough for my last two babies, Lance and Troy, who came early anyway. But back then, they didn't inject me with terbutaline.
My nurse continued to monitor me after giving me the shot. Unfortunately, it looked like the drug only succeeded in lowering the intensity of my contractions, but it didn't get rid of them altogether. She called Dr. Podolsky, who told her to give me another dose, and discharge me with a two week's prescription of oral terbutaline, which I was instructed to take every 6 hours.
And so I go back to my bed rest, and my self-imposed exile from the blogging world. Expect me to surface every now and then, coming out with a blog or two. I still have some works in progress, many of them just pending completion at this point. This should satisfy the appetite of my co-bloggers, who stop by every once in a while, asking for updates.
To all my friends, thank you so much for continuing to visit my sites, despite my long absence from yours. I'm afraid I dont have as much time as I used to, and it's bound to get worse before it gets better. When the baby comes, I will be ignoring my websites altogether, focusing my energy on the more important task at hand: easing my first daughter's transition from her warm, wet world into an equally fascinating environment, this wonderful world we live in. A world which I love to write about, and I which I promise to return to, as soon as I'm able.
And so, without further ado, I ask for your leave. It is necessary for all of us to take a "pregnant pause" every now and then. With me, it's downright crucial.
Thank you for understanding.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
MY MOM, THE BIRTHDAY MAVEN
It's the middle of April, and the birthday season is well on its way.
When we were younger, the month of March used to herald in the birthday season, which lasted from March to June. My Dad's birthday kicked off the festivities, on March 7, followed in quick succession by mine, on March 28th, and my Mom's, on April 14. Then things settled down a bit, and we had an entire month to prepare for my sisters' birthdays: Haya's, on May 19th, and Maya's, just two weeks later on June 3rd.
This time, it's my Mom's turn to be feted. She will be turning 58 tomorrow, April 14. I can only wish I could look as good as she does when I turn 58.
I've always been proud of my Mom. When I was in school, my classmates would always tell me how beautiful my Mom was whenever she'd visit me in class. I was told that she looked like a movie star when she was younger, often compared to Pilar Pilapil. I always scoffed at this, thinking she was much prettier. She was also very smart, earning her Bachelor's and Master's degrees in UP before heading to the States to work on her Ph.D.
I called my Mom in New York a few days before her birthday, and she said she planned to celebrate quietly, maybe with a meal at her favorite Indian restaurant with my stepfather, Ira. This is so like my Mom, a lady of simple tastes and desires. And yet she would go all out when it came to her children.
Take the case of birthdays, for instance. Birthdays have always been a big deal to us. I guess it's because when we were kids, our family would always celebrate is a big way, usually with a birthday party. During times of plenty, my Mom would order pabitins and pinyatas (better known then as "hit the palayok"), but even during lean times, we would always have balloons. And then there was the food. I didn't much care what was in the menu, as long as it included my favorite party staple: my Lola Elvie's spaghetti. And of course, the piece-de-resistance, a beautiful birthday cake. And yes, it ALWAYS had to be chocolate.
My Mom would sometimes keep the cake a surprise from us, and we would gasp in wonder as soon as it was unveiled. We ordered our cakes from our favorite place, Merced Bake shop along EDSA, and each year, it would be different. I remember a Snow White cake, with all the seven dwarves, and another year, it was Sesame Street, with Ernie, Bert, Big Bird and Oscar (in his garbage can). After the candles were blown, we would lick the icing from the figures while my Mom cut the cake. Then my Lola would wash the figures and put them on display in a shelf somewhere.
My birthday would always fall just a few days after school closed for the summer, but Mom would still let me invite some of my friends and classmates over. It was different with my sisters, Maya and Haya, who always celebrated their birthdays out of town, depending on where we were vacationing at the time. Since we were usually in Mindanao with our paternal grandparents during summer break, Maya and Haya had many of their joint birthday parties in Iligan.
My Lola Luz had her own style of entertaining. For instance, instead of serving store-bought cakes, she preferred to bake her own. She had a whole array of Wilton baking molds, and my sisters would get to choose, helping my Lola bake and ice their cake. Sometimes, Lola Luz would instruct them to go to her garden and pick the prettiest flowers they could find, and she would use these to decorate the birthday cake.
I remember one occasion, when Lola Luz ordered special homemade Durian ice cream for the party. We all wrinkled our noses when we found out, expecting it to stink. To our surprise, it smelled quite normal. Since it was the only ice cream in the house, we finally mustered up enough courage to taste it, and it was actually quite good!
When we got to High School, we all thought we were too "grown-up" for birthday parties, so we just asked our parents for money so we could treat our barkadas to lunch. Since we all went to UPIS for high school, the usual birthday venue was Shakey's Loyola in Katipunan. We would order family-sized versions of our favorite pizzas, (Shakey's Special and Manager's Choice), and supplement these with Chick N' Chips (Shakey's famous fried chicken with mojo potatoes), washed down with pitchers of root beer.
And then there is that important milestone in a girl's life, her debut at the age of 18. As luck would have it, my 18th birthday fell right smack on Good Friday, 1986. This, to me, was opportune, since I wasn't one for lavish parties anyway. Instead, I asked my Mom and Dad if they could just give me money to open my own Express Teller account. At the time, Bank of the Philippine Islands was the only banking chain which offered automated teller machines. I opened an account with my birthday money, feeling so grown up when I received my very first ATM card.
It was also during this birthday that I was allowed to go out of town with a friend for the very first time. My friend, Tina Panopio celebrated her birthday just a few days before mine, and I joined her family for an Easter weekend outing in Anilao, Batangas. My Mom told me that since I was already 18, I was old enough to be trusted. I deeply appreciated this, and tried my very best to show her that I deserved her trust. This, more than anything, set me down firmly on the road to maturity.
When we got even older, our celebrations became simpler, but Mom would always make it a point to celebrate somehow. Usually, we'd have a quiet meal with the family at our favorite Chinese restaurant. But there would still be times when Mom would splurge, and one of our favorite ways of living it up was checking into a hotel or resort somewhere.
On one of my birthdays, the whole family went to try out a new hot spring resort in Los Banos. We were with my Mom's colleagues from La Salle, an extra treat for me since I had the biggest crush on my Mom's best friend's son, and he was THERE! I also remember a spontanoeus trip up North somewhere for Haya's birthday. We just piled into the car and drove with no apparent destination, finding ourselves at the North Expressway and ending up in Tarlac (or was it Bulacan?), where we checked into some roadside inn and explored the immediate vicinity. For Haya's birthday meal, we had an exotic repast of venison and baboy damo (wild boar) in May Farm, a restaurant compound owned and run by a hunter in Bamban, Tarlac. My Mom was always "game" when it came to new experiences (pardon the pun)!
During another memorable celebration, Mom treated us by checking the whole family into the Manila Peninsula for Maya's birthday. This happened during the weekend of the infamous "ash fall", right after Mt. Pinatubo's eruption. By then, I was already a weekend news anchor for RPN News. I remember the slow, nerve-wracking drive from Makati to Broadcast City, amid blinding ash and soot. Of course, I had the misfortune of choosing a black outfit for that particular newscast. By the time I got to Channel 9, I looked like I had just rolled in a sack of cement. Back then, my wardrobe was sponsored by SM, and I was allowed to keep one set of clothes per month. Guess what outfit I was forced to keep that month?
The last time I celebrated my birthday with my Mom was six years ago. We were in Miami at the time, and we had dinner at Martha's, our favorite waterfront restaurant in Dania. I was in Miami to finalize my divorce, and Lorenzo flew in fresh from a fashion show in New York to lend me some moral support. It was the first meeting between my Mom and Lorenzo, but despite her initial misgivings, she remained polite and gracious during dinner. By the end of the evening, I could see that Lorenzo had won my Mom's approval, and I was quietly grateful that she gave him a chance, by getting to know him before passing judgment.
As I look back at these birthday memories, I realize how much my Mom was a part of them. And I am thankful that I inherited the same reverence and esteem for birthdays which my Mom displayed when we were growing up. There's no denying it: I'm a sucker for birthdays. I got it from my Mom.
I think my enthusiasm for celebrating birthdays is so catching, it's rubbing off on the rest of the Serenos. My in-laws now find themselves throwing parties for their children too, and there was even a time when we planned monthly family pot lucks to celebrate everyone's birthdays. Considering my parents-in-law have 6 children and 16 granchildren (soon to be 17, when my daughter is born) there is always someone's birthday to celebrate at any given month.
It wasn't always like this. One of the saddest stories I'd heard was when everybody forgot it was Lorenzo's birthday. He ended up making pansit himself and bringing it to his parents' house along with a store-bought cake. They were surprised to see him, initially not knowing why he came over with food. When I first heard this story, I couldn't believe my mother-in-law failed to remember her own son's birthday. What I found even more unconscionable was the fact that Lorenzo's own WIFE at the time had also forgotten his birthday! Whenever I am reminded of this, I always give my husband a hug. I guess this is my way of reassuring him that this would NEVER happen again, to him OR to any of my kids, for as long as I'm around.
I guess this is another reason I now find myself making a big deal out of my sons' birthdays. Like my Mom before me, I just love the thought of celebrating another year added to their lives. In honor of my Mom, I want my kids' birthday memories to be just as happy as mine.
In fact, I've kept a lot of my remembered traditions alive in my present family. Foremost of these is the all-important birthday cake. I make it a point to have Lance and Troy choose their cakes well in advance. This makes them look forward to their parties even more. So far, Lance has already chosen Winnie the Pooh, Teletubbies and Thomas the Tank Engine, with a dinosaur cake lined up for his next birthday. Troy, on the other hand, has had Elmo and Blue's Clues birthday cakes. When he turns three this coming July, I think I'll do Harry Potter. Troy loves Harry Potter. In fact, when he sees a kid he doesn't particularly like, he points an imaginary wand at him, uttering that terrifying spell, "Eat slugs!"
And then there are the parties themselves. Lance's last birthday was held after school in Del Taco. For Troy's celebration, I am already planning a Harry Potter movie party. Since the next Harry Potter film will be coming out in June, the lines shouldn't be too bad by the time Troy's birthday, July 17, comes along. We'll probably invite a few cousins and friends to see the movie with us, proceeding to the theater's party room for cake and ice cream after.
I usually have a swimming party for Troy, with his birthday right in the middle of summer, but this year, I'll think I'll push the swimming party a month back, in time for Lorenzo's 35th birthday on August 13. Come July, I'll still have my hands full with our new baby daughter, Reana Loren, due to arrive on June 1. It's hard to believe that in six weeks' time, we'll have a new life to celebrate. Another birthday to commemorate with each passing year.
And so I honor the person who gave me life, even as I wait for another life to spring from my own.
Happy Birthday, Mom. May this birthday bring you much happiness, just as you strove to make us happy for our birthdays, many, many years ago.
It's the middle of April, and the birthday season is well on its way.
When we were younger, the month of March used to herald in the birthday season, which lasted from March to June. My Dad's birthday kicked off the festivities, on March 7, followed in quick succession by mine, on March 28th, and my Mom's, on April 14. Then things settled down a bit, and we had an entire month to prepare for my sisters' birthdays: Haya's, on May 19th, and Maya's, just two weeks later on June 3rd.
This time, it's my Mom's turn to be feted. She will be turning 58 tomorrow, April 14. I can only wish I could look as good as she does when I turn 58.
I've always been proud of my Mom. When I was in school, my classmates would always tell me how beautiful my Mom was whenever she'd visit me in class. I was told that she looked like a movie star when she was younger, often compared to Pilar Pilapil. I always scoffed at this, thinking she was much prettier. She was also very smart, earning her Bachelor's and Master's degrees in UP before heading to the States to work on her Ph.D.
I called my Mom in New York a few days before her birthday, and she said she planned to celebrate quietly, maybe with a meal at her favorite Indian restaurant with my stepfather, Ira. This is so like my Mom, a lady of simple tastes and desires. And yet she would go all out when it came to her children.
Take the case of birthdays, for instance. Birthdays have always been a big deal to us. I guess it's because when we were kids, our family would always celebrate is a big way, usually with a birthday party. During times of plenty, my Mom would order pabitins and pinyatas (better known then as "hit the palayok"), but even during lean times, we would always have balloons. And then there was the food. I didn't much care what was in the menu, as long as it included my favorite party staple: my Lola Elvie's spaghetti. And of course, the piece-de-resistance, a beautiful birthday cake. And yes, it ALWAYS had to be chocolate.
My Mom would sometimes keep the cake a surprise from us, and we would gasp in wonder as soon as it was unveiled. We ordered our cakes from our favorite place, Merced Bake shop along EDSA, and each year, it would be different. I remember a Snow White cake, with all the seven dwarves, and another year, it was Sesame Street, with Ernie, Bert, Big Bird and Oscar (in his garbage can). After the candles were blown, we would lick the icing from the figures while my Mom cut the cake. Then my Lola would wash the figures and put them on display in a shelf somewhere.
My birthday would always fall just a few days after school closed for the summer, but Mom would still let me invite some of my friends and classmates over. It was different with my sisters, Maya and Haya, who always celebrated their birthdays out of town, depending on where we were vacationing at the time. Since we were usually in Mindanao with our paternal grandparents during summer break, Maya and Haya had many of their joint birthday parties in Iligan.
My Lola Luz had her own style of entertaining. For instance, instead of serving store-bought cakes, she preferred to bake her own. She had a whole array of Wilton baking molds, and my sisters would get to choose, helping my Lola bake and ice their cake. Sometimes, Lola Luz would instruct them to go to her garden and pick the prettiest flowers they could find, and she would use these to decorate the birthday cake.
I remember one occasion, when Lola Luz ordered special homemade Durian ice cream for the party. We all wrinkled our noses when we found out, expecting it to stink. To our surprise, it smelled quite normal. Since it was the only ice cream in the house, we finally mustered up enough courage to taste it, and it was actually quite good!
When we got to High School, we all thought we were too "grown-up" for birthday parties, so we just asked our parents for money so we could treat our barkadas to lunch. Since we all went to UPIS for high school, the usual birthday venue was Shakey's Loyola in Katipunan. We would order family-sized versions of our favorite pizzas, (Shakey's Special and Manager's Choice), and supplement these with Chick N' Chips (Shakey's famous fried chicken with mojo potatoes), washed down with pitchers of root beer.
And then there is that important milestone in a girl's life, her debut at the age of 18. As luck would have it, my 18th birthday fell right smack on Good Friday, 1986. This, to me, was opportune, since I wasn't one for lavish parties anyway. Instead, I asked my Mom and Dad if they could just give me money to open my own Express Teller account. At the time, Bank of the Philippine Islands was the only banking chain which offered automated teller machines. I opened an account with my birthday money, feeling so grown up when I received my very first ATM card.
It was also during this birthday that I was allowed to go out of town with a friend for the very first time. My friend, Tina Panopio celebrated her birthday just a few days before mine, and I joined her family for an Easter weekend outing in Anilao, Batangas. My Mom told me that since I was already 18, I was old enough to be trusted. I deeply appreciated this, and tried my very best to show her that I deserved her trust. This, more than anything, set me down firmly on the road to maturity.
When we got even older, our celebrations became simpler, but Mom would always make it a point to celebrate somehow. Usually, we'd have a quiet meal with the family at our favorite Chinese restaurant. But there would still be times when Mom would splurge, and one of our favorite ways of living it up was checking into a hotel or resort somewhere.
On one of my birthdays, the whole family went to try out a new hot spring resort in Los Banos. We were with my Mom's colleagues from La Salle, an extra treat for me since I had the biggest crush on my Mom's best friend's son, and he was THERE! I also remember a spontanoeus trip up North somewhere for Haya's birthday. We just piled into the car and drove with no apparent destination, finding ourselves at the North Expressway and ending up in Tarlac (or was it Bulacan?), where we checked into some roadside inn and explored the immediate vicinity. For Haya's birthday meal, we had an exotic repast of venison and baboy damo (wild boar) in May Farm, a restaurant compound owned and run by a hunter in Bamban, Tarlac. My Mom was always "game" when it came to new experiences (pardon the pun)!
During another memorable celebration, Mom treated us by checking the whole family into the Manila Peninsula for Maya's birthday. This happened during the weekend of the infamous "ash fall", right after Mt. Pinatubo's eruption. By then, I was already a weekend news anchor for RPN News. I remember the slow, nerve-wracking drive from Makati to Broadcast City, amid blinding ash and soot. Of course, I had the misfortune of choosing a black outfit for that particular newscast. By the time I got to Channel 9, I looked like I had just rolled in a sack of cement. Back then, my wardrobe was sponsored by SM, and I was allowed to keep one set of clothes per month. Guess what outfit I was forced to keep that month?
The last time I celebrated my birthday with my Mom was six years ago. We were in Miami at the time, and we had dinner at Martha's, our favorite waterfront restaurant in Dania. I was in Miami to finalize my divorce, and Lorenzo flew in fresh from a fashion show in New York to lend me some moral support. It was the first meeting between my Mom and Lorenzo, but despite her initial misgivings, she remained polite and gracious during dinner. By the end of the evening, I could see that Lorenzo had won my Mom's approval, and I was quietly grateful that she gave him a chance, by getting to know him before passing judgment.
As I look back at these birthday memories, I realize how much my Mom was a part of them. And I am thankful that I inherited the same reverence and esteem for birthdays which my Mom displayed when we were growing up. There's no denying it: I'm a sucker for birthdays. I got it from my Mom.
I think my enthusiasm for celebrating birthdays is so catching, it's rubbing off on the rest of the Serenos. My in-laws now find themselves throwing parties for their children too, and there was even a time when we planned monthly family pot lucks to celebrate everyone's birthdays. Considering my parents-in-law have 6 children and 16 granchildren (soon to be 17, when my daughter is born) there is always someone's birthday to celebrate at any given month.
It wasn't always like this. One of the saddest stories I'd heard was when everybody forgot it was Lorenzo's birthday. He ended up making pansit himself and bringing it to his parents' house along with a store-bought cake. They were surprised to see him, initially not knowing why he came over with food. When I first heard this story, I couldn't believe my mother-in-law failed to remember her own son's birthday. What I found even more unconscionable was the fact that Lorenzo's own WIFE at the time had also forgotten his birthday! Whenever I am reminded of this, I always give my husband a hug. I guess this is my way of reassuring him that this would NEVER happen again, to him OR to any of my kids, for as long as I'm around.
I guess this is another reason I now find myself making a big deal out of my sons' birthdays. Like my Mom before me, I just love the thought of celebrating another year added to their lives. In honor of my Mom, I want my kids' birthday memories to be just as happy as mine.
In fact, I've kept a lot of my remembered traditions alive in my present family. Foremost of these is the all-important birthday cake. I make it a point to have Lance and Troy choose their cakes well in advance. This makes them look forward to their parties even more. So far, Lance has already chosen Winnie the Pooh, Teletubbies and Thomas the Tank Engine, with a dinosaur cake lined up for his next birthday. Troy, on the other hand, has had Elmo and Blue's Clues birthday cakes. When he turns three this coming July, I think I'll do Harry Potter. Troy loves Harry Potter. In fact, when he sees a kid he doesn't particularly like, he points an imaginary wand at him, uttering that terrifying spell, "Eat slugs!"
And then there are the parties themselves. Lance's last birthday was held after school in Del Taco. For Troy's celebration, I am already planning a Harry Potter movie party. Since the next Harry Potter film will be coming out in June, the lines shouldn't be too bad by the time Troy's birthday, July 17, comes along. We'll probably invite a few cousins and friends to see the movie with us, proceeding to the theater's party room for cake and ice cream after.
I usually have a swimming party for Troy, with his birthday right in the middle of summer, but this year, I'll think I'll push the swimming party a month back, in time for Lorenzo's 35th birthday on August 13. Come July, I'll still have my hands full with our new baby daughter, Reana Loren, due to arrive on June 1. It's hard to believe that in six weeks' time, we'll have a new life to celebrate. Another birthday to commemorate with each passing year.
And so I honor the person who gave me life, even as I wait for another life to spring from my own.
Happy Birthday, Mom. May this birthday bring you much happiness, just as you strove to make us happy for our birthdays, many, many years ago.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
PRESENT PERFECT
Today is the day of my birthday shower.
Actually, I was told it was to be a joint birthday celebration for me and my niece, Katie, who turns 16 today. (My birthday doesn't come until tomorrow.) They kept the baby shower part a secret from me until the very last minute.
This is my very first baby shower. It is ironic that I had to wait until my fourth pregnancy before somebody actually gave a baby shower on my behalf. It's nobody's fault, really. When I was carrying my first child, Max, my ex-husband and I were bi-coastal and essentially alone, dividing our time between California (L.A.) and Florida (Miami), away from both of our families. When I was expecting Lance and Troy, Lorenzo's sister, Selina, attempted to give me baby showers, but my babies decided to come way ahead of schedule.
So here I am, at Selina's house, finally revelling in the spotlight, gamely enduring the guests' pats on my tummy. I look at the dinner table, laden with food. My sisters-in-law, Selina, Grace and Anna really outdid themselves this time. Later, their co-conspirator, my mother-in-law, would arrive bringing more familiar family fare. It was the usual Sereno gathering, with food in the dining room, poker in the living room, karaoke in the family room, and swimming in the back yard.
Amid all the chaos, I found myself constantly returning to the kitchen counter where the pretty baby shower cake lay, still in its box. I would stand there as if mesmerized, gazing in wonder at the name swirled in pink icing: "Baby Loren". Our first baby daughter. I shift my gaze to the pile of presents intended for this unseen little bundle of joy. I have never seen so much pink in my life.
Yet this baby shower very nearly came too late again. Less than 24 hours ago, Lorenzo rushed me to the Emergency Room for contractions. I started feeling some mild cramping at about 4:30 yesterday afternoon but I brushed it aside. We were going to the mall in search of an outfit for me to wear to the party, and I didn't want to miss that. However, when 9:30 came and the contractions continued, I decided it was time to go to the hospital.
Looking back at what happened last night, it felt really strange to be in an LDR (Labor and Delivery Room) so early in my pregnancy. Yet there was that unmistakeable sense of deja vu. Yes, I had been in this scenario countless times, far too many than I care to remember. All my pregnancies have been far from uneventful. I am a veteran of non-stress tests and third-trimester complications. For the thousandth time, I ask the powers-that-be why a normal, safe pregnancy remains so elusive to me.
One of the first people we called last night was Selina, who fianlly spilled the beans on tomorrow's baby shower. I thought of the chic black and red outfit we just bought at Motherhood. "That's it," I told myself, "you can't give birth tonight because your husband just bought you a trunkful of clothes fresh from the maternity store!"
Pretty soon, I would send my husband and sons out to get something to eat. I could see that they were worried, especially Lance, who wouldn't leave my bedside for long. I settled down for the long wait at the monitors, sipping water and relaxing to the sound of my daughter's heartbeat, soothingly emanating from the bedside doppler.
After a tedious four hours, I was discharged with a clean bill of health. The hospital staff determined that the contractions didn't come in an ominous pattern, so I was free to go. I also got a negative reading on my fetal fibronectin test, which detects signs of impending labor as early as two weeks in advance. At least I know this baby will make it past her 32nd week.
I was so happy to be out of there. As I walked to the waiting car, I whispered a prayer of thanks to the Lord. At 30.2 gestational weeks, it was still to early for my daughter to see the world.
And so she stays in my tummy for yet another day. I only wish I could be more familiar with happy endings. I remember the failure I felt in another LDR, when I arrived too late to prevent Lance from being born too early. In Troy's case, I didn't even make it to an LDR. Troy was born in a storage closet at Kaiser Hospital because they didn't have time to prepare a proper Labor and Delivery Room. Both of my boys were "preemies", products of pre-term labor.
It is when this happens that you realize the impact one day makes in the well-being of an unborn child. And so I silently implore my daughter to stay in her warm, wet home for as long as she can:
"As much as I love you, Loren, I am in no rush to see you, so take your time, and just keep on growing." From within my womb, I feel an answering wiggle.
And I sense through some cosmic connection that she somehow understands.
Today is the day of my birthday shower.
Actually, I was told it was to be a joint birthday celebration for me and my niece, Katie, who turns 16 today. (My birthday doesn't come until tomorrow.) They kept the baby shower part a secret from me until the very last minute.
This is my very first baby shower. It is ironic that I had to wait until my fourth pregnancy before somebody actually gave a baby shower on my behalf. It's nobody's fault, really. When I was carrying my first child, Max, my ex-husband and I were bi-coastal and essentially alone, dividing our time between California (L.A.) and Florida (Miami), away from both of our families. When I was expecting Lance and Troy, Lorenzo's sister, Selina, attempted to give me baby showers, but my babies decided to come way ahead of schedule.
So here I am, at Selina's house, finally revelling in the spotlight, gamely enduring the guests' pats on my tummy. I look at the dinner table, laden with food. My sisters-in-law, Selina, Grace and Anna really outdid themselves this time. Later, their co-conspirator, my mother-in-law, would arrive bringing more familiar family fare. It was the usual Sereno gathering, with food in the dining room, poker in the living room, karaoke in the family room, and swimming in the back yard.
Amid all the chaos, I found myself constantly returning to the kitchen counter where the pretty baby shower cake lay, still in its box. I would stand there as if mesmerized, gazing in wonder at the name swirled in pink icing: "Baby Loren". Our first baby daughter. I shift my gaze to the pile of presents intended for this unseen little bundle of joy. I have never seen so much pink in my life.
Yet this baby shower very nearly came too late again. Less than 24 hours ago, Lorenzo rushed me to the Emergency Room for contractions. I started feeling some mild cramping at about 4:30 yesterday afternoon but I brushed it aside. We were going to the mall in search of an outfit for me to wear to the party, and I didn't want to miss that. However, when 9:30 came and the contractions continued, I decided it was time to go to the hospital.
Looking back at what happened last night, it felt really strange to be in an LDR (Labor and Delivery Room) so early in my pregnancy. Yet there was that unmistakeable sense of deja vu. Yes, I had been in this scenario countless times, far too many than I care to remember. All my pregnancies have been far from uneventful. I am a veteran of non-stress tests and third-trimester complications. For the thousandth time, I ask the powers-that-be why a normal, safe pregnancy remains so elusive to me.
One of the first people we called last night was Selina, who fianlly spilled the beans on tomorrow's baby shower. I thought of the chic black and red outfit we just bought at Motherhood. "That's it," I told myself, "you can't give birth tonight because your husband just bought you a trunkful of clothes fresh from the maternity store!"
Pretty soon, I would send my husband and sons out to get something to eat. I could see that they were worried, especially Lance, who wouldn't leave my bedside for long. I settled down for the long wait at the monitors, sipping water and relaxing to the sound of my daughter's heartbeat, soothingly emanating from the bedside doppler.
After a tedious four hours, I was discharged with a clean bill of health. The hospital staff determined that the contractions didn't come in an ominous pattern, so I was free to go. I also got a negative reading on my fetal fibronectin test, which detects signs of impending labor as early as two weeks in advance. At least I know this baby will make it past her 32nd week.
I was so happy to be out of there. As I walked to the waiting car, I whispered a prayer of thanks to the Lord. At 30.2 gestational weeks, it was still to early for my daughter to see the world.
And so she stays in my tummy for yet another day. I only wish I could be more familiar with happy endings. I remember the failure I felt in another LDR, when I arrived too late to prevent Lance from being born too early. In Troy's case, I didn't even make it to an LDR. Troy was born in a storage closet at Kaiser Hospital because they didn't have time to prepare a proper Labor and Delivery Room. Both of my boys were "preemies", products of pre-term labor.
It is when this happens that you realize the impact one day makes in the well-being of an unborn child. And so I silently implore my daughter to stay in her warm, wet home for as long as she can:
"As much as I love you, Loren, I am in no rush to see you, so take your time, and just keep on growing." From within my womb, I feel an answering wiggle.
And I sense through some cosmic connection that she somehow understands.
Sunday, March 07, 2004
REMEMBERING DADDY
Today was supposed to be my Dad's 64th birthday.
My Dad was born in Mindanao, in the beautiful mountain city of Marawi, close to the shores of Lake Lanao. His parents were both University professors, pioneers of the venerable Mindanao State University. My Lola Luz was once Dean of the English Department, and my Lolo Pinong had an entire building on campus named after him. My Dad and his brother, my Uncle Bing, had a happy childhood in Marawi, despite being born shortly before the outbreak of World War 2. In fact, the most disturbing story I've heard about my Dad's early days was when he ate a cockroach as a toddler, thinking it was a prune.
Even as a young boy, my Dad already had a naughty streak in him. One of my favorite stories was my Lola's account of what happened one particularly hot summer, when my Dad got my Uncle Bing in trouble by telling him he knew of a secret swimming pool. The two boys spent their afternoons in this secluded spot for the most of the summer, returning cool and refreshed before supper. It was only after a chance encounter with another faculty member that my grandparents discovered that the "secret swimming hole" was actually the University's drinking water tank!
This propensity for mischief would carry on to his college days. Once, upon knowing one of his friends was smitten with a girl named Jenny, he suggested that his friend send her flowers. When his friend was addressing the bouquet, he realized he didn't even know Jenny's last name, so he asked my Dad if he knew what it was. Without missing a beat, my Dad responded, "Talya", thinking the guy would get the joke. Unfortunately, our love-struck Romeo was too enamored to pay attention, and suffered the cold shoulder from Jenny ever since.
My Dad was also passionate about certain causes, and one of these was Mindanao. His mother, my Lola Luz, was a refined Ilongga from Negros, but his father, my Lolo Pinong was a noble Tausug from Sulo. Despite his parents' conversion and their devout adherence to Christianity, my father chose to go back to his Muslim roots. He was proud to be a sharif, a descendant of Mohammed, and often chose to forego his given name, Joel, preferring to be addressed by his Muslim name, Jalal.
My Dad was also a secretive man, an enigma to many. It was only when I was 22, and about to get married for the first time, that I discovered that he was one of the founders of the MNLF (Moro National Liberation Front). I didn't even find this out from him. It was my Uncle Abul Alonto who spilled the beans. I wasn't too surprised. My Dad was a known activist during his UP days. When my mother went into labor with me, it was my Uncle Abul and Nur Misuari who rushed her to the hospital because my Dad was busy leading a vigil in front of Malacanang in protest of the Jabidah Massacre in Corregidor. In fact, I would later find out it was actually my Dad who composed the Bangsamoro national anthem, still in use to this day.
During the early martial law days, my Dad and my Mom moved their fledgling family to Baguio. They took on teaching positions in UP Baguio while my Mom worked on her Master's degree. I remember tense nights in our house, the only times I'd ever seen my Dad with a gun. We would sometimes harbor fugitive activists, wanted by the Marcos administration, and an unfamiliar knock in the middle of the night would put the household in a state of near-panic. But the nights would give way to sunny days, where my Dad and I would go for long walks together. One of our favorite pastimes was stopping every now and then at a gumamela bush to serenade the flowers. I still remember our simple song:
Red and white gumamela, red and white gumamela,
There is no other flower as beautiful as you.
One day, my Dad and I went horseback-riding. I must've been four or five then, and I fell off my horse, spraining my ankle. Daddy ended up carrying me in his arms all the way home. Years later, he would tell me how guilty he still felt whenever he remembered that incident.
My Dad had always worn his heart on his sleeve, especially when it came to his daughters. He wrote songs for all of us, delighting in playing them on the piano whenever we would request for them. All three of us, me and my sisters Maya and Haya, were always very malambing to him, showering him with hugs and kisses, even as grown adults. Because that's how he was towards us. Very malambing, very karinyoso. I guess it was my Lola's Ilonggo blood which accounted for it.
Whenever any of his girls would go out-of-town for camping trips with their Girl Scout leagues, my Dad would always show up to visit us. When I was in 6th grade, we went camping in Baguio. I was surprised to see him there, "just checking up on his eldest daughter". It was during this trip that I was named Miss International Night, wearing a Muslim malong costume. I was proud to tell him about it when I saw him, because I knew he would be happy that I had showcased our Muslim roots.
However, my Dad was Muslim only up to a certain point. And when his precious daughters were concerned, he could overlook certain traditions which weren't favorable to our welfare. For instance, most of my female Muslim cousins had arranged marriages when they were barely teenagers, in the tradition of the Muslim royal families in the south. When I was 15, my Dad, who had business dealings in Brunei at the time, received a marriage proposal from a prominent member of the Brunei Royal Family. It seemed that this man, who was old enough to be my father, wanted to ask for my hand in marriage and was ready to pay a handsome dowry. My Dad politely refused.
When I finally joined RPN News as a TV newscaster, nobody was prouder than Daddy. He used to joke that it wasn't too long ago when I was known as "Joel's daughter". Now they referred to him as "Renee's Dad". I wasn't sure if this was just bola from him, but I was tickled pink anyway.
Daddy used to watch all my newscasts, and he was my most infuriating critic. It wasn't unusual to receive a call from him when I'd come down from the studios, hearing his familiar voice saying, "You know you said 'twuck' instead of 'truck'?". And then he'd talk like Tweety Bird for the rest of the conversation, teasingly replacing all his R's with W's. Sometimes, he would invite me over to his place for dinner. Other times, he would ask me to "break bread" with him somewhere else. Our most recent favored watering hole was Cafe Havana in Adriatico. We would sit in a corner, preferably by the window, I would order my usual spare ribs and he would order his Ropa Vieja, and we would people-watch while waiting for our food.
Of course, my Dad, being the doting father he is, hated all of his daughters' boyfriends. His first reaction whenever he would hear of a new suitor would be, "I will shoot him." He gave all the guys in our lives a pretty hard time, and it took almost forever to win his approval. When I got my first boyfriend in High School, he did a full background check on the boy's affluent family, and told me to stay away from them like the plague. Years later, his suspicions would be confirmed, when my ex-boyfriend's older brother was indicted as the mastermind behind a celebrated double murder case.
When I told Daddy I was going to get married when I was 22, the expected fireworks ensued. It didn't help that he was a devout Muslim and my fiancee (who would later become my first husband) was Jewish. The fact that this was happening shortly after the conclusion of the Gulf War didn't help, either. My Dad was up in arms, accusing my ex of being a "member of the Mossad", calling him out to a duel at Fort Bonifacio, "Invectives at 50 paces, whoever wins gets my daughter". But through all this, he knew that I had already made up my mind, and eventually acquiesced to meeting my fiancee. However, Daddy still had the final word, pointedly telling his future son-in-law that his daughter "comes from a family of Muslim terrorists".
That marriage ended up breaking apart after six years. Through it all, I expected my Dad to say "I told you so", but he never did. And I loved him all the more for it.
When I first met Lorenzo, he was a typical "AmBoy", coming back from the States to try his luck at show business in the Philippines. He had done a few movies with the help of his showbiz cousins, the Santiagos (as in Randy, Raymart and Rowell), and his manager, Ronnie Henares, and was about to embark on a successful modeling career. Of course, this was enough to raise red flags in my father, who called me, cautioning me "not to fall for another pretty face". When I pooh-poohed his advice, he fell back to his usual tactics, threatening to have someone "shoot that boy". By then, I was already used to my Dad's tough talk. I knew I would wear him down eventually. When I heard him make a joke about Lorenzo's infamous "Kenny Rogers" commercial, telling my half-brother that all he has to do to gain muscles was "eat muffins", I knew a breakthrough was in sight.
Lorenzo managed to charm his way into my father's heart. I think Daddy saw what was long apparent to the rest of my family. After trial-and-error, his eldest daughter had finally found her one true love, and he was equally devoted to her. Daddy eventually softened under Lorenzo's earnest efforts to win his approval. At first, my Dad didn't quite know how to react to Lorenzo, who always greeted him with a mano. It was comical to see my father hold out his hand awkwardly, obviously ill-at-ease at this greeting, traditionally given to elders. But he learned to take this as a form of respect, not ridicule, graciously offering his hand in time.
When Lorenzo and I found out I was pregnant, we started making plans to move back to the States. My Dad was saddened to find out I was moving away again, this time for good. I can still remember him, quiet and brooding, during our despedida. He tried to put up a brave front, singing when it was his turn at karaoke and joking around with family members, but I would catch him looking at me with a sad smile on his face, and I could see the tears weren't far away. When I would go to him, asking him if he was alright, he would just hold my hand tightly, saying nothing. It still pulls at my heart to remember this now.
We ended up moving our departure to a later date, to accommodate the shooting of Lorenzo's last commercial, for Vicks. Two days before we left, I threw a party for our family at Trader's Hotel, where Lorenzo and I spent our last days in the Philippines. My Dad had just gone through his first round of chelation therapy that day, and he was feeling out of sorts. I remember he was sneezing the whole time, and my sisters and I were teasing him about it. After dinner, we girls went up to our suite for some last minute pabilins, and Lorenzo and my brother-in-law, Charlie, stayed at the hotel lobby, having coffee with my Dad.
Later that night, Lorenzo told me that their topic of discussion was, of all things, death. My father told them he wasn't afraid of dying, because he believed it was just "moving to another state of consciousness". Even then, I was already ill-at-ease, thinking my Dad might've had a premonition of something coming. "Was this his way of telling us something was about to happen?" I wondered, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
The next day (our last day in Manila), my Dad called us again, telling us he'd treat us to a shabu-shabu dinner at the nearby Pan Pacific Hotel. My sister, Maya, and her husband, Charlie, joined us. My Dad was in good spirits the whole evening, having shaken off his cold. He even did a little dance step on our way down to our cars, to everyone's delight. I had always told Lorenzo that my Dad danced funny, and here he was, giving an actual demonstration!
When we got to the hotel entrance, we took some last pictures, and said our goodbyes. For some reason, I couldn't accept that this was, indeed, farewell, so I kept an eagle eye out for them, even after boarding our car. We saw them again outside the hotel, and stopped beside their parking space. I quickly jumped out of my car and gave my sister and father one last hug. This was the last time I would ever see Daddy alive.
Our trip back to the States was far from uneventful. Hours into our Japan Airlines flight, we felt the plane make a sudden turn. It was one of those sensations that felt somewhat ominous, and sure enough, minutes later, we heard the pilot over the PA system. He explained that we were turning back to Narita because Engine 2 was completely dead, and we couldn't make it across the Pacific Ocean with only one working engine. It was a silent, tension-filled flight back to Tokyo, the severity of the situation confirmed by the presence of many emergency vehicles waiting for us at the tarmac. We ended up boarding another Japan Airlines flight to San Francisco, and got there in relative safety. Upon reaching terra firma, my first inclination was to call my Dad, but faced with the daunting task of unpacking all of our things at our new townhouse, I inadvertently ended up putting it off.
All throughout our first week here, there was a little voice at the back of my head, telling me to call Daddy. But since we had just moved into our new home and the phone service wasn't connected yet, it was impossible for me to do this easily. We were also very busy establishing a new household, buying all the necessary furniture, utensils and appliances. We were starting a new life, and had to build everything from scratch.
It was such a stressful time that I started spotting in my 30th week of pregnancy. Lorenzo took me to the emergency room, and my OB-Gyn ordered a level 2 ultrasound. It was then that we found out we were having a boy. If it had turned out to be a girl, I would've rushed to find the nearest phone card to call Daddy, knowing he wanted a granddaughter. But since I was having a son, I thought it could wait. I also didn't want to worry him, knowing he'd be concerned about my emergency room visit.
My Dad passed away a few days later, on October 18, 1999, just eight days after Lorenzo and I left for the States for good. He was just 59 when it happened. It was very sudden, and to this day, I'm still not clear if it was a heart attack or a stroke. One of my biggest regrets was not being able to return home for his funeral. By then, I was already seven months pregnant with Lance, and no airline would take me at such an advanced state of gestation.
There is a Filipino adage which goes "nasa huli ang pagsisisi" , which roughly translates to "regrets always come in the end". If only I would've called my Dad when we first arrived in the States, just to hear his voice again. And to think I had eight whole days to do it. I had every chance of catching him, still vibrant and alive. But instead, I procrastinated, and paid the final price.
Ironically, I would later know how it would've felt to talk to him one last time, when I called his mother, my Lola Luz, just hours before she passed away. My lola also sounded so vibrant and alive, still able to impart her favorite recipes to me at the age of 87. It was shattering news when I found out Lola Luz died in her sleep, just hours after we talked. But I thanked the Lord that in this case, I was able to tell her I loved her one more time.
Now that I look back, I guess it's funny (in a poignant sort of way) that when I gave my Dad that one last pahabol hug, it DID cross my mind that it might be our final meeting. But I just brushed it aside as a morbid thought and said a quick prayer, lifting him up to the Lord. In the light of what happened, I thank God that I was at least able to say my goodbyes to Daddy, that last day, at the Pan Pacific parking lot. This provided some sort of closure for me. My two sisters, Maya and Haya, weren't given that opportunity. He was such a part of their lives that they took it for granted he would be there again tomorrow, and the day after. It is when things like this happen that you realize how transient life really is.
I haven't gone back home since October 1999. A part of me is afraid to finally face the cold reality of Daddy's passing, the inevitablilty of which will finally hit me when I see his grave for the first time. I'm not sure if I'm ready for that yet. In fact, I'm not sure if I'll ever be ready.
What I really miss most about my Daddy is hearing his voice. I wish that he was still around so that I could share the joys of this pregnancy with him, even if it was just over the phone. He would've been delighted to find out he was finally getting a granddaughter. But I guess deep in my heart, I know he already knows. In fact, he probably knew about my new baby daughter even before we found out I was pregnant. I could almost see the twinkle in his eye, knowing I would be thrilled with the coming surprise.
This one's for you, Daddy. I love you!
Today was supposed to be my Dad's 64th birthday.
My Dad was born in Mindanao, in the beautiful mountain city of Marawi, close to the shores of Lake Lanao. His parents were both University professors, pioneers of the venerable Mindanao State University. My Lola Luz was once Dean of the English Department, and my Lolo Pinong had an entire building on campus named after him. My Dad and his brother, my Uncle Bing, had a happy childhood in Marawi, despite being born shortly before the outbreak of World War 2. In fact, the most disturbing story I've heard about my Dad's early days was when he ate a cockroach as a toddler, thinking it was a prune.
Even as a young boy, my Dad already had a naughty streak in him. One of my favorite stories was my Lola's account of what happened one particularly hot summer, when my Dad got my Uncle Bing in trouble by telling him he knew of a secret swimming pool. The two boys spent their afternoons in this secluded spot for the most of the summer, returning cool and refreshed before supper. It was only after a chance encounter with another faculty member that my grandparents discovered that the "secret swimming hole" was actually the University's drinking water tank!
This propensity for mischief would carry on to his college days. Once, upon knowing one of his friends was smitten with a girl named Jenny, he suggested that his friend send her flowers. When his friend was addressing the bouquet, he realized he didn't even know Jenny's last name, so he asked my Dad if he knew what it was. Without missing a beat, my Dad responded, "Talya", thinking the guy would get the joke. Unfortunately, our love-struck Romeo was too enamored to pay attention, and suffered the cold shoulder from Jenny ever since.
My Dad was also passionate about certain causes, and one of these was Mindanao. His mother, my Lola Luz, was a refined Ilongga from Negros, but his father, my Lolo Pinong was a noble Tausug from Sulo. Despite his parents' conversion and their devout adherence to Christianity, my father chose to go back to his Muslim roots. He was proud to be a sharif, a descendant of Mohammed, and often chose to forego his given name, Joel, preferring to be addressed by his Muslim name, Jalal.
My Dad was also a secretive man, an enigma to many. It was only when I was 22, and about to get married for the first time, that I discovered that he was one of the founders of the MNLF (Moro National Liberation Front). I didn't even find this out from him. It was my Uncle Abul Alonto who spilled the beans. I wasn't too surprised. My Dad was a known activist during his UP days. When my mother went into labor with me, it was my Uncle Abul and Nur Misuari who rushed her to the hospital because my Dad was busy leading a vigil in front of Malacanang in protest of the Jabidah Massacre in Corregidor. In fact, I would later find out it was actually my Dad who composed the Bangsamoro national anthem, still in use to this day.
During the early martial law days, my Dad and my Mom moved their fledgling family to Baguio. They took on teaching positions in UP Baguio while my Mom worked on her Master's degree. I remember tense nights in our house, the only times I'd ever seen my Dad with a gun. We would sometimes harbor fugitive activists, wanted by the Marcos administration, and an unfamiliar knock in the middle of the night would put the household in a state of near-panic. But the nights would give way to sunny days, where my Dad and I would go for long walks together. One of our favorite pastimes was stopping every now and then at a gumamela bush to serenade the flowers. I still remember our simple song:
Red and white gumamela, red and white gumamela,
There is no other flower as beautiful as you.
One day, my Dad and I went horseback-riding. I must've been four or five then, and I fell off my horse, spraining my ankle. Daddy ended up carrying me in his arms all the way home. Years later, he would tell me how guilty he still felt whenever he remembered that incident.
My Dad had always worn his heart on his sleeve, especially when it came to his daughters. He wrote songs for all of us, delighting in playing them on the piano whenever we would request for them. All three of us, me and my sisters Maya and Haya, were always very malambing to him, showering him with hugs and kisses, even as grown adults. Because that's how he was towards us. Very malambing, very karinyoso. I guess it was my Lola's Ilonggo blood which accounted for it.
Whenever any of his girls would go out-of-town for camping trips with their Girl Scout leagues, my Dad would always show up to visit us. When I was in 6th grade, we went camping in Baguio. I was surprised to see him there, "just checking up on his eldest daughter". It was during this trip that I was named Miss International Night, wearing a Muslim malong costume. I was proud to tell him about it when I saw him, because I knew he would be happy that I had showcased our Muslim roots.
However, my Dad was Muslim only up to a certain point. And when his precious daughters were concerned, he could overlook certain traditions which weren't favorable to our welfare. For instance, most of my female Muslim cousins had arranged marriages when they were barely teenagers, in the tradition of the Muslim royal families in the south. When I was 15, my Dad, who had business dealings in Brunei at the time, received a marriage proposal from a prominent member of the Brunei Royal Family. It seemed that this man, who was old enough to be my father, wanted to ask for my hand in marriage and was ready to pay a handsome dowry. My Dad politely refused.
When I finally joined RPN News as a TV newscaster, nobody was prouder than Daddy. He used to joke that it wasn't too long ago when I was known as "Joel's daughter". Now they referred to him as "Renee's Dad". I wasn't sure if this was just bola from him, but I was tickled pink anyway.
Daddy used to watch all my newscasts, and he was my most infuriating critic. It wasn't unusual to receive a call from him when I'd come down from the studios, hearing his familiar voice saying, "You know you said 'twuck' instead of 'truck'?". And then he'd talk like Tweety Bird for the rest of the conversation, teasingly replacing all his R's with W's. Sometimes, he would invite me over to his place for dinner. Other times, he would ask me to "break bread" with him somewhere else. Our most recent favored watering hole was Cafe Havana in Adriatico. We would sit in a corner, preferably by the window, I would order my usual spare ribs and he would order his Ropa Vieja, and we would people-watch while waiting for our food.
Of course, my Dad, being the doting father he is, hated all of his daughters' boyfriends. His first reaction whenever he would hear of a new suitor would be, "I will shoot him." He gave all the guys in our lives a pretty hard time, and it took almost forever to win his approval. When I got my first boyfriend in High School, he did a full background check on the boy's affluent family, and told me to stay away from them like the plague. Years later, his suspicions would be confirmed, when my ex-boyfriend's older brother was indicted as the mastermind behind a celebrated double murder case.
When I told Daddy I was going to get married when I was 22, the expected fireworks ensued. It didn't help that he was a devout Muslim and my fiancee (who would later become my first husband) was Jewish. The fact that this was happening shortly after the conclusion of the Gulf War didn't help, either. My Dad was up in arms, accusing my ex of being a "member of the Mossad", calling him out to a duel at Fort Bonifacio, "Invectives at 50 paces, whoever wins gets my daughter". But through all this, he knew that I had already made up my mind, and eventually acquiesced to meeting my fiancee. However, Daddy still had the final word, pointedly telling his future son-in-law that his daughter "comes from a family of Muslim terrorists".
That marriage ended up breaking apart after six years. Through it all, I expected my Dad to say "I told you so", but he never did. And I loved him all the more for it.
When I first met Lorenzo, he was a typical "AmBoy", coming back from the States to try his luck at show business in the Philippines. He had done a few movies with the help of his showbiz cousins, the Santiagos (as in Randy, Raymart and Rowell), and his manager, Ronnie Henares, and was about to embark on a successful modeling career. Of course, this was enough to raise red flags in my father, who called me, cautioning me "not to fall for another pretty face". When I pooh-poohed his advice, he fell back to his usual tactics, threatening to have someone "shoot that boy". By then, I was already used to my Dad's tough talk. I knew I would wear him down eventually. When I heard him make a joke about Lorenzo's infamous "Kenny Rogers" commercial, telling my half-brother that all he has to do to gain muscles was "eat muffins", I knew a breakthrough was in sight.
Lorenzo managed to charm his way into my father's heart. I think Daddy saw what was long apparent to the rest of my family. After trial-and-error, his eldest daughter had finally found her one true love, and he was equally devoted to her. Daddy eventually softened under Lorenzo's earnest efforts to win his approval. At first, my Dad didn't quite know how to react to Lorenzo, who always greeted him with a mano. It was comical to see my father hold out his hand awkwardly, obviously ill-at-ease at this greeting, traditionally given to elders. But he learned to take this as a form of respect, not ridicule, graciously offering his hand in time.
When Lorenzo and I found out I was pregnant, we started making plans to move back to the States. My Dad was saddened to find out I was moving away again, this time for good. I can still remember him, quiet and brooding, during our despedida. He tried to put up a brave front, singing when it was his turn at karaoke and joking around with family members, but I would catch him looking at me with a sad smile on his face, and I could see the tears weren't far away. When I would go to him, asking him if he was alright, he would just hold my hand tightly, saying nothing. It still pulls at my heart to remember this now.
We ended up moving our departure to a later date, to accommodate the shooting of Lorenzo's last commercial, for Vicks. Two days before we left, I threw a party for our family at Trader's Hotel, where Lorenzo and I spent our last days in the Philippines. My Dad had just gone through his first round of chelation therapy that day, and he was feeling out of sorts. I remember he was sneezing the whole time, and my sisters and I were teasing him about it. After dinner, we girls went up to our suite for some last minute pabilins, and Lorenzo and my brother-in-law, Charlie, stayed at the hotel lobby, having coffee with my Dad.
Later that night, Lorenzo told me that their topic of discussion was, of all things, death. My father told them he wasn't afraid of dying, because he believed it was just "moving to another state of consciousness". Even then, I was already ill-at-ease, thinking my Dad might've had a premonition of something coming. "Was this his way of telling us something was about to happen?" I wondered, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
The next day (our last day in Manila), my Dad called us again, telling us he'd treat us to a shabu-shabu dinner at the nearby Pan Pacific Hotel. My sister, Maya, and her husband, Charlie, joined us. My Dad was in good spirits the whole evening, having shaken off his cold. He even did a little dance step on our way down to our cars, to everyone's delight. I had always told Lorenzo that my Dad danced funny, and here he was, giving an actual demonstration!
When we got to the hotel entrance, we took some last pictures, and said our goodbyes. For some reason, I couldn't accept that this was, indeed, farewell, so I kept an eagle eye out for them, even after boarding our car. We saw them again outside the hotel, and stopped beside their parking space. I quickly jumped out of my car and gave my sister and father one last hug. This was the last time I would ever see Daddy alive.
Our trip back to the States was far from uneventful. Hours into our Japan Airlines flight, we felt the plane make a sudden turn. It was one of those sensations that felt somewhat ominous, and sure enough, minutes later, we heard the pilot over the PA system. He explained that we were turning back to Narita because Engine 2 was completely dead, and we couldn't make it across the Pacific Ocean with only one working engine. It was a silent, tension-filled flight back to Tokyo, the severity of the situation confirmed by the presence of many emergency vehicles waiting for us at the tarmac. We ended up boarding another Japan Airlines flight to San Francisco, and got there in relative safety. Upon reaching terra firma, my first inclination was to call my Dad, but faced with the daunting task of unpacking all of our things at our new townhouse, I inadvertently ended up putting it off.
All throughout our first week here, there was a little voice at the back of my head, telling me to call Daddy. But since we had just moved into our new home and the phone service wasn't connected yet, it was impossible for me to do this easily. We were also very busy establishing a new household, buying all the necessary furniture, utensils and appliances. We were starting a new life, and had to build everything from scratch.
It was such a stressful time that I started spotting in my 30th week of pregnancy. Lorenzo took me to the emergency room, and my OB-Gyn ordered a level 2 ultrasound. It was then that we found out we were having a boy. If it had turned out to be a girl, I would've rushed to find the nearest phone card to call Daddy, knowing he wanted a granddaughter. But since I was having a son, I thought it could wait. I also didn't want to worry him, knowing he'd be concerned about my emergency room visit.
My Dad passed away a few days later, on October 18, 1999, just eight days after Lorenzo and I left for the States for good. He was just 59 when it happened. It was very sudden, and to this day, I'm still not clear if it was a heart attack or a stroke. One of my biggest regrets was not being able to return home for his funeral. By then, I was already seven months pregnant with Lance, and no airline would take me at such an advanced state of gestation.
There is a Filipino adage which goes "nasa huli ang pagsisisi" , which roughly translates to "regrets always come in the end". If only I would've called my Dad when we first arrived in the States, just to hear his voice again. And to think I had eight whole days to do it. I had every chance of catching him, still vibrant and alive. But instead, I procrastinated, and paid the final price.
Ironically, I would later know how it would've felt to talk to him one last time, when I called his mother, my Lola Luz, just hours before she passed away. My lola also sounded so vibrant and alive, still able to impart her favorite recipes to me at the age of 87. It was shattering news when I found out Lola Luz died in her sleep, just hours after we talked. But I thanked the Lord that in this case, I was able to tell her I loved her one more time.
Now that I look back, I guess it's funny (in a poignant sort of way) that when I gave my Dad that one last pahabol hug, it DID cross my mind that it might be our final meeting. But I just brushed it aside as a morbid thought and said a quick prayer, lifting him up to the Lord. In the light of what happened, I thank God that I was at least able to say my goodbyes to Daddy, that last day, at the Pan Pacific parking lot. This provided some sort of closure for me. My two sisters, Maya and Haya, weren't given that opportunity. He was such a part of their lives that they took it for granted he would be there again tomorrow, and the day after. It is when things like this happen that you realize how transient life really is.
I haven't gone back home since October 1999. A part of me is afraid to finally face the cold reality of Daddy's passing, the inevitablilty of which will finally hit me when I see his grave for the first time. I'm not sure if I'm ready for that yet. In fact, I'm not sure if I'll ever be ready.
What I really miss most about my Daddy is hearing his voice. I wish that he was still around so that I could share the joys of this pregnancy with him, even if it was just over the phone. He would've been delighted to find out he was finally getting a granddaughter. But I guess deep in my heart, I know he already knows. In fact, he probably knew about my new baby daughter even before we found out I was pregnant. I could almost see the twinkle in his eye, knowing I would be thrilled with the coming surprise.
This one's for you, Daddy. I love you!
Sunday, February 29, 2004
THE PASSION AND THE FURY
Yesterday, we spent the better part of our day scouting movie theaters for the first available screening of Mel Gibson's controversial movie, "The Passion of the Christ".
Our first stop was Brenden Theater in downtown Modesto. We got there at 2:50 PM, well before the 3:20 matinee, but the long lines told us everything we had to know. Even at that early hour, the 3:20 and 4:20 shows were already sold out. We bought tickets for the next available screening, which wasn't until 6:20 that evening, and resigned ourselves to finding other things to do to while away the time.
My husband, Lorenzo, wanted to go home to find me something else to wear. This little outing was a big deal to us, our first date in what seems to be ages. Unfortunately, I had to dress for it hurriedly because his sister, Selina, and her husband, Gino, arrived early for our double date. Lorenzo was in the process of picking out a nice maternity outfit for me when they rang the bell, and I knew he was somewhat piqued at their promptness. I was tickled pink at my husband's concern. Since our relationship started, he had always looked to me as his fashion consultant. It was nice to be at the receiving end for a change. Sadly, our two companions didn't seem to be too receptive to the idea of going all the way home for a wardrobe change. Oh well...
Instead I suggested that we check out other movie houses in the area for an earlier show. The second theater we went to wasn't much better. They were all sold out until the 9PM screening. There was one last place left, another Cineplex down the road, in the nearby town of Riverbank. We got there at 3:30, and snatched up 4 tickets for the 4:55 matinee. We called up Brenden, and upon being assured we could return our tickets for a full cash refund, settled in for mochas at the JavaStar house cafe.
We didn't get to sip our lattes at leisure. Even before the clock struck four, the line outside Theater 9 had already snaked its way past us. We reluctantly left our table and joined the queue. Lorenzo gallantly told his sister and me to sit at a nearby bench while he held our place in line. Gino went to the concession stand to buy hot dogs, popcorn and sodas. We ended up eating our movie fare even before the movie started, but considering how much blood and gore we were exposed to during the film, I was glad we ate early.
At about ten minutes to five, people started emptying out into the hallway from Theater 9. I figured these were viewers from the last screening of "Passion", but I had to be sure.
I flagged a woman passing in front of me. "Excuse me," I asked, "what movie did you see?"
"Jesus," she replied. Close enough. At least our long wait was over. In a few minutes, we would be filing into the theater and witnessing the most talked-about movie these days. I turned an observing eye at the slow procession in front of me. Most of the women were red-eyed. I check our concession box for napkins, and see a huge wad between the popcorn and the soda. Good. We were covered in that department.
The people were still coming out of the theater. I stopped another woman and asked her another question: "Was it violent?" I had heard conflicting reports about the movie, and I wanted a first-hand account. As I expected, a quick "yes" was the reply.
I was getting more curious by the second. The question that was REALLY uppermost in my mind was "Is the movie anti-Semitic?" but this was hardly the most PC of questions. Instead, I formulated a more innocuous question:
"Did you think it was an accurate representation of the Historic Christ?"
I was scanning the faces to fish out the random bible scholar and was about to flag my next respondent when my sister-in-law hissed something in my ear. "Sandali na lang, bibigyan na kita ng mike!" I guess I was getting carried away with all my queries. I had to remind myself that I wasn't a news personality anymore. My days of polling vox populi were over.
The long line started moving forward. With a sigh of relief, we joined our husbands and filed into Theater 9. After choosing plum seats toward the rear, we settled in for the show.
What we witnessed was a re-enactment of Jesus' last day. And through it all, the blood and gore escalated, from His betrayal at the Garden of Gethsemane to His crucifixion at the cross of Calvary.
It was a well-made and well-acted film. But having said that, there were still a few things about the movie that bothered me.
First of all, I came out of the experience remarkably untouched. Sure, I shed a few tears during the most brutal sequences, what self-professed Christian wouldn't? But somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that Jim Caviezel wasn't really getting the beating of the century. I could envision various alalays running to his aid to wipe the fake blood and gore off as soon as Mel Gibson yelled, "CUT!" It also bothered me that every time I saw that creepy-looking actor who portrayed Satan, I was reminded of Marilyn Manson. Frankly, I WANTED to be moved by the whole thing. I wanted to feel what my Mother felt when we watched "Jesus of Nazareth", shamelessly crying and holding us close during that infamous baby-killing scene.
Actually, to be totally fair, I DID have one such moment. Amid all the violence, one simple scene stayed in my mind, made more remarkable by the very absence of blood and gore. It was Mary's flashback sequence, when she ran to her child, Jesus, after he fell. As a mother, this image brought out the most primal protective instinct from within me. The child-actor they used was also tow-headed like my baby boy, Troy. I could imagine my sweet toddler stumbling and hurting himself, and I wanted to beam myself out of that theater so I could protect Troy from ever falling, carrying my beloved baby in my arms for the rest of his life if need be.
(Moved by motherly urges, I called my babysitter, Brenda, on the cell, and asked about my precious boys. To my relief, they were fine. I told her not to let them run around anyway, just for good measure.)
I admire Mel Gibson, who once again shows his mettle as a director, and Jim Caviezel, whose versatility and range is unquestioned. I did not think the movie was anti-Semitic. In fact, for a religious movie, Gibson does not proselytize, and for that he deserves kudos. Instead, the director took on the role of objective reporter, showing events as they happened without sugar-coating the nasty stuff. If the Jews who favor boycotting the film think otherwise, they can just deal with it. They cannot change the facts: Jesus was born a Jew, raised a Jew, and was condemned to death by His very own people, who refused to believe He was the Moshiach (Messiah) sent to deliver them to the Promised Land. To this day, many people of Jewish faith are still waiting for their Moshiach to enter the gates of Jerusalem in a white horse. What the movie tells them, in essence, is that they've already missed the boat. And they do not like to hear this, especially coming from goyim (Gentiles) like Mel Gibson.
I know what I'm talking about because I, too, was once married to a Jewish man, and our son is still being raised in a proper Jewish manner. In a couple of years, Max will be having his Bar Mitzvah, and I will be part of the ceremony, because I am his mother. Apart from that, I have always had qualms about raising my child in a religion that looks at Jesus Christ as a mere mortal. A Holy Man, a Prophet even, but not the one and only Messiah.
Such is the basis of all the controversy surrounding the film. Still, there is no denying that this movie, which has raised so much passion and fury, is Oscar material. However, that also spells out its largest limitation. With all the research behind it, I'm sure it's by far the most realistic film portrayal of what happened the day Jesus died. But with all the hue and cry, all the boycotts and ballyhoos, it is, after all, only a movie. And if you really think about it, can a reenactment of an event over twenty centuries past really be that accurate?
I know it sounds pretty jaded, but I don't need a big-budget cinematic version of Jesus' last day to remind me of His ultimate sacrifice. Quite frankly, I have felt more moving experiences while singing His praises in church. It was that profound, "make-your-skin-crawl" feeling of awe I was expecting to feel, but didn't quite achieve while watching the movie. If anything, the graphic depiction of violence demeaned the whole experience, trivializing the very Passion which the director hoped to convey. I don't need to see each open wound, each lash of the whip, each slow tormented step down the Via Dolorosa, in order to feel the extent of His suffering. I don't need a Hollywood movie to remind me. I already knew this when I accepted Him as my personal Lord and Savior. And when I was baptized by immersion, in accordance with His commandment, I symbolically died with Him and was resurrected with Him. Now THAT'S a moving experience.
If anything, I hope the Lord uses this movie as a tool to touch the lives of those who have yet to hear His most important message: The only way to the Father is through the Son. In Christ ALONE can we find salvation. I hope this movie moves people to read more about Jesus' life, His teachings, and the main reason for His death, "so that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life." (John 3:16)
You can look this up in the best resource material the Lord provided us, the Holy Bible. Sure, the Good Book, which predates that first Good Friday by many millenia, is also said to be based partly on conjecture. But Christians the world over have that one all-important ingredient to fill in the gaps in credibility.
It's called FAITH.
Yesterday, we spent the better part of our day scouting movie theaters for the first available screening of Mel Gibson's controversial movie, "The Passion of the Christ".
Our first stop was Brenden Theater in downtown Modesto. We got there at 2:50 PM, well before the 3:20 matinee, but the long lines told us everything we had to know. Even at that early hour, the 3:20 and 4:20 shows were already sold out. We bought tickets for the next available screening, which wasn't until 6:20 that evening, and resigned ourselves to finding other things to do to while away the time.
My husband, Lorenzo, wanted to go home to find me something else to wear. This little outing was a big deal to us, our first date in what seems to be ages. Unfortunately, I had to dress for it hurriedly because his sister, Selina, and her husband, Gino, arrived early for our double date. Lorenzo was in the process of picking out a nice maternity outfit for me when they rang the bell, and I knew he was somewhat piqued at their promptness. I was tickled pink at my husband's concern. Since our relationship started, he had always looked to me as his fashion consultant. It was nice to be at the receiving end for a change. Sadly, our two companions didn't seem to be too receptive to the idea of going all the way home for a wardrobe change. Oh well...
Instead I suggested that we check out other movie houses in the area for an earlier show. The second theater we went to wasn't much better. They were all sold out until the 9PM screening. There was one last place left, another Cineplex down the road, in the nearby town of Riverbank. We got there at 3:30, and snatched up 4 tickets for the 4:55 matinee. We called up Brenden, and upon being assured we could return our tickets for a full cash refund, settled in for mochas at the JavaStar house cafe.
We didn't get to sip our lattes at leisure. Even before the clock struck four, the line outside Theater 9 had already snaked its way past us. We reluctantly left our table and joined the queue. Lorenzo gallantly told his sister and me to sit at a nearby bench while he held our place in line. Gino went to the concession stand to buy hot dogs, popcorn and sodas. We ended up eating our movie fare even before the movie started, but considering how much blood and gore we were exposed to during the film, I was glad we ate early.
At about ten minutes to five, people started emptying out into the hallway from Theater 9. I figured these were viewers from the last screening of "Passion", but I had to be sure.
I flagged a woman passing in front of me. "Excuse me," I asked, "what movie did you see?"
"Jesus," she replied. Close enough. At least our long wait was over. In a few minutes, we would be filing into the theater and witnessing the most talked-about movie these days. I turned an observing eye at the slow procession in front of me. Most of the women were red-eyed. I check our concession box for napkins, and see a huge wad between the popcorn and the soda. Good. We were covered in that department.
The people were still coming out of the theater. I stopped another woman and asked her another question: "Was it violent?" I had heard conflicting reports about the movie, and I wanted a first-hand account. As I expected, a quick "yes" was the reply.
I was getting more curious by the second. The question that was REALLY uppermost in my mind was "Is the movie anti-Semitic?" but this was hardly the most PC of questions. Instead, I formulated a more innocuous question:
"Did you think it was an accurate representation of the Historic Christ?"
I was scanning the faces to fish out the random bible scholar and was about to flag my next respondent when my sister-in-law hissed something in my ear. "Sandali na lang, bibigyan na kita ng mike!" I guess I was getting carried away with all my queries. I had to remind myself that I wasn't a news personality anymore. My days of polling vox populi were over.
The long line started moving forward. With a sigh of relief, we joined our husbands and filed into Theater 9. After choosing plum seats toward the rear, we settled in for the show.
What we witnessed was a re-enactment of Jesus' last day. And through it all, the blood and gore escalated, from His betrayal at the Garden of Gethsemane to His crucifixion at the cross of Calvary.
It was a well-made and well-acted film. But having said that, there were still a few things about the movie that bothered me.
First of all, I came out of the experience remarkably untouched. Sure, I shed a few tears during the most brutal sequences, what self-professed Christian wouldn't? But somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that Jim Caviezel wasn't really getting the beating of the century. I could envision various alalays running to his aid to wipe the fake blood and gore off as soon as Mel Gibson yelled, "CUT!" It also bothered me that every time I saw that creepy-looking actor who portrayed Satan, I was reminded of Marilyn Manson. Frankly, I WANTED to be moved by the whole thing. I wanted to feel what my Mother felt when we watched "Jesus of Nazareth", shamelessly crying and holding us close during that infamous baby-killing scene.
Actually, to be totally fair, I DID have one such moment. Amid all the violence, one simple scene stayed in my mind, made more remarkable by the very absence of blood and gore. It was Mary's flashback sequence, when she ran to her child, Jesus, after he fell. As a mother, this image brought out the most primal protective instinct from within me. The child-actor they used was also tow-headed like my baby boy, Troy. I could imagine my sweet toddler stumbling and hurting himself, and I wanted to beam myself out of that theater so I could protect Troy from ever falling, carrying my beloved baby in my arms for the rest of his life if need be.
(Moved by motherly urges, I called my babysitter, Brenda, on the cell, and asked about my precious boys. To my relief, they were fine. I told her not to let them run around anyway, just for good measure.)
I admire Mel Gibson, who once again shows his mettle as a director, and Jim Caviezel, whose versatility and range is unquestioned. I did not think the movie was anti-Semitic. In fact, for a religious movie, Gibson does not proselytize, and for that he deserves kudos. Instead, the director took on the role of objective reporter, showing events as they happened without sugar-coating the nasty stuff. If the Jews who favor boycotting the film think otherwise, they can just deal with it. They cannot change the facts: Jesus was born a Jew, raised a Jew, and was condemned to death by His very own people, who refused to believe He was the Moshiach (Messiah) sent to deliver them to the Promised Land. To this day, many people of Jewish faith are still waiting for their Moshiach to enter the gates of Jerusalem in a white horse. What the movie tells them, in essence, is that they've already missed the boat. And they do not like to hear this, especially coming from goyim (Gentiles) like Mel Gibson.
I know what I'm talking about because I, too, was once married to a Jewish man, and our son is still being raised in a proper Jewish manner. In a couple of years, Max will be having his Bar Mitzvah, and I will be part of the ceremony, because I am his mother. Apart from that, I have always had qualms about raising my child in a religion that looks at Jesus Christ as a mere mortal. A Holy Man, a Prophet even, but not the one and only Messiah.
Such is the basis of all the controversy surrounding the film. Still, there is no denying that this movie, which has raised so much passion and fury, is Oscar material. However, that also spells out its largest limitation. With all the research behind it, I'm sure it's by far the most realistic film portrayal of what happened the day Jesus died. But with all the hue and cry, all the boycotts and ballyhoos, it is, after all, only a movie. And if you really think about it, can a reenactment of an event over twenty centuries past really be that accurate?
I know it sounds pretty jaded, but I don't need a big-budget cinematic version of Jesus' last day to remind me of His ultimate sacrifice. Quite frankly, I have felt more moving experiences while singing His praises in church. It was that profound, "make-your-skin-crawl" feeling of awe I was expecting to feel, but didn't quite achieve while watching the movie. If anything, the graphic depiction of violence demeaned the whole experience, trivializing the very Passion which the director hoped to convey. I don't need to see each open wound, each lash of the whip, each slow tormented step down the Via Dolorosa, in order to feel the extent of His suffering. I don't need a Hollywood movie to remind me. I already knew this when I accepted Him as my personal Lord and Savior. And when I was baptized by immersion, in accordance with His commandment, I symbolically died with Him and was resurrected with Him. Now THAT'S a moving experience.
If anything, I hope the Lord uses this movie as a tool to touch the lives of those who have yet to hear His most important message: The only way to the Father is through the Son. In Christ ALONE can we find salvation. I hope this movie moves people to read more about Jesus' life, His teachings, and the main reason for His death, "so that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life." (John 3:16)
You can look this up in the best resource material the Lord provided us, the Holy Bible. Sure, the Good Book, which predates that first Good Friday by many millenia, is also said to be based partly on conjecture. But Christians the world over have that one all-important ingredient to fill in the gaps in credibility.
It's called FAITH.
Thursday, February 19, 2004
BREAK-IN NEWS STORY
I am terribly on edge.
Yesterday afternoon, someone broke into Vanna, our white minivan. We were going out to fill a prescription when my husband noticed that all our doors were unlocked, and the hood was popped ajar. Upon entering the vehicle, he also observed that the parking brake was disengaged and our glove compartment was gaping open.
We discovered this at around 4:00 in the afternoon. About 10 minutes later, en route to our appointment, we noticed that the dashboard clock registered a different time, 2:40. Aha...a clue! This told us that whoever tried to steal our van turned on our battery exactly two hours and forty minutes before. We make it a point to uncouple our battery every night ever since our key got stuck in the ignition. Whenever we turn the car on again, the dashboard clock displays "12:00". With careful calculation, we ascertained that whoever made the attempt was bold enough to do it at 1:30 that afternoon, in full view of everyone! Whoever this guy was, he certainly had chutzpah!
Good thing my Dodge Grand Caravan came with a theft-deterrent system. That certainly spelled the difference between success and failure. Actually, I wasn't surprised at the outcome of this first attempt at Grand Theft Auto. Our theft-deterrent system was so efficient, it was oftentimes a "trip-deterrent system" for us!
When Lorenzo got Vanna for me for my 32nd birthday, we weren't endeared to her theft-deterrent system, which required us to push a remote-controlled button attached to our key chain in order for her to start. There were times when we had to wait excruciating minutes before we heard the familiar click that meant we could start the van. This would indicate that we needed new batteries for the remote, which usually meant a mad scramble to the mall just before Radio Shack closed. Now why, you wonder, wouldn't they just buy extra batteries and spare themselves the hassle? Because the darn batteries are so infinitesimally small that we lose them as soon as we buy them.
Many times, Lorenzo and I considered having this theft-deterrent system taken off. But this would mean taking our van back to the dealership, shelling the $400 to have the stupid key taken off the ignition, and probably another $400 besides to have the whole system reconfigured. And THEN we'd reconsider. After all, what's an extra minute or so to pop the hood and uncouple the battery?
Besides, there's this whole macho mystique about an open hood. All over the country, millions of men impress millions of their female partners by the mere act of popping their bonnets, an act which somehow adds 100 points to a man's car IQ, never mind if he just mistakenly pressed the hood button instead of the gas compartment lever, and since it was already open, he might as well check the water and the oil, if only he could find where they were actually LOCATED. By this time, the lone female passenger would be reduced to putty, impressed at how MANLY her partner was dealing with "this whole car thing" (sigh!).
Anyway, I digress. Our initial ocular inspection revealed that nothing was taken from our belongings. All our jackets were still there, including Troy's new expensive Baby Gap jacket. Lorenzo's military papers were undisturbed. The top was taken off his box of office paraphernalia, but apart from this, everything else was intact. Even my glove compartment, which was gaping wide open, still had my old credit card bills. Whoever had broken in was clearly not interested in identity theft, thank goodness! I wasn't worried about my car registration being stolen, since I never keep a copy in any of my vehicles anyway. I choose to keep them in my wallet, in anticipation of robbery attempts such as this.
Which brings us to the mystery of it all. Why would this person take all the trouble of breaking into our van in an effort to steal it, and then, encountering failure, just leave everything untouched? Your regular, run-of-the-mill hoodlum would normally take off with every item that was not nailed down, or at least lash out in frustration by breaking a headlight or two.
Hmmm, it almost makes you wonder...did we have here the most improbable of oxymorons, a gentleman thief? Highly unlikely. Maybe he turned penitent upon seeing my Bible in the compartment under my seat? Even more unlikely. In all probability, the moron was probably spooked out of his malicious intentions, either by the appearance of a neighbor, or even (my favorite theory) a friendly ghost!
Laugh if you will, but my family members will attest to the time a robber entered our house at "87 gentle street" in the middle of the night, and ran off in such a fright, he forgot his slippers in the kitchen! The poor luckless fool left the front door wide open, but everything else was untouched. We were all convinced that the thief had a "close encounter of another kind" with our late Lolo. We three sisters aren't strangers to stories like this. A number of other spirits have revealed themselves to a number other guests in our house, but they never bothered us for some reason. I guess our resident status somehow granted us immunity!
All this speculation does not take away from the most important detail of all: we were very blessed that nothing was taken from us, and we thank the Lord for his protection. As it is, with all of our belongings accounted for, we still feel somewhat violated that someone had the audacity to break into our van, safely parked in our driveway, our own PERSONAL SPACE, in broad daylight!
It makes you question man's inherent nature, the soundness of his morality. Is society as we know it mired in such a cesspool of apathy, nobody bothers to teach their kids the importance of respecting other people's property anymore? Will the next generation be able to clamber out of the quagmire, or are the Elois among us slowly dwindling to the rising number of Morelocks?
As I wind up this entry in the wee hours of the morning, I see my husband descend the stairs. Lorenzo is fully dressed and decked with a warm jacket. I ask him where he is going and he says "out to the van". He goes to our fireplace and picks out a particularly nasty-looking poker. Earlier, he told me he was considering spending the night in the back seat, waiting for, even DARING the thief to come back! With his Army infantry background, working closely with the DEA and US Customs in covert operations, it wasn't such a stretch of the imagination to see Lorenzo jumping Rambo-like from Troy's car seat, raining bullets and the odd fireplace poker at anyone who comes within two meters of our minivan.
I rush to my husband in alarm, trying to talk him out of his bravado. Lorenzo gives me a smile, and a warm reassuring hug. Turns out he was just teasing. He told me he was just about to go out and move the driver's seat all the way to the front, to make it harder for anyone to sneak in comfortably. He would also turn on the heater full-blast, put the headlights on bright, and switch the hazards on besides. Finally (and for good measure), he would pump up the volume of our radio all the way to max. If anyone ever tried to engage our battery, the whole neighborhood would know.
More importantly, if this thief makes the mistake or returning to our booby-trapped van, I hope he jumps out of his skin so badly that he'd be instantly cured of his errant ways. Actually, at this point, I would happily settle for a badly damaged eardrum. Now THAT I would find most gratifying. Only then can we call it quits.
Lorenzo slips out into the foggy night. I run upstairs to our master bedroom window, making sure my husband isn't mugged on his way to our driveway. I watch him as he enters the van, keeping an eagle eye out for any suspicious shadows, ready to dash to the phone to dial 911 if needed. Given the circumstances of the past 24 hours, I do not mind erring on the side of caution. Not when my precious husband is concerned. Besides, there is no such thing as being too safe.
In this crazy world we live in, you never know.
I am terribly on edge.
Yesterday afternoon, someone broke into Vanna, our white minivan. We were going out to fill a prescription when my husband noticed that all our doors were unlocked, and the hood was popped ajar. Upon entering the vehicle, he also observed that the parking brake was disengaged and our glove compartment was gaping open.
We discovered this at around 4:00 in the afternoon. About 10 minutes later, en route to our appointment, we noticed that the dashboard clock registered a different time, 2:40. Aha...a clue! This told us that whoever tried to steal our van turned on our battery exactly two hours and forty minutes before. We make it a point to uncouple our battery every night ever since our key got stuck in the ignition. Whenever we turn the car on again, the dashboard clock displays "12:00". With careful calculation, we ascertained that whoever made the attempt was bold enough to do it at 1:30 that afternoon, in full view of everyone! Whoever this guy was, he certainly had chutzpah!
Good thing my Dodge Grand Caravan came with a theft-deterrent system. That certainly spelled the difference between success and failure. Actually, I wasn't surprised at the outcome of this first attempt at Grand Theft Auto. Our theft-deterrent system was so efficient, it was oftentimes a "trip-deterrent system" for us!
When Lorenzo got Vanna for me for my 32nd birthday, we weren't endeared to her theft-deterrent system, which required us to push a remote-controlled button attached to our key chain in order for her to start. There were times when we had to wait excruciating minutes before we heard the familiar click that meant we could start the van. This would indicate that we needed new batteries for the remote, which usually meant a mad scramble to the mall just before Radio Shack closed. Now why, you wonder, wouldn't they just buy extra batteries and spare themselves the hassle? Because the darn batteries are so infinitesimally small that we lose them as soon as we buy them.
Many times, Lorenzo and I considered having this theft-deterrent system taken off. But this would mean taking our van back to the dealership, shelling the $400 to have the stupid key taken off the ignition, and probably another $400 besides to have the whole system reconfigured. And THEN we'd reconsider. After all, what's an extra minute or so to pop the hood and uncouple the battery?
Besides, there's this whole macho mystique about an open hood. All over the country, millions of men impress millions of their female partners by the mere act of popping their bonnets, an act which somehow adds 100 points to a man's car IQ, never mind if he just mistakenly pressed the hood button instead of the gas compartment lever, and since it was already open, he might as well check the water and the oil, if only he could find where they were actually LOCATED. By this time, the lone female passenger would be reduced to putty, impressed at how MANLY her partner was dealing with "this whole car thing" (sigh!).
Anyway, I digress. Our initial ocular inspection revealed that nothing was taken from our belongings. All our jackets were still there, including Troy's new expensive Baby Gap jacket. Lorenzo's military papers were undisturbed. The top was taken off his box of office paraphernalia, but apart from this, everything else was intact. Even my glove compartment, which was gaping wide open, still had my old credit card bills. Whoever had broken in was clearly not interested in identity theft, thank goodness! I wasn't worried about my car registration being stolen, since I never keep a copy in any of my vehicles anyway. I choose to keep them in my wallet, in anticipation of robbery attempts such as this.
Which brings us to the mystery of it all. Why would this person take all the trouble of breaking into our van in an effort to steal it, and then, encountering failure, just leave everything untouched? Your regular, run-of-the-mill hoodlum would normally take off with every item that was not nailed down, or at least lash out in frustration by breaking a headlight or two.
Hmmm, it almost makes you wonder...did we have here the most improbable of oxymorons, a gentleman thief? Highly unlikely. Maybe he turned penitent upon seeing my Bible in the compartment under my seat? Even more unlikely. In all probability, the moron was probably spooked out of his malicious intentions, either by the appearance of a neighbor, or even (my favorite theory) a friendly ghost!
Laugh if you will, but my family members will attest to the time a robber entered our house at "87 gentle street" in the middle of the night, and ran off in such a fright, he forgot his slippers in the kitchen! The poor luckless fool left the front door wide open, but everything else was untouched. We were all convinced that the thief had a "close encounter of another kind" with our late Lolo. We three sisters aren't strangers to stories like this. A number of other spirits have revealed themselves to a number other guests in our house, but they never bothered us for some reason. I guess our resident status somehow granted us immunity!
All this speculation does not take away from the most important detail of all: we were very blessed that nothing was taken from us, and we thank the Lord for his protection. As it is, with all of our belongings accounted for, we still feel somewhat violated that someone had the audacity to break into our van, safely parked in our driveway, our own PERSONAL SPACE, in broad daylight!
It makes you question man's inherent nature, the soundness of his morality. Is society as we know it mired in such a cesspool of apathy, nobody bothers to teach their kids the importance of respecting other people's property anymore? Will the next generation be able to clamber out of the quagmire, or are the Elois among us slowly dwindling to the rising number of Morelocks?
As I wind up this entry in the wee hours of the morning, I see my husband descend the stairs. Lorenzo is fully dressed and decked with a warm jacket. I ask him where he is going and he says "out to the van". He goes to our fireplace and picks out a particularly nasty-looking poker. Earlier, he told me he was considering spending the night in the back seat, waiting for, even DARING the thief to come back! With his Army infantry background, working closely with the DEA and US Customs in covert operations, it wasn't such a stretch of the imagination to see Lorenzo jumping Rambo-like from Troy's car seat, raining bullets and the odd fireplace poker at anyone who comes within two meters of our minivan.
I rush to my husband in alarm, trying to talk him out of his bravado. Lorenzo gives me a smile, and a warm reassuring hug. Turns out he was just teasing. He told me he was just about to go out and move the driver's seat all the way to the front, to make it harder for anyone to sneak in comfortably. He would also turn on the heater full-blast, put the headlights on bright, and switch the hazards on besides. Finally (and for good measure), he would pump up the volume of our radio all the way to max. If anyone ever tried to engage our battery, the whole neighborhood would know.
More importantly, if this thief makes the mistake or returning to our booby-trapped van, I hope he jumps out of his skin so badly that he'd be instantly cured of his errant ways. Actually, at this point, I would happily settle for a badly damaged eardrum. Now THAT I would find most gratifying. Only then can we call it quits.
Lorenzo slips out into the foggy night. I run upstairs to our master bedroom window, making sure my husband isn't mugged on his way to our driveway. I watch him as he enters the van, keeping an eagle eye out for any suspicious shadows, ready to dash to the phone to dial 911 if needed. Given the circumstances of the past 24 hours, I do not mind erring on the side of caution. Not when my precious husband is concerned. Besides, there is no such thing as being too safe.
In this crazy world we live in, you never know.
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