Testament (Draft 2)

The fluorescent lamps gave the room a vibrant appeal. They’re bright like the sun. My grandfather looked at one of the lamps then looked away. He had been in the hospital bed for two weeks. I saw him look at the lights once again, studying it as if it was a piece of evidence.

“At last, we can go home. It is morning!” my grandfather exclaimed.

It was two in the morning. The sun was still in his bed snoring. The windows were closed but the air was cold. Outside the wind was like an ice queen caressing every corner of one’s bones.
“It’s just two in the morning,” I told him.

“What? Can’t you see the sun? Pack up the things as your grandmother is waiting for us,” he said, pointing to the lamp.

I wasn’t sure if I should smile or be sad. I looked at my grandfather. My eyes were misty. My mother was sleeping in the chair, her head on the edge of the bed. I placed a blanket on her shoulders. We both were weary but one has to stay up at nighttime to look after my grandfather who was suffering from lymphatic cancer. He was admitted to the hospital three weeks ago for a biopsy. Only a few months ago he had been vomiting. He refused to eat anything except some noodles and rice porridge. He said he felt pain in his stomach whenever he consumed food. When he could no longer bear the pain he sought help at home; and we brought him to the hospital. The doctor’s primary diagnosis was a simple case of an ulcer as my grandfather had been a slave of alcohol for years. However, it had been five years since he consumed his last beer. The biopsy result, on the other hand, showed a malignant form of cancer of the lymph nodes. My mother did not hide from my grandfather the result of the histopathologic analysis but she assured him that he will be all right. It was but a short two weeks when he said he could no longer bear the pain he was suffering. He had lost weight. He now looked like a hermit who has lived on a diet of shrubs and water. My parents tried to reach my mother’s siblings but no one was kind enough to offer any help. My grandmother, who came to live with us after she had her stroke, that left her paralyzed on one side of her body, asked my mother not to bother her children. She said someday they will regret it for abandoning their parents in times of their suffering. We decided to admit my grandfather for treatment.

It was my grandfather’s third time to be admitted to the hospital since his diagnosis of lymphatic cancer. We were lucky as I took my medical technology internship at this public hospital. I knew all the wards and most of the staff. We had no problem getting access through medical and laboratory examinations. While other patients had to wait for awhile to have their blood samples extracted I did the extraction on my grandfather myself. However, as it is a public hospital patients have to be taken cared of by their families; a reality that is persistent in the Philippine setting. We could not complain as we had no money at that time. We’d spent a huge amount for my grandfather’s medicine and other special laboratory tests. My mother’s siblings did not even care enough to check on us as to whether we needed financial assistance. My mother and grandmother did not complain.

I looked at my grandfather once again. He was still staring at the fluorescent lamp. It seemed like punishment for the patients in the male surgical ward as the lights could not be turned off. The medical staff said it was to ensure that every patient could be monitored well.

“Wake your mother. There is no time to loose,” my grandfather said. He tried to get up but he had become frail. His once sturdy body, that once massive body which we liken to an oak tree, had shriveled. His legs were swollen. His skin had turned pale; it was once dark from the long exposure to sunlight. He was a farmer. I looked at the man who once carried me on his back as a school-child when the river’s water rose waist-deep and I had to get to school. I am his first born grandson and he took me to school every day in my first grade. I looked at the man whom I admire and love helpless and suffering. That moment it was my time to repay him for his goodness. I told my mother earlier to contact her eight other siblings to replace us for a night so that we may regain our strength and attend to my grandmother who was left at home with my father. She, however, said if they have the heart to take care of their parents let them come to where they are and offer help.

“Grandpa, you need to calm down. We will eventually go home. We had already asked the doctor’s permission. You will soon see grandma,” I told him and raised my hand to let him see the time on my watch. Then I realized how cruel I was. My grandfather never received an education and couldn’t read nor tell the difference in time. But he was time conscious, though he had depended on the radio for the time. Though he wore a wristwatch when he went to some gathering or visiting a distant relative in another town, he only wore it as an accessory.

He would not budge. “Nurse, nurse!” he yelled. His voice was loud enough that it woke some of the patients and their families. Everyone in the ward looked at us. I turned red with embarrassment. My mother woke up and tried to console my grandfather. He would not believe that it was just past two in the morning.

“Let me sit down,” he said. As soon as my mother and I positioned him on one corner of the bed he slipped to the floor.

“I want to go home,” he said. “Where’s my bag?”

We watched him crawl on the floor. He did not want us to touch him. The nurse came and shook her head. She knew that my grandfather had been sleeping during the day and was awake all night. She understood our condition and asked the other patients and their families to understand.

“Where are you going, Sir?” the nurse asked.

My grandfather did not look up but stopped crawling as it made him tired. “I am going home, young lady. My wife is waiting for me. My daughter and grandson will take me home,” he said.
“But Sir, it just two in the morning,” she said. She motioned us to help her put my grandfather back to bed. He did not resist. He had great respect to people working at the hospital and often greeted the doctor with glee during the daily ward check-up. He even agreed to go back to sleep.

We sighed.

At nine in the morning we were in the lobby of the hospital. My grandfather was in a wheelchair, his bag which contained his personal belongings on his lap. He looked at every person who was passing by as if a child going on a vacation. He wore his favorite cap. Earlier, he had me check that all his belongings were in the bag, primarily, the local solution he bought at the drugstore which he used to treat people and a native concoction which he discovered that treat people’s ailments. My grandfather was a well-known faith healer who treated people with simple ailments – from sprain to backaches to fever. He was good at that and though he toiled the land for vegetables their daily sustenance was supported by his healing.

We boarded the taxi by eleven. We never said a word on our way home. There was a glow in my grandfather’s eyes.

* * *

When I was eight years old my grandfather whipped me with a stem of an Ipil-Ipil plant after he had learned that I took a bath in the pond where the water buffalo wallowed. I ran to my grandmother for safety. It was just one whip but it stung. I was the only grandchild to receive such a whipping.

“Your grandfather was the most affectionate person I ever knew,” my grandmother said, while brushing my hair and wiping away my tears.

“He just doesn’t want you to get sick. No, your grandpa loves you. Do you understand?” she asked. I nodded but my butt hurt.

Later in the evening we gathered in the living room to watch the news. My grandparent’s house was a two-storey home made of wood. My father was working in Kuwait. My mother, my little brother and I lived next door. As my mother loved to chit chat with the neighbors and visit friends I was always left with my grandmother.

The news showed the EDSA Revolution. The Marcos government was toppled by civil unrest. President Ferdinand Marcos fled to Hawaii after hundreds of thousands of Filipinos marched to the streets and barged through the gates of Malacanang Palace. We watched on the television the throng of people taking over the President’s official residence, shouting with joy as they scourge every nook of the place in a hope to capture the Marcos family. They were too late.
They only found Mrs. Imelda Marcos’s three thousand pair of shoes.

“Not again,” my grandmother said.

“Why, grandma?” I asked her. Wondering how such a matter can be worrisome I enjoyed every moment of it as there was no school.

“Not another war. I am done with that,” she said. She motioned me to come to her side. She was sitting on the floor stitching Nippa leaves to a long strip of dried bamboo used to make thatched roof. They were going to replace the roof of the pigpen, my grandmother’s source of income.

“What’s wrong, grandma?” I asked.

“You never knew how difficult it is during a war. I was thirteen years old when the Japanese occupied the Philippines.”

“What did you do grandma?” I asked, smelling the Areca nut she was chewing. Other children were afraid of her because they thought she’s a monster because her teeth were stained red from chewing the nut.

“Oh, it was terrible. The Japanese soldiers killed most of the men and raped the women. So, we fled to the mountains. We lived in a cave. You know how terrible that was?”
I nodded, trying to absorb her story.

“They burned our houses. They killed our parents. I was the third among the brood of five but I took the courage to help my brothers and sisters. Our neighbors took us with them to the mountains. We lived in the cave for a while then built huts later. We fed on wild boars and vegetables and fruits. A few months later I descended from the mountains and went to the city. There were no roads but I followed the tracks of the men who went to see if the war was over. You don’t know how terrible it was. I am lucky the Japanese soldiers did not kill me when I went to the city. They even buried people alive!”

“Grandma, how could you say such a thing?” I gasped.

“But it is true. When everything had calmed down but, oh, the Japanese men were still here, I came back to sell some of the sweet potatoes we cultivated in the mountain. I also traded some of the vegetables and fruits I’d brought for salt and sugar. It took me a day to reach the city. Sometimes I would stop at a cemetery to rest and sleep overnight.”

I clasped my hand on my mouth. “How terrible! Weren’t you scared grandma?”

“Oh, you should be scared of those who are alive rather than the dead,” she said. “Some of the men I knew died of hunger. They cried ‘Mother! Mother!’ They say when you are about to die you’ll see your deceased mother.”

“Tell me more grandma.”

“We were taught by our neighbors to read and write. We used banana leaves as our paper but we changed to dried bamboo as the leaves would wither.”

“How did you and grandpa meet?”

She smiled. She motioned me to sit down and face her. “It was after the war. I was sixteen. We left the mountain but never lived in the city. Your grandfather lived in another town. We met at the river where we washed our clothes. He and his friends were passing by but stopped when they saw us women. I never knew what love meant until I met your grandfather. He was so handsome in his white shirt. Oh, I remember. We talked but I never knew what love meant at that time. What I remember was I did not ask him to leave me alone. After that he frequented our place. He would bring along his friends and make a harana. A serenade! One of his friends would strum the guitar and your grandfather sang love songs. We would exchange songs. It is a kind of a game. Whoever runs out of songs loses. It took your grandfather several trips to our house before he won. When he won I accepted his marriage proposal.”

“You are something grandma. Can you sing me one of your songs?”

“Now, there is no need to trick me into singing a song for you. I sang them all when you were still a baby. Oh, you were such a cry-baby that I could never hush you down. Your mother was lucky I took care of you. Now, go outside and play with your friends. I have to finish this roof.”

* * *

My grandparents greeted each other like long lost lovers when we arrived home. They had been married for more than fifty years. I grew up in their house which was surrounded with fruit-bearing trees. They once had a vast vegetable plantation. My grandmother raised pigs and goats.

After a brief talk, my grandfather asked for his favorite soup and requested that I feed him. He slept soundly that night. I thought that my grandfather would recover from his burden. But at two in the morning the next day he woke my mother saying he could not breathe. We all panicked. My father and brother got the car ready to transport him back to the hospital.

“No. I won’t go back there. Never!” my grandfather said. He was gasping for breath.

We gathered around his bed hoping that he will recover. My father held him while he was sitting up. He faced my grandmother who was sitting on the opposite side of the bed. Tears ran down his cheeks.

“My Leonisa, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I have to leave you,” my grandfather said to my grandmother.

My grandmother did not cry. She’s a strong lady. My mother, on the other hand, was crying out so loud. My brother went out to the balcony. He tried to call my mother’s married brother and sister who were living near us. They said they’d come but never did.

“My Papa. My Papa!” my mother said the words over and over. She touched his father’s face and cried in anguish.

“Here they are,” my grandfather said. He enumerated the invisible beings who he said had come to fetch him- his dead brothers and sisters. I watched my grandfather slowly slip away. In that inevitable moment I stood there helpless. I did not know what to do or what to say. What I remember was I tried to console my mother.

My grandfather looked at the wall and cried, “Motherrrrrrr!!!” and he breathed his last. I hugged my grandmother and cried. It was my first time to witness someone die. But what hurt most was that it was my own loved one.


* * *


My mother’s brothers and sisters and their children were present at my grandfather’s wake. At last, they showed up, I said to myself while arranging the flowers sent by friends and relatives to the funeral home. I noticed a big wreathe beside my grandfather’s coffin. It was from my wealthy uncle. I wanted to spit on it but my grandmother wouldn’t be happy with my actions. There it was, an expensive wreathe beside my grandfather’s coffin! When we had hoped that they send us financial assistance they never offered any. I looked around the room and stared at my uncles and aunts who were laughing, some playing mahjong and card games.

One of my uncles approached me. “Where is your mother? Doesn’t she know that this should be a family affair? It was as if she doesn’t care!”

I wanted to punch him but I controlled myself.

“God knows that my grandfather doesn’t need us to be here as we had been with him during his darkest hour,” I said aloud, enough for everyone to hear and stop their activity. They stared at me with hatred.

I left the premises relieved.