Today is yet another Christmas when I thought I succeeded at having only joy and gratitude fill my heart, only to be thrown a curve ball by Facebook this morning, which reminded me of a very funny video of my Lolo I uploaded to the social media site at about this time 6 years ago. It also showed at the top of my timeline my sister’s post, paying a heartfelt tribute full of longing for our Lolo and Mamu, who passed within a year of each other, in 2012 and 2013. Yes, no matter how hard they tried to keep up appearances when they were still alive, it was an undeniable fact that they could not, for the life of them, live without each other. When Lolo died, I could almost see the light go out of my Mamu’s eyes, the fire in her warrior heart extinguished by his death. I can still hear in my head her anguished cries when she saw my Lolo gone in his deathbed, something none of us who bore witness will likely forget anytime soon.
Don’t get me wrong. It was a happy Noche Buena, notwithstanding the fact that we almost didn’t get home by 12 midnight because Yellowcab decided their delivery customers were hungrier and more deserving than those right in front of them. Oh, they couldn’t have been more wrong. My sisters made sure.
We made it home in the nick of time. We said our prayers with the members of our family who were present, far fewer than we would have liked. But I was still very grateful for their presence. We ate, took pictures, engaged in our usual lively conversation. By now, it has become second nature to include my Lolo and Mamu’s photographs overlooking the dining table when we took pictures, in an effort to make them part of the reminders of the festivities. This, however, did not diminish my longing, which I was sure was shared by my other family members, for Lolo and Mamu’s actual formidable, undeniable, loving presence. It was not as easy filling these voids in our hearts, as we filled spaces in our dining table occupied by Mamu’s sumptuous feast in years past. Although it must be said: pizza is garbage compared to my Mamu’s morcon, sarsiado, lumpiang shanghai, and vegetable soup.
It was while I was walking out the door, as the celebration ended, that I felt a sudden grip of sadness in my heart. I wanted so badly for them to still be there. I felt like a petulant child wanting to throw a tantrum because I wanted my Mamu and Lolo. It hit me hard. But when I got to the car, I took refuge in the only thing that has given me respite in the fewer and fewer moments of utter despair such as this: sleep.
Waking up this morning, and reading those Facebook posts, I am reminded that we will all feel loss in its myriad forms, in different points in our lives. The loss of objects, both trivial and priceless, which have become part of our lives. The loss of animal companions, most of whom have become indispensable to us. The hopefully temporary loss of friends due to perceived differences in opinions, beliefs, and value systems. The permanent loss of persons we looked up to as heroes and inspirations, such as entertainment and sports icons, artists, authors, historians, and other living monuments of success. The heartbreaking loss of an object of affection, of a lover, of a partner, who has become our half, better or not. That loss which you cannot name, you cannot pin down, but you know is there ― a void deep within you which you cannot seem to fill, or get out of, no matter how hard you try. This feeling of loss that haunts you every day, especially when the day’s noise begins to die down, and you are left to withstand the excruciating silence of your thoughts.
Then there is the indelible loss of people, family members, friends, who have become instrumental to our living and breathing when they were still alive. The kind of loss that plunges us deep into an abyss of despair and longing, which could last years, if not a lifetime. The kind of loss that debilitates, that knocks the wind from within us when we remember.
We have all lost something, someone. A part of ourselves, whether projected on material things, or invested in humans, including ourselves. Some losses become more palpable in times like today, when it seems to become an obligation to be merry on Christmas day.
But we fight. We keep on fighting. Because while we have all suffered loss in its many forms and manner, there are those who see us and who care about us so much that they do not to want to lose us. Because the fact that we suffer from losing other people means that other people will likewise suffer when they lose us. We may not know it, but we may be on the other end of that entire discourse on loss — we may be the unfriended friend that they will eventually seek out when all this political noise dies down; we may be the icon another person looks up to for inspiration; we may be the object of another’s affection, making her or his heart beat faster than it’s supposed to, giving color to an otherwise drab existence; we may be the hand that reaches out to the person in utter despair, the one that finally pulls that person out of the pitch darkness she or he has been living in; or we may just be the reason for another human being to continue living, and without us, they would rather die. We may know this. Or we never will. But this does not make them any less true.
We fight because people depend on us. People look at us and see the light, even if we ourselves see only darkness. We fight for the people who see us and tell themselves that they will keep fighting, too.
It is so much easier to give up, that I know for a fact. I almost did, a few years ago, when I, too, was in that pitch dark place. My then infant daughter got me out. That tiny being gave me a reason to fight the darkness, to fight the loss, and to celebrate life. We cannot not fight. Because to stop the fight is to die a meaningless death, a huge disservice to the people who will give anything to see us keep up the fight, the same people who stand side by side with us during this battle.
To fight is to live. And to live is to pay homage to the people who have gone before us, to all our Mamus and Lolos, to all our family members, friends, idols, animal companions, and even inanimate objects we have lost.
To live is to celebrate things like today, Christmas Day, and make it worthwhile, not only for ourselves, but for others who have lost more, and who cannot afford to lose any more. Because when they see us fighting, they gain. They gain confidence, self-respect, dignity, inspiration, and a raison d’être. And on days like today, seeing us fight is the best Christmas gift they could receive.
Most importantly, choosing to fight and to live is to give ourselves the most precious Christmas gift. Because we all live on borrowed time. We must fight to live the best life not only for ourselves, but for others, before that borrowed time is up.
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