YESTERDAY, I did something I rarely do: I went to a wake.
The reason why I don’t usually go to wakes is personal: I want to remember the deceased, especially if I have fond memories, while he or she was alive. I have not found it very satisfying to stand in front of a coffin and look down into it as if needing confirmation that indeed the person I once knew alive was breathing no more.
Very rarely, too, the image of someone lying in a coffin is not flattering: shorn of life, one’s face is no longer as appealing as it used to be. And who wants to stare at someone whose eyes are closed (although yes, I don’t think I’d also like to stare at the steady gaze of a lifeless friend).
For Atty. John Nowell Cruz, I made an exception. Awakened at 3 a.m., I decided, after taking a sip of cold water, to take a shower, get dressed and drive a couple of kilometers to Loyola Marikina where he is lying in state prior to his burial tomorrow. As I will be out of town and unable to attend his last rites, I felt I needed to say goodbye this one last time.
The fact that I had to drive from the gate in Loyola Marikina to its farthest reaches where the chapels were in the darkest time of day — that is, before dawn — gave me momentary pause. Then I remembered what my late mother used to say so often: “Matakot ka sa buhay, ‘wag sa patay.” I also knew that my FJ had such a loud horn that if I needed to honk for help even the dead would awaken. (Which was precisely what I didn’t want to happen).
‘The end of life always brings loneliness and pain, but the loneliness and pain only mean that the deceased is lovingly remembered.’
I was able to say a final goodbye to my friend John. I’ve known him only for a year, thanks to Atty. Martin Loon and his Sigma Rho-‘Cocolife’ network of brods. But during the times when John would drive me home to BGC after dinner to an early morning powwow at the house of Martin (John also stayed in BGC anyway) the drive was a chance for us to chat about so many things in life, love and law school.
My first encounter with death was when I was six (I think). I joined two paternal aunts in going home to Paete, Laguna to attend the wake of a beloved relative. People recount that my first words upon arriving at the wake were: “Why is he sleeping in a box?” After that I am conscious of my UP High batchmates Rommel Abrogar and Maximo Zablan being the first of our batchmates to die and die so young; then of my maternal grandfather dying in the US and being interred here in a solid bronze coffin, thanks to the US Navy, followed by my mother and then, both dying in their sleep, my two paternal aunts.
The kidnapping and death of my Coke colleague Betti Sy was traumatic for me as I had to take charge of the whole incident, including identifying her; my only consolation was it brought me close to her dear parents and loving brothers. My dad dying on my birthday after complaining that my mom died on his has been the most amusingly ironic, if death can be called such.
One day it will be my wake, and I will not be around to arrange it. But I have made my wishes clear: I will be cremated and put in an antique Ifugao box I have been keeping for 20 years now, as I don’t want people to be gawking down at me. What is done to my ashes I leave to whoever ends up with custody of the same. I want to be remembered as I was alive — funny and helpful and obnoxious and all — because that’s how I will live on.
The end of life always brings loneliness and pain, but the loneliness and pain only mean that the deceased is lovingly remembered.
And he who is remembered, it is said, is never ever truly dead.
