Flavor of the Day: Cookie Butter

A few nights ago, I gained a deeper understanding of comfort food. You might think, what’s there to understand? You feel bad. You eat. You feel better. That’s all there is to it, right? Well, yes. But I sometimes wonder why the way to heal a heartache is through the stomach. Why a bag of potato chips can salve a broken soul.  Why there is a certain dish you pair with a certain emotion. Why homemade adobo can just be the way to achieve world peace. The other night while having a dinner of champions with my friend Lisa, I understood. And tonight while I wiped out the remains of a bottle of Speculoos Cookie Butter, my theory was affirmed.

On the night I met Lisa, I had just conducted a trainers' workshop for 20 rowdy men. I was exhausted, all my reserve energy spent, way beyond what we now call the state of low batt. They were nice guys, but they were a handful. And when bunched together against one female facilitator, they turn into little, hormonal boys trying to test the limits. Not that they were hitting on me, but they just wanted to see how far they could go with their sexual innuendos before the teacher finally broke down and blushed. I did my best not to. And only a teacher or trainer (or parents) can understand the physical strain, the inner stress, of maintaining classroom authority while striking a balance between being game and being strict. I had fun, tested my training capabilities, learned a few useless factoids, but I got out of that classroom tired to the bone. And I could not get home to plop into bed right away because of the dinner date I committed to.

My friend, visiting from Singapore, was grieving the loss of a friend to cancer. And she was as drained as I was. I asked her what she wanted for dinner. First, she looked for Spanish cuisine, her comfort food of choice. Either there was no good Spanish resto around, or I was just too brain dead to recall any. And so her next choice—“I don’t want any of those big dish, small serving kind of thing.” In other words, she didn't want anything prettily plated but was unsatisfying, leaving you, after spending 1 thousand pesos a head, with the desire to go through a drive-through to fill ‘em stomach up.

We picked Elias in BGC. If you’re looking for comfort food, it’s hard to go wrong with Filipino food. Rich, unapologetic, fat-laden, carb-packed comfort food. Capped by salted caramel and cheese cake ice cream from the adjacent Cake Club.

And because when one is tired, mind and body slow down, my senses allowed me to shut out the world for a moment and focus only on the eating, and I heard and felt how that crispy tadyang scraped my stomach lining just before gently landing on that sweet spot at the bottom of my stomach. Eyes closed, taste buds satisfied, I felt comfort, and things felt right.

It’s that part—that part when the food grazes through the walls of your stomach—that’s where the comfort comes from. Because when one is feeling sad, there’s only so much that a dear, dear friend can do as she rubs your back. Food can get deeper within you and comfort you inside, where nobody else can. That pork belly binagoongan rubbed my esophagus and said, “there, there, there, everything will be all right.” And I believed it.

No English word can beat the Tagalog word for it—hagod. That’s the motion when your mom lovingly rubs alcohol down your chest when you’re sick. The motion when your BFF rubs your back while holding your hair as you pour your dinner, half a bottle of Tanqueray gin, and all the bad juju from that jerk of an ex into the toilet. There, there, there, everything will be all right. That’s what comfort food does.

The richer, the creamier, the fatter, the thicker, the sweeter, the better. Broth, that fat-free, carb-free, fun-free consommé would never do.  Food comforts you like almost nothing else can. Somewhere deep, deep inside, where you think the baddies can’t get in.

Sex, to some degree, can have the same effect. But sex is complicated. Sex requires active participation. Reciprocity. A politically and socially correct response. It requires a giving back. Selfish sex rarely satisfies. But food—food does not expect anything back. It just gives. Soothes, Calms you down. Rubs your insides until on the outside, you start feeling good as well, capable of having animated conversations about more food.

There, there says that thick, gooey pumpkin soup. There, there says that decadent chocolate cake. There, there, says the thigh part of the original flavored KFC.

Tonight, that jar of Cookie Butter gave selflessly, saying there, there. And I felt better.

(Image from: http://www.sandiegosugar.com/2011/grocery-goods-trader-joes-cookie-butter/)       

Flavor of the Day: Filipino Food

For the first time, a blog in Tagalog.

I read and was entertained by Bebang Siy's book, It's a Mens World. And even though my written Tagalog isn't anything to boast about, I was inspired to write this.

PERIOD.

ni Gege Sugue

Isang beses nung grade one ako, nag survey si Sister Maria Mercedes. Tungkol sa gusto naming maging. Tinanong niya sinong gustong maging doctor. Nag raise ng hands ang mga matatalino. Sinong gustong maging lawyers? Nagraise ng hands ang mga madadaldal at pilosopo.

Sinong gustong maging wife and mother? Gustong gusto kong mag-raise ng hand. Kaya lang, walang ibang nag-raise. A basta. Alam ko na yon talaga ang gusto kong maging. Pangarap kong maging mommy na gumagawa ng sandwiches na ibabaon ng mga anak ko. At gusto ko, lagi ko silang hinahatid at sinusundo sa school. Naiimagine kong tinu-tutor ko sila at mahaba ang pasyensya kong magturo. Meron pang motivational at educational games.

Pero walang nag-raise ng hands. Ang iba pa nga sabi yuck. Hindi pa uso ang ewww noon.Kasi eto yung panahong yucky pa ang mga boys. Sobrang kadiring isipin na magkakaasawa ka. Eh ang mga kilala naming boys lagi na lang amoy pawis at mga alaskador pa. 

Yuck nga. Pero kahit na.

Gusto ko talagang magraise ng hand pero nakakahiya. Ang tindi ng peer pressure na maging kagaya ng lahat. So pinigil ng left hand kong tumaas ang right hand ko.

Sunod tinanong ni Sister Maria Mercedes kung sinong gustong magmadre. Ang mga sipsip kong kaklase nagraise ba naman ng hands. Ngek! Ayoko ngang magmadre, lalo nang ayaw kong maging kagaya ni Sister Maria Mercedes na napakasungit at inuubos ang kalahati ng class hour sa kakabenta ng mga retaso ng hostiya at bookmarks na gawa daw ng mga kasama niyang madre. 25 centavos each. Katumbas ng isang pack ng clover chips! Namamalo pa siya ng kamay at nagpapahiya ng mga estudyante. Bakit ko naman gustong maging kagaya niya madre? Bawal pang mag make-up. Pero ayun, nagraise sila ng hands. Bwisit, naparaise rin ako ng hand. Pilit na pilit nga lang. Ang peer pressure nga naman.

Bata pa lang ako, nasa listahan na nang ambisyon ko yang maging housewife kasama nang ambisyon na tumira sa bahay na may swimming pool. Maging housewife na apat ang anak. Parang Bobbsey Twins. Dalawang pares ng kambal. Dalawang lalaki, dalawang babae.

Kaya lang irregular yung period ko. So, nung college pa lang ako, nag-umpisa na akong mag-alala na baka magkaroon ako ng problema sa pagbubuntis. Pero nung mga panahong yon, mas-importanteng hindi mabuntis. Patay ka! Ang laking problema kayang mabuntis habang college ka pa lang. Forever kang grounded. Kaya hindi ko na muna ginawang problema yang issue na baka baog ako.

Nung kinasal ako, sinabihan kaming mag-asawa na maghintay ng mga dalawang taon bago magka-baby. Agree naman ako sa suggestion na yon. Pero nung anim na taon na kaming kasal at wala pa ring baby, nagpatingin na kami. Meron daw akong Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome o PCOS. Katunog nga niya ang Philippine Charity Sweepstakes Office, na PCSO. Pero kabaligtaran ng jackpot ang ibig sabihin. Ang ibig sabihin ng may PCOS, mahihirapan akong mabuntis. Kadalasan pa nga ang mga babaeng may PCOS tumataba. Sus!  Ano ba yon? Baka hindi na nga ako manganak. Pero ang katawan ko mukhang nanganak. Ang saklap, diba?

Ang solusyon, mag work-up. Eto yung  treatment na gagawin ng mag-asawa para mabuntis. Nag-uumpisa sa Clomid, para mag-ovulate. Pag hindi yan tumalab, magdadagdag ng ibang klaseng gamot. Pag hindi pa rin tumalab, dagdag na naman. Hanggang dumating sa injections. At invitro. Hangang kakayanin ng siyensiya.  

Umabot kami sa injections. Araw araw, isang tusok. Asawa ko ang tagaturok. Ang butt cheeks ko parang project ng DPWH. Puro excavation. Naubos na ang surface ng pwet ko na walang turok, pero wa epek pa rin. Ang mahal mahal pa ng mga gamot. Bawat injection, mga 5,000 pesos. Tapos wa epek pa rin. Tapos scheduled pa ang sex. Ang hirap kaya nun. Pag gusto mong magjoogs tapos hindi puede, tiis ka. Tapos pag hindi mo naman feel pero kailangang mag-joogs, go lang ng go. Naging mechanical na nga. Pero kahit ang dami ng gamot, injections, gastos, oras, at stress ang ginugol namin sa baby-making project, ayun, wa-epek pa rin.

Dumating ang panahon na umayaw na kami at umasa na lang na mabubuntis kami ng walang effort.

Hindi nangyari. Walang effort. Walang baby.

Ngayon, 46 years old na ako. Tanggap ko nang hindi na ako magiging mommy. Wala rin namang issue sa asawa ko.

At hindi ako bitter, ha? Hindi talaga. Kunyari meron akong mga kaibigan o kamag-anak na nabuntis, natutuwa ako para sa kanila. Masaya ako para sa kanilang blessing na anak. At least, meron akong malalarong cute na sangol. Tapos pag hindi na siya cute—umihi, tumae, umiyak nang bongang bonga--puede nang ibalik sa nanay, tatay, o yaya.

Minsan nakikita ko rin naman ang advantages ng walang anak. Menos sa gastos. Menos sa hassle. Menos sa responsibilidad. Hindi ka nag-aalalang magkakasakit, magkakaproblema, magkakaboyfriend ang anak mo. Menos sa wrinkles.

Pero paminsanminsan nakakainis rin. Ang unang nakakainis ay yung mga taong nangungulit. “O kelan na?” “May laman na ba yan?” “Hindi yata kayo marunong eh.” Click ignore na lang ako sa mga taong ganun. Pero minsan, gusto ko silang sagutin, “Wala pa eh. Hindi pa ako buntis. Eh ikaw, kelan ka mamamatay? Kasi kompleto na ang buhay mo dahil may anak ka na, so puede ka nang mamatay, diba?”

Ang isa ko pang kinaiinis ay pag may mga nabubuntis o nanganganak na wala namang karapatang maging ina. Yung mga nilalagay yung baby nila sa sando bag na plastic at iniiwan na lang sa basura ang supot at hayaan na lang mamatay ang baby. ‘Nyemas! Lord naman, bakit hinayaan mo silang mabuntis? Bakit hindi na lang ako? Never kong ilalagay ang baby ko sa supot. Promise. It’s so unfair!

Naiinis rin ako pagnakakakita ako ng babaeng grasa na buntis. Naman! Bakit siya? Unang una, hindi ko maubos maisip kung paano nangyayari yon na kahit nanglilimahid na siya sa grasa at libag, meron pa ring nahorny sa kanya. Pangalawa, naaawa ako sa kanya kasi malamang na-rape siya. Pero masnaaawa ako sa batang ilalabas niya. Saan siya titira? Anong papakain niya? Magiging grasang sangol rin siya. Unfair diba na akong umaasa at umeeffort hindi mabuntis?

Sobrang unfair.

O kaya naman pag may nabubuntis na underage. As in sobrang bata. Mga around 14 years old. Ang laking problema sa kanya na nagdadalangtao siya. Hindi siya handa. Wala pa siyang pera, kakayanan, tamang pag-iisip, at maturity para maging ina. Eh ako dito, handang handa at buong buo ang kaloobang magdala ng tao sa aking katawan na may balakang saksakan ng laki at kayang magluwal ng quadruplets. Talagang unfair.

O sige na nga, aminin ko na. Bitter ako. Bitter Ocampo talaga.

Hay.

Ang isa pang nakakainis isipin ay eto: eh bakit pa ako nagkaka-period? Bakit ko pa dinadaanan ang hassle ng pagreregla? Si Kim Chiu, mahilig sabihin, “Have a happy period!” Nang-aasar ka ba? Ano ka, hibang? Ano naman ang masaya sa pagkakaron ng period. Kadiri. Ang pangit ng feeling. Minsan masakit. Palit ka ng palit ng napkin at ng panty. Hindi mo masuot yung puti mong pekpek shorts. Minsan  pa, yung period exclamation point sa lakas! Minsan tatagusan ka pa. Minsan magkakamantsa ang kama. Hassle talaga. Buti sana kung may hihinatnan. Buti kong ang resulta naman eh mabubuntis ako. Eh hindi! So what’s the point? What’s the point?!? Bakit? Bakit? Bakit? Ang daming question marks tungkol sa period na ‘to.

Pero, okay na rin ako. Natanggap ko nang hindi ako gagawa ng sandwiches para kay Joaquin, Gabrielle, Lucas, at Laurel. Oo, may mga pangalan na sila. Natangap ko nang hindi ako magiging presidente ng PTA. Natangap ko nang wala akong aayusan para sa kanilang class program. Natangap ko nang hindi ko mararamdaman ang napakasakit ngunit napakafulfilling na karanasan ng pangaganak. Natangap ko nang walang gagawa para sa akin ng Mother’s Day card. Natangap ko nang hindi na kami makakabawi sa dami nang children’s party na inattend namin na may dalang regalo tapos wala kaming representative na anak na mananalo ng prizes para sa Bring Me, Longest  Line, at Happy Birthdaaaaaaaaaaay. Natangap ko na na kapag dalawa kayong babaeng naiwanan ng flight, at isa lang yung available na seat sa next flight, yung isang babae, puede niyang gamitin ang mommy card para sabihing masimportanteng makauwi siya kasi may exam ang anak niya. Ang selfish ko naman pag sinabi kong masimportante akong makauwi kasi miss na ako ng asawa ko at kailangan ko siyang ikiss sabay hug. Tangap ko na na pagnagbigay ako ng payo sa isang ina, isasampal niya sa aking wala akong K, I don’t understand kasi hindi ako magulang. Tanggap ko na.

Pero paminsan-minsan umaasa pa rin ako. Hindi ko pa linalagyan ng period ang pangarap ko na ‘to. Habang may period, may pag-asa.

Semi-colon siguro. Nung nabuntis ang pamangkin kong si Rica, sabi ko sa kanya, “Kainis ka naman. Ginawa mo na akong lola kahit hindi pa ako nagiging mama.” Kaya naisip ko nang tumigil sa ilusyon maging ina. Period na. Close the chapter. Parang the end na nang pangarap, ng motherhood dreams. Kasi kung nasa edad na ako na puedeng magiging lola, e di baka overaged na akong maging bagong ina. Pero parang ang harsh naman nun. So, semi-colon na lang muna.

Siguro okay na rin. Meron rin namang mga pampalubagloob. Tulad nung isang mother’s day, nung nakatangap ako ng text message galing kay Rica, ang pamangkin kong bagong ina.

“Happy mother’s day, Tita Gege! Thank you for being a second mom to me and Aria. We love you.!”

Awww. Ano bang punctuation mark ang masmatindi pa sa exclmation point? Yung interrobang? !?!

Siguro yun na nga lang ang role ko sa buhay. Kung ang mga artistang tumatanda umiiwas sa mother roles, ako talagang hanggang second mother na lang ang role ko sa pelikula ng buhay ko.

Pero sabi ko nga, may pag-asa pa. Habang bumibili pa ako ng Kotex, kahit irregularly, ibig sabihin ay meron pang fighting chance. So, sige, wag na munang lagyan ng period ang storyang eto. For now, dot, dot, dot na muna.

Image stolen from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philippine_cuisine

Flavor of the Day: Rehashed Browns

Sometime last year, I promised myself and my Toastmaster friends that I would compete in the speech contest of 2012. That was before my sister went into coma and passed away. After which, I wasn't so sure I could handle the pressure, or even the fun, of delivering a speech contest.

Inspiration did not come for a very long time. I could not think of anything more significant than my sister's death to talk about. And the pain of my sister's death was too fresh for me to have anything inspiring to tell.

So, I rehashed my eulogy and made it fit the 5-7 minute requirement.

I decided to join at the last minute. And I "won" the Area Contest with flying colors. Uhm, the fact that I was the only contestant helped me attain this victory.

And then, the tough part was delivering it at the next level, the Division Contest.

I rehashed and rehearsed this speech, said it out loud maybe about fifty times. Maybe more. In some ways, all that rehashing has been therapeutic. It has certainly helped me process the pain and the regrets. I would cry and break down at some parts, and I was afraid of bawling in the middle of my speech in front of the Division audience. But I try to follow through with my promises always, so I went through the contest even though I had to go through the most nerve-wracking afternoon of my life.

During the speech contest, my voice broke down just a teeny weeny bit close to the end, but I composed myself, went on, and finished the speech. And won the first runner-up place. Winning in the contest was not the point of this exercise, so that prize was a very welcome and motivating bonus.

Here is the speech:

Three Gifts

International Prepared Speech by Gege Sugue

What was the best gift you’ve ever received? My sister Rita gave me 3 amazing gifts. Let me share them with you.

September 21, 2011. I was conducting a training workshop when my brother called to tell me that our younger sister Rita was brought into the Intensive Care Unit. The tumor in her brain had ruptured, filling half of her brain with blood. I immediately knew that I immediately had to be with her. Yes, I had a responsibility to complete my workshop, but I knew nothing was more important than being with Rita and the rest of my family.  I needed to focus on what was important.

Rita taught me to focus on family. Six years before her coma, I accompanied her to Boston for a brain surgery. The surgeon explained the procedure, advised us on what to expect, and warned us that there was a possibility that after surgery, Rita was to wake up different. She might lose her memory, or some of her faculties, or even the ability to walk or to talk. So we promised her that as soon as she awakened, we were to speak with her. To check.  

When she woke up, the first two words she said were Anton and Jonas. The names of her son and her husband. And then she knew she was going to be okay. Everything was going to be alright. Didn’t matter if she lost big chunks of her memory. Didn’t matter if she would move a little differently. She still knew the most important words to her—Anton and Jonas. 

Rita taught me to focus on family.

You see, I want many things in life—my dream house, my dream car, my dream vacation, my dream career.  Even my dream body. *smirk* How frustrated I have been not always getting what I wanted. Well, Rita reminded me that when I have my family, I am blessed, I have all that I need. Rita gave me that gift—a refocused life.

But that wasn’t all she gave me. Rita gave me a second gift: recharged passions.

In the hospital, Rita lay unresponsive. But our family was with her. Rita’s friends, family, in-laws, colleagues came to visit, to pray, to be with her. They spoke fondly of her. Of how great she was as a friend, how diligent a student, how excellent a leader. They said she was the best employee, most supportive boss, a reliable mentor. People said she was an awesome mom, sister, daughter.  Everybody respected and adored her because she did things well. She did things with heart. With passion.

So even through the ordeal in the hospital, even as Rita’s conditions worsened, she still inspired me to be a better wife, sister, daughter, aunt, friend, teacher, trainer—just to be the best I could possibly be in whatever I do. Rita recharged my passions.

  

Rita’s 3^rd gift: A restored faith.

As I was in the hospital, her son, my godson Anton would come to visit. I looked at him and thought of the possibility of him growing up without a mom. And I felt it totally unfair that I, who had no child, was going to live.

Let me tell you about our family. My parents produced seven children. We were a very close family. We had to be close. Because my family’s way of saving money was to let us all sleep in one bedroom. All seven kids and two parents. So at night, the master’s bedroom would be converted into a refugee camp with mattresses strewn all over the floor and the children packed together like sardines. In the morning, we would wake up with somebody’s butt on somebody’s nose and somebody’s foot in somebody’s mouth. We were that close. And I loved it.

And so even as a child, I had dreamt of having a big family of my own.

But after years of marriage, I still did not have a child, I prayed and prayed to God for even just one. And somehow, I felt and heard in my heart that God promised me a son, my own flesh and blood. So I held on to that promise. I waited and waited. And waited. But when I hit my 40s and still had not conceived, I felt frustrated. My faith wavered. And I started believing that I prayed to a God who did not listen, did not answer.

And as I was in that hospital room looking at Anton, it dawned on me that, seven years ago, God had already answered my prayers. When my sister gave me the privilege of being Anton’s godmother, God gave me somebody I could love and care for as a son. My own flesh and blood. I realized that God has answered my prayer all along. And I had no reason to doubt.  My faith was restored.

Rita has given me back my faith. And it’s the faith that tells me that someday Rita and I will see each other in heaven. Yes, sadly, after 10 days in coma, Rita’s body succumbed and her spirit went to heaven. But not without her first giving me her three gifts—a refocused life, recharged passions, and a restored faith. Thank you, Rita.

Today, I tell you Rita’s story to share with you her gifts and in turn, inspire you

to refocus your life,

to recharge your passions, and

to strengthen your faith.  

Good afternoon.

Image stolen from: http://www.chow.com/galleries/261/new-years-hangover-brunch#!5320/chile-cilantro-hash-browns

Flavor of the Day: Noche Buena

I approached the holidays last year with trepidation. Yes, Christmas is about Jesus. But it's also about family. Celebrating with them. And this time, we're one sister short.

It was the first time I had to "rehearse" Christmas eve. I stood by the tree and practiced not crying on Christmas Eve.

The rehearsal helped. I almost succeeded.


Image from: http://globalmr.com/meat_Chicken_Turkey.htm

Flavor of the Day: Comfort Food

One day in the last quarter of last year, I found myself in a supermarket desperately searching for Ruffles Potato Chips. Because I remembered the very first time I had them was in a US trip with Rita. We tasted it, and we just couldn't believe how potato chips could taste that good. I didn't find the exact flavor I wanted but I loaded whatever I could find into my cart, which was soon filled with chocolates, popcorn, soda, and other junk food.

That night I sat in front of the TV, mindlessly watching some show, maybe with the Kardashians in it. And I went through a big bag of Ruffles, a tub of popcorn, almost a liter of Coke Zero, and some sweet stuff too. In one sitting. I am not big on junk food, but that night I needed, craved uncomplicated comfort food, food that did not require a fine palate.

In the past few months, my search for comfort has gone beyond food. Books. Shoes. Barbies. Clothes. Anything I could grasp, hold tight, consume.

It's sad though that the comfort I really need is really not available. The real thing I want cannot be found on earth.

Image from: http://www.yumsugar.com/Product-Review-Kettle-Krinkle-Cut-Cheddar-Sour-Cream-Chips-8501527

So, for now, comfort food will have to suffice.

Flavor of the Day: Complex

Nine days after my sister, Rita, passed away due to a ruptured brain tumor, I stood at the garden of my parents' home. We were having a dinner party because it's customary to have people over to pray on the ninth day. White tents protected finely decorated dining tables from that night's drizzle. Silver Tiffany(esque) chairs and floral centerpieces gave the event a festive look. And I felt... I felt that something was incongruent with the festivities and the reason for them. I felt there was too much ado, too many social events to mark such a sad occasion. I felt angry. I felt the saddest of sad. I felt... Nothing in my vocabulary could really describe how I felt.

Ten days before Rita left, she first went into coma. As we rushed to the hospital, I felt scared, worried. But nothing prepared me for the news that we were about to receive that afternoon. That her tumor bled, and the blood filled up 40% of her brain, and that it could only get worse. That she was as good as gone. Though that report got me crying instantly, its meaning still did not sink in right away. I went to the ICU and talked to her, urging her to wake up. In the most cheerful voice I could muster, "Wake up, Rita, we have to shop for books!" In full denial of the reality that she was gone. Though her body was there, breathing, she was never going to wake up. That night, when I went home, I cried hysterically, refusing to accept the worst possible eventuality. I kicked and screamed. I felt like throwing up. I wanted to strip off my skin. I wanted to reverse time. I wanted to escape, but I didn't know how.

As we waited for days in the hospital, we went through a host of emotions and actions. There were times when we hoped for and believed in a miracle; the miracle we really wanted was for Rita to wake up. Obviously, that didn't happen, but there were other miracles of love and enlightenment that gave meaning to the suffering. There came a point when we had to just let her go, and we even had to verbalize to her that we were letting her move on, even when she was brain dead and we were not sure about what she could hear or understand. But even as we said those words, we knew that we were thinking contradictory thoughts. We were not ready to let her go. We wanted her to wake up, smiling her awesome,  picture-perfect smile, speaking excitedly in her gentle, loving voice, and we would run to the nearest bookstore to indulge in her only vice. And everything would be fine. Ahh, that hospital room could not hold all the emotions our family felt.

But amid those periods of stress, sadness, fear, our family bonded. We reminisced. We teased each other. We made fun of each other, the way we used to as kids. And we displayed amazing love for Rita, for our parents, and for each other. But of course, there were tears. Each one of us grieved differently. We took turns breaking down into racking sobs. We took turns being strong, comforting the other. And we had to find words to explain to others what was going on.

Even my prayers were complicated. The negotiations. The pleadings. The cries of desperation. The surrender. My prayers changed through the days--at first, selfish prayers, dictating exactly what I wanted God to do, and then eventually, just a faithful prayer of His will be done, because His thoughts were not mine, because my myopic view of the world was nothing compared to His perspective. Because His view saw the joy beyond the mourning. As the chances for a recovery became bleaker by the day, my prayers were channeled towards my family's health, comfort, and understanding. And mine too.

Days before Rita's body finally succumbed, I was already in a state of numbness, my psyche's defense mechanism for staying strong, staying strong for myself and for my family. I stopped crying, and the event manager in me kicked in and started preparing for the logistics of death. I felt guilty that maybe I did not have enough faith for a miracle, but at the same time, I felt that I had to be the responsible one to take on the tasks, so that those who were suffering more pain, a greater loss--my sister's husband, child, and my parents, would not have to worry about the trivial.

And when she finally went, I had the task of accompanying her corpse to the morgue, checking on her hair and make-up and other accouterments. That was surreal, to say the least. Alone with her, at the morgue, checking if she looked fine, touching her and knowing that was not really her anymore--how could I dare describe how I was feeling, when most of the time, I was controlling emotions, but at times, failing to do so, breaking down.

At the wake, I went through the motions. Mostly, I was exhausted. Staying up late, waking up early, being in charge, being social, being strong.

There were so many people. So many people. Some close to our family, some we haven't seen in ages. I've never seen a wake that jampacked with people. I was overwhelmed with the outpouring of love, comfort, and support. I was touched to know how loved my sister was, is. But at the same time, I wanted to be alone in my grief. I wanted to just curl up in a tight little ball and sleep my sadness away.

After the cremation, I dove into work. Not by choice, really. Just driven by commitments previously made. I had to be at my element, do my job, conduct workshops out of town. Sleepless. Restless. I was alone, and I didn't have to be strong for anybody else. And I allowed myself to break down. And grieve. And heal. But I realized, what they said about the phases of grieving--Shock, Anger, Rejection, Acceptance--was too neat a formula for real life. Somebody mourning goes through all that in a matter of minutes, days, weeks, going back and forth, never really following any patterns obediently, logically. You can't dictate to yourself what to think, to feel, or to stop thinking and feeling at will.

I had a friend who would text me and ask me how I was. How I resented that question! I really did. How the (expletive) do you answer that question? How can I begin to answer that in any way that's accurate? How can I properly articulate what I don't know? What I was going through was a melange of emotions that cannot be compartmentalized; it's one big, murky, illogical mess. Sadness, anger, hate, doubt, guilt, denial, grief intermingled with hope, faith, joy, understanding, gratitude. Layers and layers of emotions, gradated grief, some days good, some days bad. I have no words to describe any and all of that.

And then, there was the public purge. Facebook became a source of comfort as I stared at her pictures, trying to remember everything about her face, her life, the times we spent together. And my Facebook status box was just there conveniently for me to release my angst, to vent whatever I was feeling at the moment. Part of me felt some of those thoughts were too private for sharing. But part of me felt that as I shared my humorous musings, those who lost a friend would think that if I, the sister closest to her, could find something to smile, laugh about even while mourning, then there's hope for healing.

And now, thirty days after, when I have not cried about Rita for days, when I could talk to others about the event without my voice breaking, when I could look at her Facebook page without tearing up, thinking I was fine, I suddenly find myself sobbing in the shower. No longer crying in grief, but some selfish, bratty, whine for not getting my way. Because getting my way means a reversal of all that just transpired. I want my sister back! Alive! Here! Now! Not sick! Not dead! I wanted to throw a tantrum the way Rita used to do so when she wanted a pencil case so badly, the way I did when I wanted to finally have denim jeans instead of the frilly dresses my mom made me wear.

Complex. It is complicated. If anybody asks me now, how I am, I guess I'll say fine. Fine because I think I've finally had some rest, some sleep, some periods of normalcy--when that new normalcy includes having one less sister around. Fine. Because when no word can even begin to describe the complexity of the emotions of somebody recovering, trying to recover from the grief, then just go for the briefest of words. Fine. I'm fine.

Image from: http://www.topnews.in/health/glass-red-wine-can-benefit-couch-potatoes-212693

Flavor of the Day: Fresh

This blog's first entry was posted half a year ago. And this is just one of 2010's epic fail. Along with a few reading challenges, the photo journal that never got developed (a pun that those born after the birth of the digital camera will not understand), the plan to fit into size 6 jeans, and still not having the word entrepreneur in my current resume.

There were enough failures in 2010 to make me feel like a loser.

But why do I feel like I had a winning 2010? Why do I remember having had so much fun? Why do I recall uttering countless times, "I love my life!"

I am pushing myself to come up with the 10 best things of 2010, and as usual, I procrastinate. Because it will be difficult to choose just 10. Because I luv, luv, luv my life.

But then again, I do recall taking sobering breaks from the reverie, the levity, the leisure and thinking about things I could do better so I could be better. I think about dreams I have ceased to chase because of contentment, fear, laziness, and other petty excuses.

It's always refreshing to face a new year with a blank page begging to be written on. It's refreshing to have this milestone, this wonderful excuse to forgive one's self and write off the previous year's bloopers and blunders. It's refreshing to look forward to 12 months of promises and possibilities.

So I face 2011 with a fresh vision of:

• reading more
• traveling more
• blogging more often
• praying more
• laughing more
• loving more
• forgiving more
• writing more
• achieving more
• helping more
• giving more
• earning more
• expecting more
• creating more
• discovering more
• learning more and more and more
• exercising, uhm, full pause
• inspiring others
• eating less
• whining less
• regretting less
• weighing less

It is a fresh, new, wonderful year!

Yesterday, Pastor Joey reminded me why I don't believe in luck. Because 2011 is a year of freedom, favor, and fullness. Because 2011 is the year of the Lord. Rabbits don't tell me what kind of year I'm going to have. I don't need to wear the color of the year to prosper. It's the Year of the Lord. And though every year is the year of the Lord, every new year, every new day brings with it a fresh new portion of his unceasing grace, favor, and love!

Image stolen from here: http://wallpapers-diq.com/wp/40__Fresh_Yellow_Lemon.html