"O YOUTH FOREGONE, FOREGOING!"

One rain-soaked morning last month, I had the opportunity to visit Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut with my family and was given a special tour of its vast grounds and historical buildings by my nephew, a recent graduate of that prestigious institution.  The day was relatively cool and the soft shadows cast by the dappled sunlight as they broke through the trees lining the university's sidewalks gave an aura of peace.  There was a smattering of residual grayish clouds from the rain of the previous night but the sunlight seemed to be winning the battle to dominate.  There were only a few students we spotted on campus being a semestral break so it was quiet and our stroll unencumbered by crowds.  I was impressed by the serene ambiance of its campus as well as the stately grandeur and the unique architecture of its buildings for which the university was famous.   The luxuriant green of its immaculate grounds seemed to be in keeping with the fertile minds that passed through its aged halls and even its mighty gates seemed to breathe with the power and exalted air of American academia.  My nephew, an excellent tour guide, recounted the history of the buildings, the works of art, as well as the monuments dotting the grounds in conspicuous locations.  

I did not expect that my experience visiting this 300-year old academic behemoth, despite its prominence,  would yield anything remarkable.  After all, I had been to other prominent institutions of learning before.  But I was wrong, and  looking back, it was something worthy of a July 4th reflection.  For brevity's sake, I would not comment about every area we visited but only on those relevant to the subject at hand.

Renzo, my nephew, "introduced" us first to Dwight Woolsey who served as Yale's longest president.  Apparently, there was a tall tale that rubbing his left foot would bring luck so I thought I would put it to the test.

One of Yale's buildings was named after him - Woolsey Hall - and it was one of those we visited.  From its outside appearance, nothing set it apart from the other buildings of this famed university.  But inside, I was struck by something  extraordinary.  The entrance to its main room was flanked on opposite sides by walls of names. Interestingly, they were not the names of Yale's  most notable alumni that sat or served in the country's political power structure. Neither did it include the Nobel Laureates that passed through its doors, nor of the 19 justices that graced the mighty U.S. Supreme Court, not even those of the 5 U.S. Presidents that were surely the prototype of this Ivy League university's intellectual elitism.  No, those walls bore the names of less prominent Yale alumni, if prominence was measured in terms of power or prestige, but they gave something far more precious to the country they loved, for they gave it their all - their life.  Etched on those walls of marble were ordinary names of men that performed extraordinary feats of valor. They were Yale's priceless contribution to the cause of freedom,  heroes that fought and died in the wars  that America was involved in. On the threshold to the hall, in between these hallowed walls of names, were these words:

"To the men of Yale who gave their lives in the service of their country during the great world wars. The university has dedicated this memorial that their high devotion may pass to others as a living fire.

O youth foregone, foregoing!

O dreams unseen, unsought!

God give you joy of knowing

  What life your death has bought."

As we continued our tour, a monument to another icon of patriotism came into view - the Nathan Hale statue.  "I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country."  Inscribed in bronze on the base of the statue, these stirring last words captured the courage and defiance of this youthful hero of the American Revolutionary War.  Standing in front of Yale's Connecticut Hall where he once resided, his likeness,  perched proudly in a solemn, dignified stance, is a reminder of countless sacrifices offered by freedom-loving Americans for a cause greater than life.  I stood beside the building with the marker bearing his name and reflected on his short life of 21 years  that denied him of a future filled with promise and countless possibilities.

Yet Nathan Hale and the faceless men with names inscribed on the walls of Woolsey Hall are just among the millions of American heroes whose courage and love of country are the foundations that made America great.  Their remains are not always encased in a vaulted tomb; their deeds are frequently not memorialized in cold marbles; their image are seldom depicted in  a lonely plaque in some forgotten park. But their spirit, that raw, undaunted courage to fight for an ideal, to die for the truth they believe in, shines in the dark nights of tyranny to live once more in the hearts of patriots and free men.  Like the  mythical phoenix, that spirit of courage is reborn in any man who understands that freedom is an unalienable right from a Supreme Creator and not handed out in a random fashion according to the whims of power-driven despots.

America, the greatest country in the world, is a land borne of sacrifice and patriotism of its citizens whose greatest gift bestowed to generations of Americans is what we are celebrating today - FREEDOM!  On this fateful day in 1776, fifty-six American patriots risked their safety, their fortunes, and everything they possessed for a cause and an ideal.  Their sacrifice, stamped with their sacred honor and signed as a hallowed document is a cherished gift, our legacy to greatness. We have a solemn obligation to sanctify that gift, to consecrate that sacrifice thereby giving justice to numberless lives cut short, to tomorrows that never came, to the futures never redeemed.  Today, let us celebrate freedom, knowing that in its sacred altar are the blood of heroes,  and let us pledge:

O valiant souls, departed,

O sons of sacrifice.

We'll live your dreams, undaunted

In freedom's hall of might.

Yale University's tour was a wonderful, informative, edifying  experience.  But before too long, I would probably only retain part of that memory.  I would cease to remember the subtle chill of the day, how the green, damp grass on its immense grounds felt under my feet, how the bright brick-encrusted walls of some of its buildings belied their age.  I would forget the aura of age-old intellectualism that seemed to bounce off its library of ancient volumes that, for a book-lover like myself,  presented an irresistible magnetic pull.  One of these days, I would no longer recall the almost reverential awe I felt entering its massive gates. But there was one thing I would always remember:  that through those gates heroes entered and departed and we are a free people because of them and others like them.  Hopefully, like the magic luck from  Dwight Woolsey's shoe,  thinking about what they  had given us  would rub on some obscure patriotic spot in our heart and the lucky charm of freedom would never slip away from our grasp.  Today, let us remember and honor those who fell in the dark of night.  Let us pay homage to the selfless acts of valor of countless Americans from every walk of life who offered the ultimate sacrifice for our country that we might be blessed with a resplendent gift  - freedom in all its brilliant facets! May we be worthy, I pray.

WHEN DREAMS MUST DIE

(Taken on May 14, 2003, thirty years ago, on my pinning ceremony).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQ3VcW4z5gQ

"A wish is a dream your heart makes."  As the music droned on from the soundtrack of a classic Disney movie when I was listening to the radio one day, the haunting melody and poignant words evoked some repressed memories.  There is something about dreams, and wishes, and ideals that clings to the fringes of the emotion, especially the unfulfilled ones,  and refuses to be expunged by time.  Like an old, forgotten verse, once in a while, touched by some imaginary hand, they struggle to the surface where again they roam free and coax the mind to recollect, to remember,  with an unbidden ache.

Childhood dreams may come and go.  They can change as abruptly as they appear in the fickle and impressionistic mind of the young as they observe life and develop self-awareness.  But to use age as a barometer to dreams that last will be grossly inaccurate.  There are those dreams from long ago that may continue to dwell in some obscure corner of one's life and there they may stay like some aged jewels untarnished by time, though they may never find fulfillment.  In the jostling match between dreams and reality, reality always wins for dreams are usually fantasies of the heart, some whimsical, romanticized version of what is valid and authentic.  Such was my dream, perhaps.

It might come as a surprise to some if I said I never dreamed, much less wanted, to be a nurse.  When I was growing up, some of the girls I knew talked about their ambitions, what they wanted to be when they grew up.  I remembered that most of them were keen on pursuing a teaching profession and the others wanted to be a nurse for reasons more superficial, almost banal, rather than altruistic.   They were drawn by the white, starched uniform and the nurses cap that during those times were the sartorial marks of the profession.  As a child, I didn't think I had ever shown interest in those girly talks because I was leaning toward a less conventional pursuit for a female during the fifties.  I could not recall my exact age when I decided I wanted to be a lawyer but as I got older, that dream intensified as I nurtured some idealistic perceptions of what the world should be, something devoid of injustice and where truth and righteousness reigned.  In my dream, I was some sort of a female superhero defending the oppressed and the underprivileged who fell victims to the abuses of the justice system.  As I entered high school, I developed an avid interest in government and the political process  and excelled in those subjects, especially in college.  I ran for leadership positions, participated in speaking contests, became a member of the oratorical and debating club in college and pursued extra-curricular activities that enhanced my critical thinking skills.  Majoring in English as an undergrad in preparation to law school, I thought I was on my way to being an "avenging angel" to the falsely accused and dispossessed.  But life propelled me to a fork on the road where I took another way leading to a different destination.  I found it sharing a common thread with Robert Frost's poetic description:

The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth; 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back. 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference. 

I took the divergent path with the decisiveness borne of necessity and with the full knowledge that it was leading me away from my dream.  But a greater dream prevailed, one that involved the people I love most.  

 When we came to the United States, the youngest of our 3 children was 2 years old.  The older 2 where of school age but our youngest would have to be left to a baby sitter if I had to work.  I, therefore, looked for a job which would let me stay home with her during the day when my husband was working so  I became a nursing assistant on graveyard shift in a long-term care facility.   Six months into my job, I entered the nursing program in a local college to get my RN degree.  Working full time and carrying a full load while also raising our children, I was told I was crazy.  Two of my best friends in school encouraged me to stop working and just apply for financial aid like they did.  They said I could not do it with that kind of load if I wanted to pass the tough RN curriculum.  But my husband and I, both with our own share of idealism and stubborn pride, rejected the idea, agreed we did not want to be liabilities to the government so we shared the household responsibilities and made a lot of sacrifices.  Those years were not a walk in the park, by any means, especially with the glut of responsibilities I carried.   It was at a time like those that I realized I had to draw strength from a Power greater than mine.  The last semester in the Nursing Program was the most nerve-wracking and students' apprehension and panic hang heavy in the air.  Out of the 120 candidates for graduation, only 90 of us made it.  The other 30 were held back for another semester for not passing the daunting Skills Test that was the most dreaded area of the finals.  Successfully graduating in May 1983,  I subsequently passed the NCLEX with flying colors the following July.  I immediately landed a job in the oncology unit of a local hospital, was offered an ADON position 9 months after in another facility,  and became the Director of Nursing one year after.   Other opportunities for growth came after that which honed my clinical and management skills in different areas of nursing.  As a nurse manager, I thrived in the challenges that tested my organizational and decision-making skills and I felt I found the niche in my career.

My "road less traveled" brought me to new avenues of learning and fulfillment while also providing my family with the financial stability needed in a new land.  When our 2 oldest children went to college at the same time (our son was accelerated and finished high school in three years, thus, catching up with his sister), I worked 1 1/2 jobs so they would not be saddled with student loans after graduation.  Although both had scholarships, there were other expenses associated with college that we needed to take care of.  Aside from my husband's job, my profession provided us with a strong financial anchor so all our children went to college without incurring any debt.  That was a tremendous blessing for people who prided in hard work and self-reliance.

The path I left untraveled still beckoned and I attempted to come back to that proverbial fork on the road. When our two oldest were still in college, I decided I would finally go to law school so I worked on all the necessary preparations - took my LSAT, got written recommendations from professionals in medical and legal professions, then applied for admission to one of Chicago's law schools, only to find out that I could not work on my freshman year.  It was required that all freshmen be full-time students and sophomores could only work part-time.  With two children in college, there was no way I could do that so the plan was dropped to my disappointment.  Still, it did not deter me.  After we moved to Las Vegas, one of the first things I did was check the local university but found out that the college of law was not yet opened.  By the time it did open, I was again a nursing manager in one of the local facilities which I really enjoyed so the motivation to go back to school considerably lessened until I decided to just focus on my nursing career. 

By and large, nursing has given me tremendous opportunities to serve others, that main driving force that kept my ambition to be a lawyer alive.   Like an alternative to an unattainable first love,  the nursing profession has grown on me as it provided me with a springboard to make a difference in the lives of those who have much to endure.   Many a time,  I have rejoiced with those who were fortunate to return to normal health, but on the same breath, I have come face to face with pain and suffering, stared in the sullen eyes of disease and ill health, gripped the cold hands of death as it claimed its victims and mourned with those who were left behind.  I have learned empathy, nurtured my sensitivity to the plight of those who suffered and gained a deeper understanding of human nature that in turn, I hope, made me a better person.   I have come to realize that nursing is the best school to cultivate what is human in all of us, that it is not merely a set of skills and knowledge that needs to be perfected, although it certainly would be a tremendous help in the performance of the tasks involved.  But I have always believed it would not matter much if a nurse could start an IV blindfolded  if her heart is cold.  Nursing is much more than a set of vital signs or an expertise in a given skill; it is deeper than that.  It is giving of yourself; it is drawing from the depths of humanity within you to alleviate  the physical, mental, and emotional challenge of others with compassion.  It is caring and loving, it is serving those who suffer as they deal with pain and try to cope with the nether side of life's strange dichotomies. It asks a lot, but it gives back by transforming the heart.  I am a nurse and am grateful for that. 

There is a time in a person's dream world when morning intrudes and shatters the sweet illusions of the dream.  For me, the stars will probably remain untouched, the future wanting of expected glory.   Reality,  even with its dreaded ache and pain intensified by a sense of loss,  must be faced in the aftermath,  for  morning will always  come to chase the dream away.  It is now time to wake up.  Strangely, however, reality brings an esoteric satisfaction that the dream, even with all its illusory beauty and wonder, never will.   Today, I face the sunlight with gratitude albeit with the grudging acceptance that there are things that will never be. But there are blessings gained at every turn, for dreaming, for hoping, for trying, blessings which make the goal, though incomplete, a victory half-won.

Today is my morning, when dreams must die. 

CLASS REUNION

Fifty years post high school graduation !  To put them in perspective, they're equivalent to  2, 600 weeks or 18, 250 days or 438,000 hours.  Unequivocally, they spanned a lifetime and a reunion was in order.   It was an event that was farthest from the minds of 49 young faces from Majayjay Standard Academy that marched to their high school graduation song on March 29, 1963.  Their bright smiles  and eager eyes were hopeful and excited for the future, for the chance to carve a niche in some hallowed walls in the great amphitheater of the world.   They were fresh and brawny; they were full of dreams; they were smart, and they were ready.  So each ventured to conquer their legacy to the future to the beat of their own drum. Most went on to explore less known horizons, others searched the beaten paths for golden opportunities, while some decided to stay on the solid and secure grounds of home.

The date was set for the 9th of March 2013 to gather and remember.  The group had been broken with deaths and other personal catastrophies but the remaining members were excited and enthusiastic.  Five of us who were based abroad initiated the preparations and corroborated with three members who resided locally.  Due to the inadequate access to present communication methods, a lot of legwork was required to disseminate the information to those who resided locally but almost everyone that could be reached was informed.  Eding Almonte and Minnie Gordula, both from Chicago,  were unable to attend but they generously sent some monetary help since the expenses would be solely borne by those coming from abroad. A recent U.S. immigrant, Diorme Estebal, also expressed his regrets, as well as Amor Sobrevinas, a merchant marine.   He was summoned to his ship to cover an emergency  but also did not forget to send some funds. Robert Romero, Lita Arceta, Norma Urgel, Rollie Rondilla, and myself,  were in frequent communication via email or phone and plans were relayed to Marino Sunga, Danny Oconer, and Necy Coprada who made sure that things were progressing on their end.  As the day drew near, Lita flew in from Australia and she and Necy picked up Norma and me from the airport on March 5.  Robert flew in from Guam on the same day and arrived a couple of hours later.  We waited for him at the airport because we would be staying in his Antipolo house for a couple of days.  Robert drove Necy's car after he instructed his brother to drive his car home and we reached Antipolo around midnight.  After a lot of catching up on each other's lives and a midnight snack of hot pan de sal, we settled for the night.  The next couple of days was a whirlwind of activities - going to Greenhills and other malls, pampering ourselves in a massage/spa nearby, but most of all, satisfying our palates with local gastronomic fares.  We ate - and ate like gluttons -  and my digestive system, not being used to such excesses, started to become uncomfortable. 

On Thursday, we headed for Majayjay with Necy taking the wheels since Robert opted not to come until the next day.  Norma Urgel and I stayed with Lita and her mom in their nice Origuel home and were treated with homegrown kindness and hospitality all throughout our stay.  The word traveled fast about our arrival and there was a constant flow of visitors, mostly of old classmates who wanted to say hi and get updates about the reunion.  The next day was spent finalizing things.  Marino and Danny gave us a tentative head count and Lita followed up on the food order while I just oversaw things.  I had the program ready and reviewed how things should flow with those who were involved.  The weather concerned us a bit with sudden rains creating small puddles but we tried to conquer our apprehension and hoped we would be blessed with sunshine the next day.

A beautiful Majayjay morning greeted us with a subdued sunshine and a tolerable dose of humidity.  Around 9 AM, we drove to the back of the church which was our gathering place.  A few people were already there and the others showed up in Filipino time style, but the excited mood of the group made waiting endurable.  The town fiesta was coming in three days so there were a lot of vendors selling their wares in makeshift tents lined along the main street in front of the church.  There was a horde of pan handlers that included a number of children that followed us everywhere asking for alms.  There were no beggars in town when I was growing up so I asked my friends why they were all over the place.  I was told they were bused (by whoever) to towns having their fiesta so they were really not local.  I was surprised at how aggressive they were because they were just on people's faces  with their outstretched arms,  saying, "Pahingi pera, pahingi pera,  pahingi".  It was a bothersome scene and the empty eyes of small children carried by young mothers in their threadbare outfits were gut-wrenching but there were too many of them  that giving something to one would surely create chaos.  Well, I'm digressing. 

               Half had gone to a better place, some had other plans, but we're here and that's what really counted.

Before we left for Majayjay Bed and Breakfast,  which would be the reunion venue, we hastily lined up on the church's back steps for a picture taking.  If it was hard to organize a group of active children, it was more of a challenge to get a bunch of adults, some of whom had not seen each other for half a century, to follow instructions.  There was a constant chatter, peals of laughter, a friendly "hello", a shoulder tap here, a  rush to stand next to someone over there.  Finally, everyone managed to stand still and smile for the cameras.  The sunshine was getting stronger and I had to don my sunglasses to curb its intense brightness that was always a problem for my "Lasik" modified eyes.  We tied yellow balloons to the vehicles we're using and with Marino and Danny on their respective motorcycles on the lead, we drove around the town.  The streets, wherever we went, were full of people, mostly children of varied ages.  That little motorcade gave me the chance to see the changes that had occurred in my hometown during the last half century and I was distressed at how this picturesque little municipality that held so much promise had been brought to such a pitiful state of deterioration.  I still had a vivid mental picture of the old Majayjay, the town of my youth, with its clean streets and old but well-tended homes, with the impressive plaza that boasted an iconic hero's monument overlooking a bridge from colonial times, with the clean tennis court next to the municipal building where dances and other town activities were held.  Those structures were still present but they were shabby and in a sad state of disrepair.  There were children running everywhere, adults standing around busy with inactivity.  There were debris, broken vehicles that were just left to rot along the road,  unmended fences, old, abandoned homes. The houses, in some areas, seemed to rival the grungy and unkempt  appearance of "barong-barongs" while right next to them stood a modern, beautiful home.  One of the things that bothered me the most was the presence of an inordinate amount of vehicles - jeepneys, tricycles, motorbikes, etc - that rendered walking on the streets virtually unsafe.  What happened to my town?  Where were the leaders and what were they doing about these pathetic situations?  Sorry, I'm digressing... again. 

Back to the reunion.  As soon as we got to the B&B, we rearranged the tables and chairs in a "T" to enable us to sit together as a group.  The food and servers were ready but we decided we would incorporate the lunch somewhere in the middle of the program.  As we were waiting for the rest of the vehicles to arrive, we saw an approaching SUV that didn't seem familiar.  At closer inspection, we recognized the passengers were Ramon Latina and his wife, Debbie.  We had given up on Ramon's participation after he assured us he wasn't coming due to his busy schedule combined with other reasons.  His decision was causing some resentments and grumbling among many of us because we did not believe his reason was legitimate.  Ramon was an integral part of our high school "Who's Who" so it was easy to understand why his absence, without a compelling cause,  was unacceptable.   Personally, he and Robert Romero were the brothers I never had.  We were a frequent three-some, studying together, walking around town to some "bikang-bikang" party (lol), going to the tennis court to see a dance, or just simply hanging out on a lazy Friday night.  We were a band of "brothers" that stayed close even during the early years of college  but we slowly drifted apart as life pulled us in different directions.  Robert and I reconnected after we both got married but I never saw or heard from Ramon until we had our last reunion four years ago.  A retired lawyer now, he had not lost that winsome personality that endeared him to everyone but his once wavy black hair had been replaced by a headful of gray that he did not seem interested hiding in a bottle of dark dye.   So here he was walking on the soft, rain-soaked lawn of the B&B,  and we were ecstatic!  Like unrestrained little tots, Necy, Lita, and I ran to meet him and his wife, hugged them, and expressed our appreciation for their presence.   Everyone cheered when they saw them and I bet the overwhelming reception really touched their hearts.  But what a difference 50 years made!  Ramon had grown from a skinny teenager with those teasing brown eyes to a mature, self-assured, but slightly heavy-set adult that continued to charm others with his trademark self-effacing grin. 

                                                                       Ramon and Debbie getting ready to go.

As soon as everyone showed up, I gave the go-signal for Marino to start the program.  He was a very capable emcee with the smoothness and ad-libbing expertise that could rival a TV talk-show host.  He had the stage presence of a seasoned performer and his warm singing voice captivated the audience as he belted out old ditties during the Karaoke segment towards the end of the program.  Ramon started with an invocation and I followed with my welcome remarks.   Robert Romero recognized the attendees and read off from  the list the names of those who had passed on.  There was a noticeable hush of poignant recollection as he requested the group to remember those departed souls - old friends - in prayer.   Mrs. Linsangan, our guest teacher, arrived a little late, so we made some changes on the program and decided to have lunch first.  She arrived shortly after lunch was announced.  Nena Dorado offered grace and soon, we all lined up to fill our plate.   Food was plentiful and everyone enjoyed the sumptuous self-served Filipino favorites of pancit, dinuguan and puto, chicken adobo in coconut milk, grilled fish with tomatoes, onions and herbs on the side,  chicken curry, and other side dishes I could not recall because I was more interested in talking than eating at that time.  The program resumed after lunch and the attendees were invited to give a personal profile update.  Everyone spoke and in their revelations,  we caught a glimpse of the proverbial water flowing under the bridge of time as they gave a synopsis of how the intervening years treated them.  It was interesting to note how our lives that started  on the same focal point deviated so far from one  another, that now, our divergent interests and lifestyles, especially of those who had left the country, seemed foreign and unfamiliar to most.   Regardless, there were those common threads that would always link us to each other, that easy camaraderie and affection nurtured during those years in high school that time was unable to erase.  I would have written a number of interesting volumes had I the inclination to do so as I listened to each one recount the highlights of his/her past.  It would be a mistake to assume that only those who had finished a college degree or those who had the opportunity to go abroad were successful,  for success was not something that could be defined in singular terms or fashioned into one distinct, specific mold.  Indisputably, it could be measured in different yardsticks in an arbitrary manner outside the materialistic and rigid definition of the world.  Fame, money, and power had long been considered the attributes of success.  But in the lives of this small group of MSA alumni, that narrow framework had expanded to include the more lasting - and more meaningful - elements of success.  Love, sacrifice, hard work, selfless service:  they were the common denominators in everyone's life as they dedicated their productive years in helping their parents, their siblings, and other close relatives pursue an education,  start a business and other productive endeavors to improve their lives.  There was no easy start for any of us it seemed,  but success, if it could be quantified and bottled, would fill every nook of our old town from the Class of '63 alone.   That verbal exercise undoubtedly touched some raw fibers of the emotion and some tears were shed but those were interspersed with hilarity and light moments of laughter.  After everyone had the chance to speak.  Mrs. Linsangan was presented with a bouquet of flowers as the group's token of appreciation for her attendance and support.  She gave a brief remark in her usual amiable manner and candor that made her one of the most beloved classroom figures  of our MSA years.

Marino, our emcee.

Robert Romero with Marino and Ramon (on the foreground)

                                                                     Stiff competitors Lydia and Nena  - Musical Chairs game

My dear old friend, Lydia Montemor-Palentinos

                                                                                  The young ones (once).

As the evening drew closer, we took advantage of the remaining daylight hours for a group picture.  It was followed with "Let-your-hair-loose" time of games and Karaoke singing.  The games brought out the raucous and competitive nature of the participants especially as gifts were distributed to each category  winner.   There were good-natured banterings and jokes directed to the losers but eventually, everyone had won something from the stash of prizes  brought by the "foreign" class members.  Dusk was falling when the gathering ended.  Everyone seemed reluctant to leave except for Ramon and his wife and Mrs Linsangan and her son who were traveling back to  Metro Manila and San Pablo, respectively.  Torio Ronabio, an honorary class member and a vice-mayoral candidate, invited the whole group to his restaurant at 4:00 PM the next day.  Happy with the knowledge that merriment was being extended, the group dispersed and called it a day.

The whole group of attendees with Mrs. Lucia Linsangan.

At Torio's place, the day after.

Lita, Norma, Necy, Robert, Danny, and I - returned to the B&B later to spend the night in their "Bahay-Kubo", one of the buildings on the compound.  Three of us, tired from the day's activities, took advantage of the cozy accommodations and went to bed  right away.  Necy and the boys, however, stayed until 3 AM playing Mah-jong to the constant drip-drip sound of an all-night drenching rain.   It seemed a fitting finale to our class reunion, a day steeped in grateful appreciation to a loving Eternal Father for the blessings of the last fifty years on the lives of us who were still around to enjoy the sunshine, a restful sleep, and the calming rhythm of the falling rain.   With an unwavering faith that the clouds would lift from the horizon to give way to a clear day, I gave in to the enticing power of sleep.  I closed my eyes,  secure in the knowledge that I was prepared, albeit unwittingly,  to salute the many uncharted dawns of the remaining golden years (and reunions) ahead.  

The Mah-jongeros.  Necy wiped out the 2 guys.

Lita and I slept here.   Danny slept on the floor below.

Obet occupied the top bunk; Necy, the bottom bunk (lol).  Norma U took the other bed  across from us (not shown).

After a wonderful breakfast the following morning (I'll always remember that fresh guyabano juice).

“May the road rise up to meet you; may the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields. And until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.”  - An Irish Blessing -

When "So Long" Is "Goodbye"

It started with a notice (names/places were left blank to protect the privacy of individuals/places concerned) :

December 17, 2012
(Inside Address)

(Salutation),
After a careful and thoughtful consideration, I have come to a decision that is life-changing but timely. I am, therefore, giving my formal notice of resignation effective on the closing hours of Friday, January 4, 2013.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you and ______ for your kind support and trust in my ability as I fulfilled the duties of my position. I also appreciate the opportunities you have given me to grow in the role and responsibilities that defined that position.

Likewise, I would like to extend my gratitude to all the staff of ________, especially those I closely worked with in my capacity as Staff Development Director. I would not have done the responsibilities of my job effectively without their valuable help and support.

It was a wonderful six- year stint that was both professionally and personally rewarding. I will always treasure the knowledge and experiences I gained during my employment here as well as the friendships I have developed.

May you continue to be the guiding force of this facility as it serves the needs of the mentally challenged in the community. You, and others like you, deserve the highest accolade for making psychiatric nursing your cause, your life’s mission.

Sincerely,

(Signature)

A swirl of mixed emotions raged through me that day but there was one that for the last few months had always prevailed and became the impetus for such a life-changing choice.   So, stepping into this retirement milestone did not actually start with the above letter.  It slowly built up and progressed to  fever-pitch proportions with each passing day and brought on by various factors, professional and personal.  Age is one of those, of course, not age per se, but the changes associated with it.  I'm blessed with good health but there were days when getting up early to come to work was not easily welcome especially during those cold winter mornings when spending a few minutes more in a warm and cozy bed was a craved luxury.   Working full time seemed a hindrance to a lot of things I wanted to do:  visiting my children and grandchildren without thinking I had to go home after a couple of days because I needed to go to work, enjoying a stroll in the park unfazed by the thought that there were household chores that needed to be done because I couldn't do them during work days, sitting quietly reading an engrossing novel, supporting a civic or religious cause, traveling, writing, experimenting on a new-found recipe.   Although I never allowed myself to be completely encumbered by a full-time employment in doing the things I put my mind into,  there were limitations to time that hindered a full appreciation - and therefore, enjoyment - of the activity.

Professionally, I felt boredom, the beast that robbed creativity, slowly setting in.  I was becoming a clock-watcher and my abhorrence to attending the meetings required for someone in my position was escalating.  I had always prided in my work ethics, in doing a top-notch performance in whatever job responsibility I had and I didn't think I'd lost that.  But the interest, that inner fire that always propelled me to do something over and beyond what was expected of me and which completely justified my "Exceeds Standard" evaluation year after year was slowly and methodically being extinguished from within and without.  There was that classic but destructive way, I think,  by which a good worker was being rewarded, or unjustifiably punished,   if someone was taking the negative point of view.  More and more work assignments, even those outside the work performance standards that defined my job, were being added to my duties as they were unloaded from those who were not completing those assignments.  At first, I accepted them with equanimity tinged - if I must be honest about it - with a sense of pride, however tepid, for being given a task someone was unable to satisfactorily accomplish.   Those were challenges I met head-on regardless of the time commitment they entailed.  Some of them were simple, one-time tasks, but there were those that were permanently added to my already loaded plate of responsibilities.   I was the go-to person, the give-it-to-Norma-she-knows-it hospital entity.  I was feeling the strain and resentment was not too far behind..  There were perks to my position that nurses working in the hospital units did not have.  Besides the good pay, I had my own office and the privacy it offered.  I could work at my own hours although that flexibility I only took within reason and I still basically followed a fixed schedule.  I loved my job, the opportunities built into it to teach the staff, prepare the materials and perform in-services and trainings, interact with various instructors and management of schools the hospital had clinical agreements with, perform regular audits to ensure regulatory standards were met, etc.  But the daily pressure brought on by added assignments was wearing me down and my three-score and seven years body was starting to give me stress signals.   Therefore, I decided it was time to enter a new phase in my continual desire to find self-fulfillment.  I just received my annual evaluation a month prior  that delineated my above- standard performance and, like a seasoned athlete, I wanted to leave at the top of my game.  After a nursing career that spanned 3 decades both in the clinical and management areas, I couldn't leave a legacy less than exceptional.

After I submitted my resignation, the word traveled fast among the various hospital circles and I was inundated with "whys" and "who's gonna take your position" barrage of questions.  I received a lot of emails and phone calls expressing regrets and good luck wishes from staff.  A party was organized by a group of nurses that, due to the holidays, was held post my retirement date.  They came with gifts and well-wishes and we had a wonderful dinner in one of the casino-hotels in town.  On my last day at work, I went to say goodbye to the staff in the different units of the hospital and plenty of hugs were shared with people that became, not only work associates, but my friends during the last six years.   It was sad and in some rare moments, I found myself questioning the sensibility of my decision.  Was I fool-hardy to leave a good-paying job  especially in the state of today's economy?  Was it a well-thought decision?  Would I miss the interaction with people, the opportunity to make a difference in the lives of those we serve?  Wouldn't I get bored just staying home?  But the pull to the benefits of being retired was stronger which easily dispelled my doubts, and like Caesar, I bravely cast the dice and crossed the Rubicon.

Friday, January 4, my last day.  I finished packing the last personal items I still had and finalized tying some loose ends on the job I was endorsing to one of my staff since no one had been hired yet to replace me.  There were a lot of people I would not be able to say goodbye, especially those working on other shifts,  so I decided to compose the following email to send to everyone:

Dear ____________ Staff,

A famous quote that evoked a sentiment of regret was penned by the American poet, John Greenleaf Whittier, who said: “Of all the sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, “It could have been.”” The time and season and circumstances of which those thoughts were written were far different from those I found myself today and so a little deviation from that classic sentiment was probably in order. With my apologies to the renowned poet, I’d like to say the saddest expression could be summed up in a single word: “Goodbye”.

Therefore, I will not say goodbye. It is cold, definitive, so hauntingly final. Yet, I will not pass up this opportunity to thank each and everyone of you for all the support and help you have given me as I discharged my responsibilities as Director of Staff Development during my six years of employment in this hospital. I know that during some future mindless hours, when the seconds tick by and I’m bored to tears, or in those quiet moments in the wee mornings in Spring when sleep departs without pity, that I will take a retrospective trip to the past. I will recall the voices and faces of all of you as you work with love and dedication to give the least of society the dignity and respect they need and crave but so often fail to receive. I will remember your smile through the challenges that you face every day, the caring that does not fail to show even during the most hectic moments when even taking a short break will be a well-deserved  luxury. The soft sunshine or the merciless heat, the quiet whisper of the wind during a courtyard stroll, the sprint of determined steps when duty calls, the noise, the rush, the calm, the occasional silence, will remind me of every work day I used to spend with you. I will recall the kindness and cooperation you have given me as I come to you for something I need, your words of understanding when times are tough and I almost forcefully drag you to come to a training or an in-service. I will hear again in my thoughts your enthusiastic “Hi” seasoned with a warm smile as we pass each other by. Again, the tender feelings will return like the surge of waves before an undertow, and they will sustain me in the long days ahead.
Cling to the best in you;  hold on to what you believe is right, and remember that appreciation, though not often verbally expressed is lurking beneath each look of unfeigned gratitude from every patient you have helped, from everyone you have discharged to their family or the community. Although most of them do not last and they return, some earlier than a fortnight, we cannot imagine that feeling of emancipation, that sense of being free, and you made it happen. Your work, your mission, your duty, are immensely important. You have set your heart and soul in helping those whose lives will be far worse without you and such task should give you a satisfaction far more compelling and fulfilling than things money can buy. You are the unsung heroes of mental health and you should carry that badge of honor with pride. May you understand your worth and know that it is something no one can take away. I want to say, “I will see you in the beaches of the world”, but when that fails, as dreams often do, I will look for your unnamed faces in the halls of heroes where good work, commitment, and dedication are still the yardstick for which greatness is measured. So long!

Seize the day,

(Signature)

Darkness had fallen at 5:30  that winter evening when I closed for the final time the door to my office.   I took a last look at everything it contained, glanced at its four walls that became my sanctuary and honest witnesses to the nuances of my daily tasks,  the silent ears to every verbal communication I conducted within their confines,  and I wondered if the Book of Life would confirm the personal assessment I had pronounced on my performance.  I most sincerely hoped so.  I traversed the short hallway leading to the back door, swiped my badge for the last time and walked out.  As I heard the "clang" of the closing door, I walked forward with my head high and listened to the faint, undefined sounds of the coming night.   There was peace in their quiet; there was a beckoning calm that urged me to move forward and claim the future  pregnant with  hope.  And I smiled,  trusting in the unspoken promise.  Silently, I whispered to the unseen past, "So long"!   But I know it's goodbye.

My Mother: A Journey of Sacrifice

(Published on the online magazine "Hopscotch For Women" on May 9, 2010)

Today is Mother’s Day. I have been motherless for 20 years having lost her to the sly hand of stroke at age 78. Today, being her day, I seek to honor her by embarking on a sentimental journey, a trip down memory lane.


Even after two decades, and especially on Mother's Day, I still missed her.   That lonely hollow clutch in the fringes of the heart, that cold sensation of nothingness might not be as intense as when I missed her on my first day of school when I was suddenly propelled into an unknown world of classrooms, and strange children, and a stern pedagogue, but the longing for her was there, an unmistakable, swirling internal emotion.


Time had robbed me of a sharp and complete recollection of the long-winding rough road that was her life, but it could never take away the feeling that I was loved. Strangely but understandably, due to the life-long influence of a culture that frowned on overt demonstrations of affection, I could not remember she ever told me she loved me. But even as a child, I never doubted that she did. Shown in her care, in her uncomplaining sacrifice, in her selfless dedication so I could have what she could give, my mother had exemplified the true measure of a mother’s love. It was a source of peace and emotional security that carried me through the many upheavals and challenges of growing up in an economically dispossessed and physically abusive environment. Protecting me many times from the merciless hands of my father who could strike even at the least provocation, she usually bore the burden of his brutality.

I could still see her in a nostalgic stretch of my mind’s eye traversing an open field, carrying a bundle of kindlings in a small village where I grew up in my native Philippines. Upon arriving home, she hurriedly started a fire in an open stove to cook a meager dinner to feed her brood of five. The tableau of memories lengthened and in a long uphill road from a river filled with outcroppings of rocks, she again came into focus. This time, she was carrying on her head a big basin of laundered clothes. Her tired steps, as she ascended the road leading to her very humble dwelling, were slow and strenuous. But there was lightness in her heart because the clean clothes she just finished washing were for some affluent patrons. Her day’s work would bring enough money to feed her family and at least for today, her children would not go hungry. The scene of the past stretched further in my store of memories. Now, she was dressed in her unpretentiously simple Sunday best. Her usually tired and haggard countenance had been startlingly transformed. There was a spring in her footsteps and her happy smile brought an unfamiliar radiance to her sun-browned face. With other parents, she made her way to the seats arranged in the town plaza and was led by an usher to one of the front row seats. That sunny, humid day in March more than forty years ago, the oppressive tropical heat lost its battle to dominate because her mother’s heart was filled with an all-encompassing warmth of satisfaction and pride. There on the stage, as the whole town watched and listened to the high school graduation activities, her oldest daughter’s voice rang decisive and clear as she delivered the valedictory address.  In her exultant heart, she felt that for every curved ball that life had mercilessly served in her direction, that moment was her accolade, her reward, even her vindication.  That was her moment... as it was mine.

That day did not end her struggles, however, but it became the catalyst that jump-started better days. Four years that spanned my acquiring a college degree followed. With a scholarship that would take care of my college tuition, I was determined to complete a degree, change the course of my life, and break the chain of poverty that plagued my family from generations past. My mother remained steadfast in her support of my efforts although she was unable to extend it financially. After my freshman year, I was able to land a job that supported myself and, in a limited capacity, also my family. My graduation from college was another milestone that was achieved after seemingly unconquerable odds, but my mother, although standing on the sidelines, boosted my strength through encouragement when it was waning, silently cheered me on as I drew close to my goal until I stepped with firm footing on the much-sought- after finish line.


After I got married, my mother stayed with us and helped me raise my 3 children as my husband and I pursued our career goals. I tried to give her the financial stability that eluded her all her life, but even as I did, what she gave in return was more precious. Her delight and care for her grandchildren was an extension of the enduring love she had for me and a testimony to the unfathomable depth of her selfless spirit that sustained her through the dark earlier years.


When my children were 8, 6, and 2 years old, my husband and I decided to migrate to the United States in a quest for a better life. With a heavy heart, I had to bid farewell to my mother and leave her to the care of my siblings. She stoically bore the unhappiness and despondency brought about by her separation from her grandchildren to, yet again, support my decision. When we left, there were tears, there were words of advice, but there were no complaints or rumblings of self-pity or dejection. She knew from experience that life would not dole out its treasures to those who seek not; that the aspirations of a parent for the future of his children were boundless, yet exacting and entailed sacrificing.


I saw her one final time before the cold grasp of death claimed her mortality. She was weak and mildly impaired physically from the initial stroke that took her life 2 years later. However, even during that last meeting, the strength of her spirit manifested in its grandest form. Stooped from the ravages of osteoporosis, the stroke also left her with a limp and slightly affected her speech but her welcome hug was strong, her tears of joy articulated unequivocally her unexpressed feelings. But I did not know it was goodbye.

My mother! She belonged to that extra-special genre of humans the Lord crafted with utmost care. Her life, humbly lived, was uncloaked with greatness or fame by the standards of the world. And yet, she left a legacy that I hope will linger and be perpetuated through small acts of human decency that reflect the things she instilled in me: faith, strength, hard work, and integrity. Hers is a life I will always strive to honor, seek to emulate, and fondly safeguard in my storefront of tender memories. 

                                               * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

(BELOW ARE 2 EMAILS FROM THE EDITOR OF "HOPSCOTCH FOR WOMEN " ONLINE   MAGAZINE  AFTER SHE ACCEPTED MY ABOVE ARTICLE FOR PUBLICATION).


(LETTER#1)
From: editor@hopscotchforwomen.com [mailto:editor@hopscotchforwomen.com]


Sent: Sunday, May 09, 2010 7:12 PM

To: Norma Rivera
Subject: RE: Article


Dear Norma,

Thank you so much for this beautiful and tender article. I would be honored to publish it.

Please send along a photo of yourself (and your mother, if you'd like), as well as a short bio about you, similar to what accompanies each article on the site.

I will likely try to publish it this week.

Thank you,

Cassandra


LETTER#2:

 From: editor@hopscotchforwomen.com [mailto:editor@hopscotchforwomen.com]


Sent: Thursday, May 13, 2010 4:15 AM

To: rio51@cox.net

Subject: Congrats!

Dear Norma,


Congratulations, your piece has been published on Hopscotch!

Check out your excellent work at HopscotchForWomen.com and spread the link with all of your friends and associates to get the word out. Paste it as your Facebook status, if you would.


Thank you for your contribution. I am looking forward to more!


All best,

Cassandra