This post is long overdue, but I have to write it down.
Yesterday we buried my Uncle Oben, Atty. Ruben German Cabbab of the DPWH. He died last Saturday, April 12, from a myocardial infarction. Heart-related death, much like what happened to my Dad, my grandpa, my grandma and my aunt. My other uncle had also suffered from a stroke a while back. M
ust run in the family... (Dean Faderon keeps telling me not to think of it that way but I just can't help it.)
Last Saturday was an emotional roller coaster. I was with the
LISSA peeps at the overnight Summer Swim when I got the text from my mom at 5 am saying that my uncle had suffered from a cardiac arrest and was being revived at the St. Luke's Medical Center. I decided to catch some zzzz's before the dispersal at 6am thinking I'll need all the rest I could get and that he would be alright by the time I got there.
I passed by for some breakfast pancakes for my relative
s watching over my uncle at St. Lukes. My 2 aunts were already there, my dad's sister Tita Cynch and my uncle's wife Tita Unti. I was wondering why they were talking to the nurses at the nurse station and not staying at my uncle's bedside. As it turned out I wasn't sent the text message that my uncle had already died.
It took me some time to put two and two together. It only sunk in at around 9am when we were already at the billing department waiting for the fun
eral parlor to pick up my uncle's body. Stayed up all night so I was dozing on and off the whole ordeal. My aunts were facilitating health card claims so I was of no help with that since I'm bad with paperwork and billing.
Low point of the emotional roller coaster was having to identify my uncle's body for transport from St. Luke's to Funeraria Paz. I've never been to the bowels of hospitals and the backrooms of funeral parlors. That changed that day.
The Hallway of the Morgue in St. Lukes
I've never done that before, not even for my Dad. Someone else always did the identification of relatives. It was my turn. I always thought those CSI-type body identifying scenes on TV were unreal. I was wrong. It really is an emotional experience.
It was a dizzying maze to the morgue, I won't be able to retrace my steps even if you ask me to. Cadavers are transported out back and not via the main halls of the hospital. Maybe so as not to freak out other hospital denizens.
After seeing my uncle off out back, the guard escorted me through the maze again so I could go out front to the car and meet up with my aunts at Funeraria Paz. That's when I broke down. My face was a mess even before I got to the parking lot.
At Funeraria Paz it was all paperwork. Life plans, GSIS, SSS, health cards, coverage, chapel assignments, all that stuff. Through all this I saw how strong-willed my Tita Unti was, I couldn't even imagine what was running through her mind. Tita Cynch is Tita Cynch, always on top of things. We were also taken into a backroom to pick a coffin for my uncle. Through all this and the wake Tita Unti kept bugging me to stop smoking too. Gotta love her for that.
My uncle was instrumental at the hospital the day I was born. He was there during my first days on this earth, it's only fitting that I was there at the hospital on his last day.
I always say that I inherited diplomacy from my mom and chalk talk from my dad. At the wake people were saying I looked like my dad (probably freaky to see a young version of someone you've known for decades). My mom says I inherited my dad's laugh. I could probably add that I inherited my uncle's sick sense of humor. I was born a couple of months before Martial Law was declared. It was a stormy week. My mom gave birth to me in UST Hospital. Then, until now, España always flooded after the slightest of downpours. Like most single uncles and aunts, Uncle Oben was the one who ferried mommy and baby supplies, laundry, food, etc. to and from the hospital. I should know, I did that too.. Twice already... He always told the story of how he had to wade through murky chest-deep floodwaters carrying bundles over his head just to reach the hospital. This while playing Frogger with all sorts of identifiable and unidentifiable floating objects as well as avoiding being sucked into manholes. There was trash, the paddling dog, the swimming rat and undescribables galore.
After animatedly illustrating how he waded through water he would always punctuate his story with "Kung alam mo lang kung anong hirap ang dinanas ko nung pinanganak ka!" This much to my mom's chagrin. Me? I just rolled with it. And what did my uncle get in return? He got to be my ninong.
What pains me the most is that I'll never get to hear that story ever again the way it should be told.
