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My Brother Dearest (Conclusion)

By: Edna Weisser

 Writing Part 3 of this essay last month was one of the most difficult tasks I have ever assigned myself to do. Part 3 was about my brother‘s death. When I wrote the piece, my left leg shook uncontrollably, a sign of emotional distress. Hans advised me to stop the writing project. Either that or I should write about something less disturbing, like blog about food. Or about spring flowers.  

 With a Taurean‘s bullishness and self-imposed conviction, I was able to finish Part 3.  And now, I have to write the conclusion of this essay – about my brother‘s interment – and I have to summon all the bullishness and conviction that reside in me to complete the essay and maybe, just maybe, I can find the closure to my grief and purge this unhappiness out of my system. Since Manoy died, I walk around with this weight in my heart. Also, something seems to constantly sting my eyes and cut off my air. I get attacks of extreme sadness at the most unusual times and places. I could be at the office and my brother‘s favorite song would play on the radio and I would break down. I could be in my commuter train and the memories of his last months and days would cross my mind and I would break down. The sun would shine or snow would fall, and I would break down. And deep inside, I was angry. Not at anything or at anybody but just plain angry. I resented the happy and the healthy. I was sore at life‘s normality, at how it could go on when death too, goes on. I found myself in a one-way street called grief and the exit out of this road is something that I have to find at my own pace. It will take time, my friends tell me. But time is relative; it could be a minute or a lifetime. 

 From 1998-1999, I was a contributor for an e-zine called “Only In The Philippines.“ The web site was owned by Jürgen, an Austrian national who was married to a Filipina. He and his wife lived in the Philippines during the e-zine‘s publication. Jürgen had several creative veins. He played in a band, he used to work in an advertising agency, and by the time they left the Philippines to go back to Linz, he was working as a line producer for a German television series. He also wrote. He wrote articles about the Philippines from a foreigner‘s point of view which I countered with my essays from an expatriate‘s perspective. Between his articles and my essays, we tried to demystify this enigma called the Philippines. We failed successfully.  

 If Jürgen‘s e-zine was still alive, I would have submitted a series of articles to him about traditional practices observed by fellow Filipinos during wakes and funerals. For instance, wakes in the Philippines can last for a week, particularly if the deceased has family and relatives who have to come home from abroad for the funeral. Although I made it to Naga within 48 hours, my brother‘s wake was set for six days and nights. Like everyone in our family, I went through this period in a state of trance and disbelief. Together with my mother, sister, sister-in-law, nephews and nieces, we received and talked to guests who came by to pay their last respects to my brother. We were handed mass cards. We were hugged. We received numerous flower arrangements and wreaths, the biggest and the most opulent of which was sent by my friends from the Ateneo de Naga HS 1969. Family friends we have not seen for years came by, sat with us and talked to us. We listened to their anecdotes about my brother, some of which were hilarious that we had to laugh. We heard vignettes of conversations about how my brother touched their lives.  Relatives from near and far traveled the distance to see my brother for the last time. In one instance, I was handed a cell phone and the voice of a friend in San Diego came on, giving me consoling words. Another cell phone was passed on to me, this time it was a cousin from Tarlac who could not come to the funeral.        

 With the number of guests coming by day and night, came the logistical issue of serving food and drinks. Unlike in the United States or in Europe where refreshments are not allowed in funeral chapels, in the Philippines, we can serve pre-packed peanuts, chips, pastries, candies, and soft drinks. Also in Western countries, the viewing of the deceased is allowed for maybe an hour or two and is limited to immediate family members only before the casket is sealed. In the Philippines, we say goodbye to our beloved the long, celebratory way. We not only pay tribute to the dead, we also celebrate the life of the departed.       

 And so it came, that every morning, we would get up, dress in black and go to the funeral chapel knowing that we would not be back home until late at night. The first wave of guests would come in the afternoon and the number of guests would peak in the evening and last until midnight. The funeral chapel has a family room at the back complete with a bed. This is where we made our mother lie down when the effort of entertaining guests strained her. My sister-in-law, nieces and nephews spent the nights in the chapel. In the Philippines, we do not leave the remains of the deceased alone.

 While my sister-in-law and her daughters-in-law were busy with the funeral arrangements, my sister Ting and I planned the last night of the wake. We expected a huge number of guests to arrive and knowing that offering peanuts and soft drinks alone would not cut it, we agreed to get a catering service to serve a buffet style dinner in the chapel, yes, with the food tables a few meters away from my brother‘s casket. This may sound morbid to non-Filipinos, but believe me, it is totally acceptable to us. We had planned for 120 guests but nearly 200 showed up. Three different choral groups came and serenaded our family and guests. My brother‘s group of friends called the Junkers came from Tinambac, some of them visibly shaken by the sight of my brother in a casket. Guests spilled on to the terrace outside the chapel and on the covered tent in front of it. Bong, my brother-in-law kept the supply of beer and Fundador for the menfolk flowing. The highlight of my brother‘s last night in this world was the Power Point file created by Marigold, his only daughter. It showed a series of photos which began with his childhood and ended with our last family group picture taken during the past Christmas.

 The last night was one big party for my brother, attended by his family and friends who celebrated his life but were saddened by his departure. But knowing my brother, he would not want to cause any unnecessary unhappiness to anybody. His time had come, his number was called and so he had to go quietly, not to say sadly, because he too will miss everyone, his friends, his family and his co-workers in Dammam. 

 * * *

 When we got home after my brother‘s funeral, I opened Ting‘s baul (trunk) which contains the family photo albums. The trunk is old, a wedding present to our parents from our grandmother. My brother-in-law had it cleaned, sanded, refinished and varnished. It turned into a handsome piece of heirloom furniture and is now used as a coffee table.  In the trunk, I looked for pictures of my brother. I had to find some continuity to his life, to obliterate the vision of his casket being lowered into the ground before it was covered with earth and then cement. That sight to me was too final and I wanted to discontinue the finality.

 The funeral rites that afternoon were very touching, not to say emotionally-charged. My brother‘s casket was carried by a hearse to the Penafrancia Church. The family and guests walked behind the hearse, except for our mother who rode in a car. A mass was celebrated by three priests, one of which was our cousin, Fr. Romy. The other priest was the son of Chan Zee, our Chinese neighbor in Tinambac. After the mass, the funeral procession continued its walk towards the Eternal Gardens, my brother‘s final resting place.

 The interment arrangements were postcard perfect: two blue tents and white mono block chairs for a hundred people; sixty white balloons to be released when the casket is lowered; in a wicker basket were sixty white roses to be dropped by family and friends into the coffin; in another wicker basket was earth from my brother‘s garden to be scooped down to his casket; a single blue balloon to be released by our mother to symbolize the 61st  birthday that he will no longer celebrate in 2012. My brother was born on March 21, the official first day of spring. He died on 13 January 2012, a Friday. 

 * * *

Back in Germany, I went back to work immediately on purpose. I needed the distraction and the focus on something else other than my brother‘s absence. I just could not wrap my mind around his death. And we had a new concern: our 86-year old mother. If we felt this sad and forlorn, we wondered how she was going to take the death of her only son. I left the Philippines with a heavier weight in my heart, with more sting in my eyes and a feeling that I was not getting enough air.   

A friend who likewise lost a brother to cancer suggested that I should start a photo album about my brother. She said that it helped her process her grief. And so I started one. I bought a funky album in cherry red with tissue papers between the pages to ensure that moisture would not seep into the photos. I went through several of my albums to sort my brother‘s photos out. In doing so, I came upon a stack of photos that he sent from Dammam over the years. At the back were my brother‘s handwriting explaining where the photo was taken. The weight in my heart, the sting in my eyes, and the lack of air hit me with such a force that I thought, this time I was going to faint.

 It is now four months since I started the photo album project. They are piled in a heap in the corner of our living room, untouched. For all the love I have for my brother, I could not get myself to look at the photos where he looked so healthy and bursting with life. It would be like tagging timelines on his life which ended too soon and too early. He was brimming with plans, one of which was to ride a Harley Davidson with a cousin around California. He also wanted to visit Germany again. And I was going to surprise him with a trip to the Vatican.   

In Naga, my sister-in-law, nieces and nephews created a little altar for my brother in their living room. On both sides of his picture are electronic candles that would never go out unless the cord is unplugged. My brother‘s clothes, shoes, wallet, sunglasses, cell phone and other personal things were kept in a glass-enclosed cabinet. If anybody misses him, they could go to this room full of memories and reminders. I do not have that luxury. When I miss my brother, I go through the e-mails, text messages and visit his Facebook account. I‘ve also set up a little altar for my brother in our living room. I light tea candles and Hans ensures the constant supply of fresh flowers. 

 My sister said that she breaks into tears when she sees his shoes. I believe that our mother can cry anytime, 24/7.

To everyone who offered their condolence messages personally, by e-mail, through cards, by phone, and via Facebook, we thank you all. We thank you for being with us during one of the darkest moments in our lives. Take care and have a good life. My brother would have wished everyone the same.

 P.S. While Hans and I were in the Philippines in December 2011, Glen, a very good friend of mine, passed away in Frankfurt from a long-enduring kidney illness. She was the character in my essay entitled “The Woman Who Could Not Stop Shopping.“  She was 53.     

 ©Edna Weisser

A Family That Cooks Together

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