No regrets

 My husband Daniel passed away last September 2021. We were together for 24 years. He battled leukaemia for five of those.

Daniel was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukaemia (AML) at age 73. The doctors told us he was too old to undergo chemotherapy and bone marrow transplant. They suggested a new type of medication that would be injected under the skin in his lower abdomen.

Before agreeing to that, I sought second and third opinions from other specialists but they came up with the same diagnosis.

We went to the hospital for his weekly injections. His prognosis was good and his haematologist marvelled at how well his body was responding to the medication. The doctors warned him, however, to stop travelling abroad to avoid catching foreign infections.

For four years, I watched my husband handle his disease like a boss. Nothing slowed him down. He continued working as a freelance writer. He made short trips around British Columbia and wrote about people, places, and social issues that were regularly neglected by mainstream media. I joined him on many of these forays and got to observe how he did interviews and interacted with people, how he noted tiny details material to his story.

Daniel was organized, disciplined, and focused, both professionally and personally. He was fearless. He was creative. These qualities made him one of the most awarded magazine writers in Canada.

To my husband’s credit, he had faith in my writing ability. He believed that if I worked a little harder and procrastinated less, I could achieve so much more. He tried very hard to encourage me, but failed miserably. Unlike him, I mostly rely on inspiration. I was just too lazy.

Daniel spoiled me every day. He planned and cooked all our meals. He vacuumed and dusted while I sat around and read. He kept me supplied with my favourite treats. He bought me nice things.

Mostly though, he loved winning arguments. It helped that he had a strong personality and a loud voice. I compared him to a Zamboni. He could run me over and flatten me like a pancake, if I allowed him. Whenever I was right, I stood my ground firmly during a disagreement until he realized that being taller and louder didn’t ensure victory all the time.

Our loud discussions tapered about 11 years ago, after one of my visits to the Philippines. During that trip, my fourth big brother was stabbed and killed by a drug addict. He was my favourite big brother and my best friend. There were so many things I still wanted to do to help make his life better, but I missed my chance.

In my work as a writer, community volunteer and advocate for foreign domestics in Canada, I have seen and written about suicide, separations and failure. I’ve listened to grieving family members reminding others to do their best for loved ones before it got too late. Somehow, those words never touched me until I lost my big brother, until I felt like I was drowning under relentless waves of guilt and regret because I failed my big brother.

That event changed my attitude towards relationships. I promised myself that from that day on, I would try to live a life without guilt or regret. To be kind to everybody, to love my people the best way I can, every day, without becoming a push-over. To pick my battles. To express my side during arguments without enmity. To listen without judgement. To forgive myself when I fail.

Two years ago on March 2020, Covid-19 was declared a pandemic. Canada went into lockdown. People lost their jobs. Businesses closed. I happily stayed at home with Daniel. He was a sociable person who thrived on company. I prayed very hard that I would stay healthy and not leave my husband behind. I didn’t want him to end up sick and alone.

Six months ago during a writing trip, Daniel contracted pneumonia, which in turn worsened his leukaemia. He ended up in the hospital twice. I stayed there with him 24 hours a day and read the news to him. I fed him his favourite ice cream. I sang to him. He thanked me repeatedly for looking after him so well. When he decided to die at home, we hired a nurse to help me out. I sat beside him most of the time and held his hand until it was time for him to go.

Today I feel so very bereft. I miss Daniel so much, but I have no regrets. I am guilt-free.

(Previously published on the Mill Woods Mosaic, January 15th, 2022)

Loving Vancouver

 It was love at first sight.

I have known from childhood that Vancouver was a place I definitely wanted to visit, if only to see the colourful leaves that its trees produce in the fall. I saw a picture of those autumn leaves at the Readers Digest when I was about nine years old, and I was amazed. Leaves could do that?

I arrived in Vancouver for the first time in the summer of 1988. Having worked in Singapore for three years before that, I wasn’t too impressed with the mellow pace of life in North Vancouver, my first destination. Buses were scheduled in 15-minute intervals on weekdays, and every half-hour on weekends. In a community called the British Properties where very rich people lived, buses only went up once in the morning and once in the evening.

In Singapore at the time, waiting for a bus didn’t take as long, even in the suburbs.

It rained consistently in Vancouver in the fall of that year. In fact, I remembered that it rained or got cloudy every day in the autumn, for the next two or three years after. I’d never seen so much rain in my life. The leaves went from green straight to brown and then fell off, skipping the part where it was supposed to go yellow, orange or red. I saw however, that leaves did change colours back east. I felt so cheated.

Going to school in the evenings wasn’t easy either. It could take several bus rides to get to the classes I wanted, and waiting in the bus stops took the same amount of time as what I spent attending those classes. I got back home from school well beyond my bedtime.

I realized that if I wanted to do things faster, riding the bus wasn’t the way to go. I learned to drive in the same year, and by the start of my second summer in Vancouver, I was already driving a second-hand car. The ease and speed with which I could acquire a car, something that had seemed impossible in the Philippines and in Singapore, was a revelation.

Having my own ride gave me the freedom to chase the rest of my plans with amazing ease: going back to school, doing volunteer work, visiting places, getting a new job. That was when I finally fell in love with my new home country. Suddenly, Vancouver became to me a place where dreams are easier to reach, if one had a plan, coupled with self-confidence and the ability to work hard and see things through.

Despite the inherent racism within, Vancouver is still a great equalizer among peoples. What diverse community, by the way, whether openly or subtly, does not suffer racism? It’s the way one deals with racism that matters. Being smart and educated alone in a strange place does not cut it. Having the right attitude did. I knew that by having brown skin and speaking English with an accent, I might have to work doubly hard to prove myself. Speaking up and standing for oneself helped as well. So that’s what I did.

In Vancouver, I learned that being different is a strength in itself. So she’s white and you’re brown and he’s yellow, but it doesn’t really matter. Having the courage to resist blending in and to pursue your own interests gives a person a different kind of freedom. For an artist or a writer, especially. Finding your very own voice in a community already teeming with a multitude of different voices, and believing in that voice gives you an edge. It’s really up to you to decide where that difference will take you.

In Vancouver, where nature lurked in almost every back yard, I learned to hike the mountain trails, walk in the woods, camp by the lake, and picnic by the beach. (The first time I was invited to go for a walk, I had to ask why. Back in my rural village in the Philippines, one only walked for important reasons - to gather firewood or fetch water or do an errand. Otherwise, one stayed home and read, or do chores. I was told that down here, one can walk just for the joy of walking.) I’ve become a dedicated walker since.

In Vancouver, I learned that being different is a strength in itself. So she’s white and you’re brown and he’s yellow, but it doesn’t really matter. Having the courage to resist blending in and to pursue your own interests gives a person a different kind of freedom. For an artist or a writer, especially. Finding your very own voice in a community already teeming with a multitude of different voices, and believing in that voice gives you an edge. It’s really up to you to decide where that difference will take you.

So yeah, I love Vancouver. I love its weather, its people, its diversity, its bike lanes, its mountains, its parks, its beaches. I love that people are mainly tolerant of others, that animals are loved and protected. I love the city, despite its expensive housing market, its homeless population, even its seedier corners. It all belongs with the territory.

What I love most about Vancouver is the fact it helped me grow and test my limits. It allowed me to help my family and encourage them to strive, in ways that were better than I ever could.