ciré’s Neighborhood

These are my flowers, lifeless and dry, but in my heart and soul they will never be.  “H,” my husband gave them to me the afternoon of February 1 after coming from work. The reason, according to him, was that he was rude to me that morning.  Well, he might have been, but the bigger truth is, and we both know it, I was rude to him the night before.

Oh no, we did not have a fight.  It was just one of those little things. I don’t have a term for it like jealousy, money, sex – not any of those.  I can’t just say “we had a little disagreement because of “TERM,” end of story.    So, here is the story behind the flowers:

My mom came for a visit a week before February 1; she was to stay with us for three months.  The first two days, I would stay with her till wee hours of the morning and feel like a zombie as I went to work.  I’d say “ohh, I need some sleep.”  No problem, husband listened.  The following few nights, I’d be asleep too early, would wake up at midnight and stay till 4:00AM, and continue to feel like a zombie.  I’d say, “ooh, I need to straighten up and regularize my sleep.”  No problem, husband listened.  The night before February 1, “H” came from his mother’s house finding me asleep on our bed with our 5-year old.  Uh-ohh, that was a problem!  I knew it would be because the little one was all over my husband’s side of the bed; he ended up sleeping on the sofa in the living room. “H” never ever liked bothering a person who is asleep, even if it would mean quite a discomfort with him – like, yeah, sleeping on the sofa.  And for him, moving someone asleep, albeit gently, qualifies as bothersome.  Perhaps, because he sleeps lightly himself and would be awaken by a mere touch.  He also does not wake me up when I sleep late  on weekends, even if he has to end up having late breakfast.  He can prepare himself breakfast, yeah right, but he prefers that we have breakfast together. 

Anyway, that morning of February 1, when I woke up I asked him “are you upset with me?”  Duh!  He gave me the look and dismissed me, “go take your shower and get ready to go to work.”  I smirked; I knew that I deserved that.  In the car, we talked as if nothing happened.  That’s almost always.

In the afternoon, I was surprised with fresh flowers and he said that “this is to make up for being rude in the morning, although it was your fault.”  We laughed as we know better than that, because dear husband does not carry emotional baggage, he does not count whose fault is whatever’s and never points a finger.  But the flowers were, of course, a very thoughtful and welcome surprise.

That was only a few days ago… enough for a bunch of flowers to become lifeless and dried.  I actually forgot the whole thing as I looked at these flowers now.  I had to refer to my journal when I actually got them and the details as to why I did.  Because the only thing I remember was that I got these flowers when I was the one “ugly.”  I am sure “H” had forgotten long before I did.

Now, I am having a hard time parting with the flowers.  The bunch that symbolizes how relationships and life are to be taken – FORGET THE UGLY AS SOON AS YOU CAN, REMEMBER THE BEAUTIFUL AS LONG AS YOU CAN.    That is one of the many beautiful things “H” had thought me through the years… oh I had a few little stories of unforgotten pains and relationships lost because of them.  He thought me how to relax, forgive and forget.  It became easy for me to follow, though of course, it does not come overnight.

These are my flowers looking dry and lifeless, but what they symbolize is a sweet experience to remember.  I can’t throw them away – both the flowers and all that’s behind them.

A friend of mine (I will not name her here, yet) defies more than one of my rules in choosing/wearing clothes.  She is on the heavy side (and proud of it, which I envy), yet she once wore a dress with pop sleeves, empress cut that’s knee-length – well, one inch above the knee.  She isn’t that tall either.  Don’t get me wrong, I have to describe her for you to picture the outfit she is wearing.  Let me rephrase that:

An average height woman quite on the heavy side, wearing a printed, empress-cut, pop-sleeved dress an inch above her knee.  Is that descriptive enough?  Okay, let me go on.

Let me qualify myself first:  I was born by a seamstress and self-proclaimed designer mom who educated me with the do’s and don’ts of choosing fabrics/clothes from prints to color, design, cut and etc.  Here are some that I had proven to be right:

1.   Big prints have a tendency to make you (or me, for that matter) look heavier;

2.   Pop sleeves will make you look wider;

3.   Empress cut will add weight to your middle;

4.   Above-the-knee length dress will most likely cut your height, making you look smaller than you are;

I keep in mind all of the above whenever I chose my own fabric/clothes.  Oh yes, I am not tall and I look full somehow, though I am not (yet) on the heavy side.  That explains why I remember mom’s rules, they suit me as well.

Back to my friend, she stood alone by the doorway of that hall, looking for someone -- for me, actually, as it was our first meeting.  One would think that she’d look out of-place, perhaps funny because of what I previously would believe to be a poor choice.  But, I myself was surprised differently, because she looked nothing sort of out-of-place nor funny, not at all.  Actually, from that moment on, I junked my mom’s and my rules!  Those rules were all outwitted by one thing: the way my friend carries herself, that thing called CONFIDENCE.

I visited her Facebook lately and this is what I saw “I HATE MY BODY, but,,,,but,,,,,i love the way i carry it...promise!!!”

I have at least one reason to admire this woman.  I am definite you will see my point when you see her.  Perhaps, visiting her Facebook?  Mayvel. If you ask me, that is just one, for she has more, she has a lot of traits that are now a rarity among people.  More than the way she carries herself, I love the way she is.  Everyone she knows does.  It makes me one lucky soul to have met and known her.

And about confidence, how much do we have of it?  Time for some reality check!  Come on, let’s go!

Hi Mayvel, I just love the way you are! 

Yousif goes to school every morning, just like any other kid.  But unlike most who are serviced by school buses, he is picked up by a hired driver, Badong, at 6:55am from a familiar point in a parking area near his parents’ offices. 

It is Yousif’s father who waits with him for about 5 minutes till Badong comes.  After that, his father walks to his office where he would already be 10-15 minutes late.  This happens every day. 

In our community and at work, I would once in a while meet people who’d say, “oh, he is so nice (referring to Yousif’s father); I see him with Yousif every morning at the parking lot and they seem to always be having fun!”  Or, “isn’t he late for work every day?”  - still referring to Yousif’s father. 

This morning, I waited with Yousif.  His father had an important presentation to make; he could not afford to be late.  “No problem” I said.  I called my boss and told him that I’d be late by about 15 minutes.  The boss said “take your time, be safe.”

At 6:50am from the car, Yousif motioned to me, as if reminding me, to pick up his school bag; I did.  Then he asked me to fix the hood of his jacket to warm himself as it was windy.  I said “oh yeah, right; thanks.”  I did as I was asked, and he smiled at me.  He then offered me his right hand, I held it with my left and we walked together to that particular waiting spot.  His smile filled me with joy and his touch with pride, as always.  “Five minutes or so till Badong comes”, I said to myself.  As we got to the waiting shed, I put Yousif’s bag and mine on the wooden bench, then I engaged him in a “peek-a-boo.”  Less than a minute after, Yousif looked like he was bored, or so I thought.  Then he walked about 3 meters away and stood up by the side of the shed.  I looked at him with wonder.  “What is he going to do?”  I asked myself.

He stood there, in full view of the people who were on their way to work, most of them rushing.  Yousif extended his right hand in the air and every time one passed by, he said “hi.”  Some returned the greeting and continued to walk.  Yousif said “bye” individually to them looking sideway to his right at the person walking away, then back again to greeting another passerby.  Some stopped -- either to give him a little pat on the shoulder, a pinch on his cheek, or shake his hand.  Others ignored him.  I couldn’t, I just couldn’t ignore that sight.  I continued to look at him, and I was full of pride.  “Is this what his father witnesses daily?”  I asked myself. 

Is that what I had been missing?  I could feel my heart bursting with joy, with pride, as I continued to watch Yousif.  Then a car honked.  I picked up our bags, gave one to Badong and said “bye” to Yousif, who hugged me, and as he hopped into the car he greeted Badong “morneng.”

Yousif is a very special child, I can tell you that.  He has Down’s Syndrome and goes to a special school where he is showered with more love no one could measure (this is another post).  He is a gift; a very happy soul, he seems to be a different person every day; he is so unlike anyone.  I know that because I live with him.  I am his mother and he is my son – I am proud of that and will always be.   Proud of Yousif, we all are: his father, his two older brothers and I.

This morning was another discovery for me because of Yousif.  My husband’s been lucky – for that daily five minutes with him, that very unique five minutes to begin a day.

And time stood still.

It’s been a while since I last visited my blog.  I knew my last entry was about dad.  Perhaps that is why I had refused to visit.  I couldn’t handle it; I couldn’t handle anything the way I used to, actually.

And time stood still.

A lot had happened since then.  Most of them were memories in the making and/or memories to keep.  Some of them I wish I did not have to encounter, but perhaps they were written in my stars.

And time stood still.

I had wished to go back in time and make up for what I’ve lost.  And then I realize that wishing that wish is making me loose more time in the process.

And time stood still.

I haven’t done much since then, so I haven’t gained much either.  Time simply stood still.  Or so I thought.

Perhaps, I should say I stood still.  Who am I to know now?  Maybe, tomorrow, when I look back, I will see.

And tomorrow begins right now.

I am back. 

Time and I do not have to stand still anymore…

I am trying…

And I will… I will… with my will.

It was a Friday, August 29, 2008.  I received an overseas call from my brother that my dad passed away ten minutes ago.  I don’t know now why I looked at my watch; I noted the time to be 2:45pm, therefore it was 7:35pm local Philippine time when dad pulled his last breath and went away.   It was smooth and peaceful, no struggle, as if he knew there was no need to fight it, I was told.

“I will be there on Sunday,” I told my family, and then I did my flight arrangements.  Ten long hours of flying seemed like eternity. I wished I had wings, be able to fly myself in less time.  Three films, half a book and continual talks with a new-found friend who was flying the same route all denied the way I felt about dad leaving us.  Untimely demise, is that how they call it?  No demise is timely, I thought, because the living are always caught with the feeling of abandonment despite the clues about any loved one departing.

I reached the Philippines that Sunday afternoon, went to the wake, stayed with my family awhile and excused myself so I can go to my father’s house.  Entering his room was indescribable.  I did not want to listen to myself; I must be in denial, although I knew I was not one who would feel that my departed loved one is still very much physically alive.  Still, the feelings were something strange, I was numb to find words to describe them.  Scanning the room, I remembered the sight of him lying on his bed while trying to recuperate, while attempting to speak to us after his stroke barely two months ago.  What I was witnessing was more reminiscent of him on his bed at the hospital when he was in coma and could not speak to us at all.  I saw that dad’s cot was replaced by a hospital bed topped with an egg-crate cushion which had been rolled, a subtle indication that he was not about to use them anymore, and that their destiny was for disposal for hygienic reasons, just like dad’s human body.  It did not fail to bring a pinch in my heart.  The bed was still obviously new; its brown paper wrapping covered its legs, revealing just the top side where he was lying just a few days back.  By the foot of the bed was a variation of medicines, beside it a line of uniformed paper cups with handwritten tags, so organized, obviously intended for easy access and identification.  A stethoscope lying on a plastic container along with a thermometer, some face masks and sterilized plastic disposable hand gloves.  To its right, almost on the lower side of the bed was the suction machine, and catheters, waiting in vain to be of use.  The oxygen tank with its gauge saying it has a lot more to give quietly stood with its limp hose, a trachea mask abandoned, a half empty IV bottle hanged as if contemplating.  A lot more hospital stuff… I kept on looking.

Betrayed, is how they all look from where I stood.  These gadgets would have served silently and patiently, but they were deserted. Their silence was protest enough piercing at my heart, a deafening declaration of their anguish, of the anguish I guess I refuse to feel. 

Not so with the wall clock.  My father has a passion for wall clocks, I remember.  Every room in the house has one, and he would always insist that all of them register the same time. He did not believe in advancing the timers a few minutes later to give him an allowance for his appointments.  He had always been on time, he was never late.  Rain or shine, he knew how much time he would need to make it to his appointment. He said that being tardy is being irresponsible.  For him, not making it on time is enough message that one cannot be trusted.  His words had always been reliable; you can count on them anytime, all the time.  And they seem to all begin with being on time.

My eyes locked at that clock in the room.  I noticed that it registered 7:35.  Its batteries need replacement, I thought.  But there is one thing -- the seconder was still smoothly rotating but the hour and minute hands deceived their efforts to escape.  Despite the strength of the seconder, the time was frozen at 7:35 -- when time ran out for my father.

And I began to cry.  Has it been timely after all?  Does it remind tell us that dad is still what he had always been – on time – even when he joined his Creator?

Note:  Edited by my big brother, Okiks.

One day a month ago, the family decided to go swimming, the mood was light (despite dad's condition).  I was walking with Adnan (my second son), holding his right hand with my left and he started asking questions.  Nothing new as most kids his age love to explore their minds and try to get confirmation from adults whether their thoughts are valid or if they make sense -- at least that's what I thought.  Adnan and my conversation went like this:

"Mom, when Danyal (his 14-year old brother) becomes a man, you will be old, right?"

"Yeah," I said as I smiled at his vision, feeling proud that we have a thinker in the family. 

"When I become a man, you would be dead, right?" he continued.

I looked at him and I wanted to laugh, but I could not afford to as I was kind of shocked and immediately scared at the same time.  I managed to say, "I don't have to be, I could still be alive because I would want to see your kids and take care of them."  I felt my voice betrayed the feelings I then wanted to hide. 

I looked at my husband and saw that little naughty smile on his face as if saying, "that scared you, huh?" I ignored him, but for an instant I knew that we both wanted to laugh out loud.

At the end of the day when the kids were all asleep, my husband reminded me of the conversation and we had a good time laughing at our child's way at looking into the future.  We made fun of how we are going to look like and feel like when our kids are all grown up.

Gee, I had to remind myself that marrying quite late was a choice... despite the knowledge that one of the disadvantages would be being too old for our children, especially when they are all grown up, err when all of them become men, as our second puts it.  (We have three boys.... sweet and wonderful, naughty boys!)

I had been sewing since I was nine, but my interest in using a sewing machine was way before that.  My first project was an underwear for my doll.  I still have a clear picture of that in my mind.  My mom, who is a dressmaker and crafter, was very pleased with my budding passion and had supported me through the years until I bought my own sewing machine (well,  machines).

Close to 30 years after, I became interested in quilting; that’s only a few months after I declared that quilting is not for me because it requires creativity and perfection – I didn’t see myself with those qualities.  My first two projects were patchwork/appliques.  I ordered a book by Darcy Ashton, “Grandma’s Bunnies” from Keepsake Quilting, and made my own set of blocks using the bunny patterns.  The quilt was meant for my second son, Adnan, who chose all the bunnies and said that he wanted the carrots to be in the middle for all of them to share.  Here’s what we came up with:

Picture 059

I will not criticize the quilt, I refuse to (remember the rule?), but I humbly accept that this could have been a lot better – from fabric and color selection to the blocks, the border, the binding (what’s left?)  But all quilters will agree that I have the biggest gift of all from this piece of work: my son and his mom (that’s me) are still in love with it.  This love’s creation is very visible in the kids’ bedroom, being used night after night to cover its rightful owner, and he still drags it with him when he watches TV or when he takes his afternoon nap!  The quilt had served its purpose a hundred times over, and is still going strong!  What other luxury can anyone give a quilter (yes, I am already one) than the sight of her work being loved and used?

One day, I know I will be making another quilt with these bunnies.  The bunnies are waiting.  Thanks, Darcy, for that interesting and beautiful book of bunnies... I will be meeting the cats next while my kids, I can see, will fall in love with the dogs.

I promised to post these journals, I know Marina is waiting.  I ordered them from Tschai.  She sent them to me when I was back home and I held my breath while opening the package, only to be held more as I touched them.  Beautiful, wonderful work of art.  It is made special by the fact that they were handmade by her!  All five pieces are leather.  Thanks Tschai. 

I told her that to keep them for long (forever?), I will not use them.  She suggested that they will serve their purpose if they are used, and she is right.  I thought of my grocery list, and she that "Not-To-Do-List" would definitely be better (LOL).  Smart, isn't she?

I wish I had the chance to personally meet Tschai.  There'll be a next time.

Marina, what do you say?

PFAFF-LOVE

I took my sewing machine to the shop for minor repair; it took 8 months for me to get it back.  Why????? Oh, it's a long story.  All I know is that the same week I took it to the shop, a friend intimated that she was pregnant.  When I got my machine back, my friend's baby was a month old!

I love this machine, I just love this sewing machine that my other one is also a Pfaff.  Well, I have Husquvarna-Viking which I got second-hand from another friend who was leaving Saudi Arabia for good.  Forget about the other sewing machines I have, and I had... they have their own stories, but this one's just my loveey-doods!  I was kind of disappointed when I saw its case dusty.  My husband remarked "what do you expect? It's been here a lifetime!"  But that is not my fault!  That is not my fault!  Need I say it again?  Louder this time?

Now, I am sewing again!  I started a quilt two days ago -- pre-cut from about 7 months ago (is the reason obvious?)  I am almost halfway.  I am already doing the quilt sandwich.  I need not post a photo of it, it is an exact replica of one I previously posted.  I am making a copy of it because the guy who ordered the quilt did not like the backing.  That is fine, no problem.

Dad is still in the hospital.  We'd need more funds for his medications and hospital stay.  I thought, while doing the quilt, that the money will be for that purpose. I am quilting for and with love, that's foremost.  Between tears of sadness that dad is in that state, gratitude to God that He gives us blessings when we need it most (this quilt job is a blessing), and a certain amount of content that we are able.  I am actually in denial, for I am not sure how I feel, they are beyond words.

I am sewing again, this time it's for dad.  It is but a small thing, such a small, small thing. Love makes it big, I want to say, but I have a lot to say.  I just can't find the words...

We left Saudi soil on June 26 and went to the Philippines for a month of vacation after two and a half years!  Looking forward to reconciling with the family again after quite a long time (we used to come annually), we were introduced to a very different and difficult twist:  my dad, a very strong figure for family and friends, suffered a mild stroke on the very early morning of July 1.  As my mom related it to us, they were praying together at 1:00am when dad indicated that he wanted to lie in bed and (apparently) sleep.  My mom noticed that his speech was slurred and he started perspiring thereafter.  She helped him lie down and he slept after just a little while.  My mom woke my sister up and told her, but as my sister saw that dad seemed to be peacefully asleep and she was herself tired, she went back to bed.  Mom tried to sleep.  Everything was normal, so it seemed to my mom especially, except for dad’s slurred speech before sleeping.  She wondered, but remained calm.  Around 7:00am, my mom called my brother, who thereafter called me (husband, kids and I were in a rented apartment, about 15 minutes drive away from them), that’s when we got the news.  In some sort of panic that my brother and I tried to control, we suggested that they take dad to a hospital.  Then in minutes, we all followed.

For the next three days, dad’s speech was slurred and he was unable to move his body’s right side.  He stayed in the hospital, but was out of control whenever he was awake, complaining in his then indistinguishable words, that he hated to be there, he wanted to be home.  As his blood pressure continually went up and our feelings for him were endlessly dampened at the mere sight of him, we decided against doctor’s advice, to take him back home where we continued to care for him – in a strange set of ways.  Dad was more relaxed at home, so we felt we did the right thing.  The strong man just a day before July 1 had to be showered, fed, led and all, for the next week or so.  We got him a physical therapist and that apparently helped till his fourth session on July 11, when he had refused food and had become almost completely immobile.  We called another doctor who suggested that we take him to a hospital again as he might have a second episode of stroke.  True enough that was what he had.  We were told that dad might not be accepted by the first hospital as we took him out against medical advice, so we took him to another one where he stayed in the emergency room for about 8 hours and was taken to the ICU thereafter.  His conditioned worsened and he succumbed to a state of coma in less than a week.  That was very hard for us to take, especially for mom who is married to him for the last 48 years, but we all tried to be strong, trying to see the situation at hand and what else we can do best.

Emotionally, mentally and financially draining, we tried our best to handle the circumstances well.  I believe we are all able, and despite everything, we are collected and together, though individually broken.  We had our own emotional episodes every now and then; I could not count the number of times I found myself crying, at an apparent state of confusion, and sometimes loss.  Our strong faith in God has been keeping us, taking this trial one day at a time.

Every time I told dad on his comatose state that my husband, kids and I had to leave on July 26, I could not hold my tears.  Why do I/we have to be away?  With the kids on summer break, I could opt to extend our stay with the family for another two months.  However, I should return to work.  I remember the many years I had the full freedom of being wherever I want to be because I was not employed, but this situation has to have this kind of complication.  There must be a reason.  So on July 27, we flew back to Saudi.  Mom, and the whole family were silent, nobody knew what each one was feeling.  No matter how much we tried to share, I knew a lot remained unsaid from their end and mine.  What’s more painful is the fact that nobody knows what’s going on inside dad, spiritually – this I know we are trying to comprehend, and of course, could not -- no one can.  We mortals do not have that gift; we can only keep on trying.

The trip back to Saudi was heavy in my heart, the heaviest ever in my many instances of goodbyes.  Leaving the family at this stage is not at all easy, returning to work was quite a different story.  I continued to be in touch with them by phone, by Yahoo Messenger, and SMS after that till now.  In my solitude, I tell myself that everything happens for a reason, or for reasons; that I/we need not understand everything about life all the time, every time, I/we just need to accept and submit to the will of God – this is our ultimate mission.

Dad is now out of the ICU, but is still very much asleep and aided by machines.  I have so much thoughts I could not collect them, nor could I reconcile them with each other.  I have so much fears in the past and now.  I could not believe that fears, when one is faced with them, can be held and accommodated and can be taken with passivity and/or positive attitude.  I try harder, armed a lot with my faith.  The family and I are currently introduced to our individual set of strengths and weaknesses.  We realized that there is so much we do not know at all, especially about each other and about our own selves.  In the process and in the end, we are collectively and individually wishing, hoping and trying to handle the situation and ourselves well, so we become pleasing to God.  This is when we should all believe and see that He is watching us and watching over us.

I had asked almost everyone I know to include dad in prayers.  We would prefer that he gets over this and that we be granted more days with him, but no one really knows.  No one knows what’s next; no one knows in the deepest seat of our hearts what we want for him and for ourselves, really.  This is when we come to see that we know nothing at all.  In my prayers, I seek that whatever God wants for dad and for us, that we be able to show Him submission to His will.  I ask for strength – for my mom, my family and for myself.