Goodbye to a great man I never really knew

My appetite is back. It arrived on full force during the first day of my grandfather’s wake. There was all these food, and before you know it I was stuffing myself with this and that until my stomach became an unrecognizable blob of fat. Ugh. There’s nothing like a wake that makes you feel so happy to be alive. And in order to celebrate life, you have to eat well. (I’m not making any sense, I know…)

My maternal grandpa died last Friday afternoon. The day before that we received word that he was in bad shape, which I shrugged off because he’s been going in and out of hospitals for the past years due to strokes. And everytime he gets checked in a hospital he always manages to leave alive and well after a couple of days. But not this time. He was 72 years old, he’s lived a full life, and I guess it was his time to go. The thing that really saddens me is that I never really got to know him. Even though I know what a great person and father he was through the stuff my mom told me, it’s still not the same as having an actual conversation with him. Before I was born, or when I was too little to remember, Lolo Joe (which is what we grandkids call him) suffered a serious stroke that left his speech impaired. I never got to ask him questions about his life and he never got to give me grandfatherly advice on school and life in general. I think I might have gotten along well with my grandpa. He loved kids and didn’t mind loud noise and laughter; during my mom’s high school days they would always hold parties at their house, and unlike most parents he didn’t ask them to keep the noise or the music down. My mom said that when we were little, Lolo Joe used to visit us a couple of days before Christmas and buy us a lot of presents. He did that to my cousins and his nieces and nephews as well, like the family Santa Claus. He also bought us a piano when we were kids–he was a genuine lover of music. I bet if he were still unaffected by the stroke, I could ask him to buy me a bass guitar or another acoustic and he wouldn’t mind as long as I play for him (which I would gladly do, of course).

Friday afternoon our jam session got cancelled because Caloy (our lead guitarist) couldn’t make it. I was disappointed but at least Ponci and I got to hang out at my dorm for an hour and play a few songs. Then my mom arrived and she was in a big hurry because apparently, my grandpa was dying and we had to go to the hospital now. For the first time, my mom drove the car faster than usual, ran a few red lights, and let out a longer stream of cusswords at the other cars on the road. When we arrived at the hospital the doctors just finished their last attempt at resuscitating Lolo Joe. There was nothing they could do for him anymore and just like that, he died.

I cried because I never got to know him, because he was reduced to only skin and bones and I didn’t want to remember him that way. The image of Lolo Joe that I wanted to keep was a memory from my childhood. He was standing in our living room at the house I grew up in and he wanted pictures taken. He always wanted to have pictures taken of us with him.

My mom and her brother and sisters are going to Cebu tomorrow to bury my grandpa beside my grandma (who died before I was born). Today’s the day I say goodbye because I’m off to Katipunan this afternoon for a much-needed jam session. At first my dad didn’t want me to go because you aren’t supposed to be doing stuff like that during someone’s wake, but I don’t think Lolo Joe would have minded having music dedicated to him from a slightly off-rythym punk rock band.

So it’s off to his wake for me now.