Till Tomorrow

This was written years ago when I heard of the passing of one who used to be very dear to me. I had meant to give the original version to her family but I didn’t feel it was the right time. I rewrote it today as a letter to that person, hoping she is looking down on me with love., and I think she is, as I dreamt of her last night.

I have one favorite memory of you.

Sometimes, late at night, it’s one that still comes back as clear as the day it was made, and I feel like a child all over again.

On my ninth birthday, you took me shopping. I don’t remember if there were any others with us that day- that is fuzzy to me now- but I remember because it was one of those rare days I felt especially close to you. Those days would diminish as I grew older, as age and history colored our interactions and drew us apart, but on that day I was nine, I would have followed you blindly. I loved you with all the innocence and foolishness of my young heart.

You, like all your siblings, were never overtly affectionate with us… with me. I don’t remember being cuddled, kissed, or praised by any one of you. Ah, we were always so formal and so polite! But I realize, now that I am in my middle years, that, perhaps, you didn’t love me any less or any different; we simply had different ways of showing love. As a child desperate for affection, however, I needed more than just an acknowledgment of my existence. I needed to be recognized as being more than just of the same blood. I wanted to be appreciated and reassured that I was loved for being me.

Many things would happen between that day and the last time you and I saw each other almost thirty years ago. I am now past the age you were the last time we talked. And though it’s a memory I have often tried to suppress and forget, I still see that day clearly too. When I close my eyes, I can almost see you sitting across me, and I remember the furrows etched between your eyebrows, the downturn of your lips, and the shrill of your voice as anger formed a divide between us that not even decades could mend.

Many things would be said, too, in the aftermath of that day, many of them untrue- carried, passed, and whispered back and forth in false confidences by third parties who were observers to the sordid drama of our lives. Many things would stand between us then, and when the memory of that day comes to me like an unexpected visitor, I often wonder how we managed to screw things so badly for all of us.

But that day I turned nine was different. I have a very vivid recollection of you holding my hand firmly, gently- a first, I thought then. You brought me to a store, looked at me tenderly, and said with genuine kindness, “You can have anything you want! This is my birthday gift for you.” I’ve never had that much freedom given to me before, and immature geek child that I was, I settled on a pink stapler with flower-shaped wires and a hodgepodge of stationery items. Erasers, pencils, the first mechanical sharpener I ever saw in my life, paper of all sizes- I was in heaven!

Growing up, I was often told I looked like you, and despite the protestations that followed –you never actually told me you were glad I looked a little bit like you so I felt embarrassed to insist on the similarities– I was actually thrilled and proud. Somewhere along the way, the circumstances that led to our separation played their ugly hand and created the cracks that tore us apart, but each time I look at the mirror, I still see you.

Even today, I still look a bit like you. And I remember the feelings of that child who held your hand and felt loved and wanted. These are the memories that survived the painful years, and these are the ones I now choose to keep.

In the years between then and now, we both grew a lot older and farther apart. When you saw me last, I was heavy with child with my firstborn. You never met my boys, and they, in turn, never knew you. But I always entertained this silly, fanciful dream that there would be time to set things right. I really thought we had more time. I prayed we could have a future- no matter how short- to wipe away all anger, sadness, and disappointment. It is too late today to do all that.

I wish we could start all over, back to that day 45 years ago, and undo all the wrong that tore us apart.

Then again, perhaps it is time to simply forget and move on and live like tomorrow will never come.

And in this today, there is room only for love. And with that, a nine-year-old’s still unwounded heart which adored you and loved you like her own.

Yet Another Cat Story

I hope you don’t mind, dear reader, if I tell you more about our cats for now. In the middle of a quarantine that sees no end in sight any time soon (Metro Manila has been under varying levels of quarantine since March 15, 2020, with no let-up), our cats have given our lives their much needed change in pace. So, indulge me, please, as I write about the cats that have made our lives a little more colorful during this time.

Peek-a-boo! Guess who! (I took this picture when I was sneaking a peek at the new kitten; that expression makes me laugh each time!)

Yes, you read it right. Cats. Not just one cat. It seems once you open your home to one cat, the lure to add another becomes irresistible. We never planned it that way, though. While Skyflakes was an awaited gift, the other cats that joined our household arrived much like Kitty did.

I remember that when Kitty, our rescue kitten, was still with us, she used to greet Anthony’s arrival with excitement. She would run to the car as soon as it came in (we had to hold her for fear of her being run over) and she would walk with Anthony as he made his way to the back door. All the time, she would mewl and meow gently to him, as if expecting a conversation. Anthony was never a big fan of cats but for sure, Kitty was a fan of his.

Shortly after Kitty passed away, Anthony came out of the house to find an adult cat waiting for him by the back door. It was the first time this cat had approached any one of us but we had seen her many times before, often fleetingly, in cctv footages of her climbing our roof. We saw her in late August, when she left Kitty with us. And we saw her again a few days after Kitty passed away, sniffing around the spot where Kitty used to stay in the afternoons.

Why do they like Alphonse’s trampoline?

She followed Anthony around the garage, but disappeared again that same night. Then, about a week later, we found her crouching under Alphonse’s trampoline, half her face swollen. When we tried to approach her, she ran away in fright. We knew she needed help, but unable to do anything more, we left her food and water.

Towards the end of November, she started coming more frequently to our garage. She would eat the food we left and sit by the gate, eyeing us warily. But each day, we noticed her sitting closer and closer to us. She finally decided on a spot midway in the garage where she could watch us from afar and yet still be near enough her usual points of entry/exit. For the most part, as long as we set out food, water, and later on, a box, she seemed content just watching us from a distance.

By early December, she was in our garage whole days and even nights. She roamed the garage on her own, keeping some distance from us still, but she no longer seemed jittery or terrified of us. After a while, she would wander briefly near us, even trying a few times to rub her head on our feet. We couldn’t touch her, though; the sight of hands coming near her made her shriek and scamper away so we just stopped trying. We figured she’d let us know when she was ready to be petted or touched.

It got to be that she would strut around the garage like she owned it, even chasing away would-be competitors from her spot. One day, she discovered an almost empty, open cabinet in the garage. She decided to leave her box in favor of the cabinet. When she ventured out for toileting, we quickly lined the cabinet with pieces of clean cardboard and Kitty’s old mats. We even put in Kitty’s scratch pad and a few of her toys.

On December 17, 2020, she gave birth to a single female kitten we named Kitty Two aka KiTwo. Nanay (as we now call her) and her kitten are now housed indoors but during the day, they play in the same spot outside where Kitty once stayed. Nanay still resists handling and holding so we give her lots of space with the hope of losing her distrust one day soon. For now, they seem content to stay out but the plan is to spay Nanay as soon as KiTwo is weaned completely.

Nanay and Kitty Two aka KiTwo

KiTwo has grown to be rambunctious girl who loves climbing and jumping. She is also a tail menace as she loves to pounce on her mom’s tail. Nanay tackles her and sits on her each time, but KiTwo just shakes off the rough play and comes back for more. We feel she could hold her own against Skyflakes once she grows bigger. Mom and daughter

After KiTwo completes her fourth round of deworming, we will slowly introduce KiTwo and Skyflakes to each other so they can play during the day. In the meantime, we’re just happy to see them thriving healthily and happily. Now, who knew we’d turn out to be a cat family?

The Human Cost

This is not my story, and so, at first, I felt hesitant to share it. But I felt compelled to tell you of this family’s story, if only to remind you of the human cost of the Corona virus, and of our ignorance, our willful blindness, and our reluctance to call the people in power accountable for their mistakes.

(Credit to Amanda Madden)

On March 5 of this month, this year, an elderly couple flew back home to the United States after their yearly vacation in the Philippines. Their grown-up children (six kids, their spouses, their grandchildren) were divided in both countries so they would try to split the year between them. When the weather became unbearably cold in their part of the US, they would fly back to Manila for the milder climate. Around springtime, when the weather turned kinder to their old bones, they would fly back to their North American home to spend time with their three other children and their families.

This year was no exception. The elderly couple was glad to go back to the US; they missed the rest of their family. When they were here, they missed their kids in the US. When they were there, they longed for the ones they left back here. This year, maybe because of their increasing age, or maybe because of the traffic, they hardly went anywhere else, except for a few short shopping trips in the course of more than four months. For most of their time here, they stayed at home, content to spend the hours in the company of their kids and their grandkids.

Two days after their flight back to the US, on March 7, the couple came down with flu-like symptoms. They immediately quarantined themselves at home but less than a week later, their symptoms worsened and they required hospitalization. Their only daughter, the one who cared for them at home upon their return, also became sick.

On March 17, the elderly father took a turn for the worse. His oxygen levels were precariously low and he needed a ventilator to breathe. His wife was suffering too, but despite her children’s pleas, she refused intubation. And although she could feel her strength withering away, she tried to keep up with calls to her children, her voice weak and gentle as they prayed the rosary together.

On March 23, the couple succumbed to Covid pneumonia. In her dying hours, the wife wished for nothing else but to be by her husband’s side. Mercifully, the doctors and nurses gave them this final gift. They passed away together, mere minutes apart, still holding hands.

This is the true cost of this virus- losing loved ones in this battle. That they die alone, with no company or comfort in their last moments, makes it an even more unbearable death. Despite the overwhelming sorrow that envelops their family today, the children cling to the thought that their parents, who did everything together for almost 57 years, never left each other’s side to the end.

Their story does not end there, though. One of their sons, a surgeon and a frontliner in Manila, is quarantined with his wife and 12-year-old son after showing some symptoms. In the US, their daughter lays in her sick bed, alone, as she fights one of the biggest battles of her life.

Each day, this virus inches closer to us and to our homes. Already, the ranks of medical professionals all over the world are stretched thin. The elderly, the weak, and the sick- the most vulnerable of us- are falling. They are the first, but they will certainly not be the last. Next time, it may be someone you know. It may even be someone you love.

This is a true story. It is not mine, but it belongs to someone we love dearly. And though we are far apart and unlikely to see each other again till this is all over, we pray they know they are always loved.

Thankful

“Gratitude turns what we have into enough.” ~Melody Beattie

A life with autism was not something we wanted for our son or for our family. When my husband and I were newly married, we prayed for children- daughters, to be exact- and we asked for healthy, bouncy baby girls.

Our first child was a son, born six and a half weeks early, and he was a cute little boy with a lightbulb-shaped head and a button nose who made us forget we asked for daughters, “California-rolling-baby-style.” Eighteen months later, we had our second child, and early sonograms told us we were expecting a daughter- yes! Because there were complications with this pregnancy, we had bi-monthly check-ups to track growth and development. At the last sonogram barely a week before delivery, “she” turned around and flashed us with a highly visible third leg. This baby was already playing tricks on us early on, so his Mama decided to get even. Alphonse wore pink during his entire infancy, haha.

So we were zero for two- no daughters and our sons didn’t exactly come into this world perfectly healthy and bouncy. Both boys had early health issues, but a lot of them were resolved by their sixth month, and let me tell you, they were the two most beautiful babies we had ever seen in our life!

While Alex went on to blossom beautifully, Alphonse’s development began lagging. After his first birthday, he lost his words and stopped making eye contact. When he needed something, he would grab us by the hands and lead us to what he wanted. He didn’t know how to ask. He no longer tried to speak; he just grunted a lot. He flapped his arms and hands, walked on tiptoes, and spun everything he could lay his hands on, even Oreo cookies. After some wait, at a year and a half old, Alphonse received a clear-cut diagnosis of autism.

In the last 25 years, we have had a rollercoaster ride with autism; it has led us to depths and places we never even knew existed. To say it has been difficult would be an understatement because the truth is, this kind of life is not something we would wish on anyone. It is draining, exhausting, incapacitating, and a lot of times, demoralizing. When you deal with meltdowns, aggression, and self-injury on a daily basis, it takes all your energy just to get through another day.

Still, what we lack in so many things that make up a “normal” life, we try to make up for it in the things that matter. Laughter. Love. Faith. Grit. Gratitude.

These are the things that allow us to wake up every single morning, get out of bed, and do the same things over and over again. They allow us to bravely welcome a struggling man-child into our arms to calm and soothe him, certain that we will get hurt in the process. They allow us to laugh, to take things in stride, and say “Hey, at least, it wasn’t THIS bad.” They remind us that this difficult, prickly, oftentimes combative, young person is a child we have loved since the day he was conceived; we just always wish we could make things easier for him.

When you have love, you have gratitude. And when you have gratitude, everything is enough.

This smile, this moment captured forever in this photograph, this is enough.

Our Daddy Always

When Alex was a year old, we taught him to call his grandparents Daddy and Mommy. (A❤️ and I were Papa and Mama.) He tweaked this a bit by adding Lolo (grandfather) and Lola (grandmother) to their names, thus coming up with Daddy Lolo for my dad and Mommy Lola for my mom. A❤️’s mom was also Mommy Lola, although as he grew up, he decided to call her Mommy Flower (her real name was Flora) or Granny Flower. A❤️’s dad was also Daddy Lolo, but this evolved into Daddy Only, from a telephone conversation they had when Alex was three.  

Three-year-old Alex: I love you, Daddy Lolo.

Daddy: Alex, just call me Daddy. Don’t add Lolo at the end anymore, okay? Daddy only.

Three-year-old Alex: Okay, Daddy Only. I love you.

 The name stuck.

Daddy is, and will always be, my kids’ Daddy Only.

~0~

Daddy Only had a massive hemorrhagic stroke while driving home from a friend’s house last November 8, Friday night. He did not sustain additional injuries from the accident and, thank God, there was little damage to the car and driver he hit. He must have sensed something that made him slow down (and Daddy was always a fast driver, even at his age) but we will never fully know the events of that night as he never regained consciousness. After a few days in the neurological ICU, Daddy passed away at a little past one in the afternoon of November 14, New York time.

Daddy treated me like a real daughter; in the more than 28 years I have been part of his family, he never showed me a single moment of unkindness. He wasn’t the kind to be overtly sentimental and effusive in expression, but as he grew older, he also became softer and less stringent in affection, dropping “I love you’s” in our conversations and laughing heartily when we rained him with more of the same.

Where Alphonse got his good looks

My history with their family dates back to my high school friendship with A❤️ but in those days, I only ever saw his dad from afar. My first real encounter with his father was when I was already a freshman in college. One afternoon, I dropped by their house to deliver a letter for A❤️ and I came upon a really good-looking man sweeping the front yard of their home. He had on a pristinely white shirt with matching white shorts, and his jet-black hair was slicked and combed back. If I remember the event vividly, it was because the man struck me as “movie star handsome.” He broke into a wide smile when I introduced myself and called on his son, who, at that time, was gangly, gawky, and, yes, a bit pimply. I could see A❤️ ‘s close resemblance to his dad, but back then, Daddy cut a more imposing figure than his son. Family lore has it that when he left Silay for Manila to go to college, he was offered to be trained as an actor in one of the old film studios, but he declined because he was shy.

Over the years, I have built an encyclopaedia of memories with and of him. Because of the geographical distance, most of them are from the weekly Skype or phone calls he faithfully made to us. The most precious ones, however, are from his short visits back home or the times we went to New York to see him.

Daddy was always a no-nonsense kind of guy. He was pragmatic, down-to-earth, and not one to waste a single moment dwelling on “what-ifs.” He was thorough and decisive. When faced with difficulties, he was slow to burn, patient, and not quick to anger. I think A❤️ got those same qualities from him.

When their family decided to leave for the United States in the late eighties, Daddy did so with a lot of apprehension but he did it for his family. He left behind a promising position in Manila (he was bank manager of the PNB Rizal Avenue branch) and worked long jobs in the early days to make sure his family would be comfortable in the US. I try to imagine the humility it took to accept jobs that were beneath his education and experience, all to make sure he could build a future for his children, and it is something that still fills me with awe and pride today. With hard work and perseverance, in time, he found a job that he enjoyed, and he stayed with the same company till he retired.

Daddy with Dale and Joyce, A❤️’s younger siblings

I think of Daddy often as a strong man but in truth, he could be silly and soft, too. Joyce, in particular, his only daughter, could melt him in a putty. The grandkids could always elicit laughter from him, never mind that Alphonse could only repeat the same few syllables over and over again. He also never forgot birthdays and he would call to greet them and say that he loved them. He loved his children and their children, no doubt about it.

Daddy and his Junior, the last time they were together

Over the years, as he built a life in New York now apart from his grown children, he made sure he was always there for all of us. Even with almost 9000 miles between us, we knew he would be if we needed him. He guided and advised us, reminding us of things we likely took for granted. And when our lives turned difficult and split us in different directions, like the Father above us, he never wavered in his faith in his children. He always believed in the best of us. He believed we would find our way back to each other again. And we did. Thank you, Daddy.

Now that you will be with us only in our dreams, it is time to upgrade your moniker from Daddy Only to Daddy Always. You will always, always be a Daddy to us all.

Thank you for welcoming me with open arms into your family, Daddy. Thank you for giving me and Alex and Alphonse a space in your heart. We’ll see you in a little while. We love you so.

Back to the Blog

I have to start today’s entry with an apology. I’m sorry for my absence. My blog went into hiatus these last few months and I didn’t even realize how long I’ve been gone without updating, not until I looked at the calendar today. I had not planned on staying away too long but time got away from me as I grappled with a series of health crises that came one after the other.

I was bedridden for most of May and June, and save for a few rare days here and there, I hardly left the house. Aside from the physical symptoms that caused a pervading sense of discomfort, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I wasn’t sleeping well, ehrm, let me rewrite that to say that I wasn’t sleeping at all most nights.  During the day, however, I couldn’t even muster the strength to get out of bed.

The responsibilities of 24/7 care for a profoundly disabled young adult weighed heavily on our shoulders. When I got sick, my husband took over Alphonse’s care, allowing me to rest, recover, and work at my own pace. I did try to catch up with many of my chores, except that I got too winded easily. Without additional help, all three of us — my husband, my eldest son, and I — were often run ragged and tired to the bone.

And then in mid-August, I had a pretty bad accident. In the middle of a busy rainy afternoon, while cleaning the schoolhouse bathroom, I slipped and slammed my back and knees into the cold hard tiles. That was a doozy. Ouch.

I was able to cushion my head with my arms but I hit my right knee by the side of the toilet bowl. My lower back made direct contact with the slippery floor. I couldn’t stand up at all as my back and knees screamed in pain.

From the bathroom door, I saw Alphonse outside the schoolhouse and playing on his basin of water. Alone with him (my husband was somewhere else in the house and Alex was with his friends that day), I called out his name and asked for his help.

“ALPHONSE! Alphonse! Please help Mama!” I shouted myself hoarse as the sound of heavy rain drowned my sobbing.

After a few tries, I saw Alphonse turn his head and look at me with a sideway glance.

“Alphonse, please help Mama!” I waved a shaky hand at him as I struggled to keep myself upright with the other hand.

Alphonse looked at me again… and waved back.

“Alphonse, help,” I tried again, giving in to loud crying. Sitting there in the wet, slippery floor of the bathroom, I realized that Alphonse was oblivious to my pain. His innocence and inability to understand social cues or comprehend risks and dangers made him unaware that I needed help.

“Mamam,” Alphonse muttered loudly. “Yu!” he shouted, the crescendo of his tremulous baritone merging with the pitter-patter of rain.

Mama, I love you. That was what he was trying to say.

“I love you too, baby,” I thought to myself, crying even harder this time. The idea that something worse could have happened and Alphonse would be unable to help anyone, not even himself, sent me into more fits of sobbing. When I think about it now, I still can’t decide if I was crying for Alphonse or for myself.

A few minutes later, my husband found me, drenched wet and hysterical. Alphonse went about his playing, glancing every now and then, smiling at us and shrieking happily.

My knees are still sore and painful today; I hobble around like an old lady in knee supports and cane. While the right knee received the brunt of my accident, my left knee is slowly giving in from the burden of walking and climbing. The orthopedist has recommended a regimen of treatment to alleviate the pain and increase mobility but I am unable to complete treatment as of today. Not only is the cost prohibitive, we also struggle with finding manpower to help with Alphonse, even just temporarily.

Between living with the constant pain and trying to find a semblance of normalcy to our days, I am hard pressed to find time to sit down and write. The pain has robbed me of my peace, truth to tell, and the struggle to give Alphonse the consistency of routine and predictability has fallen completely on my husband’s and son’s shoulders. I worry for them too, as they help carry my share of the load without complaints.

Still, today is a new day. Today, I found the will, and energy, and desire to write and keep writing. Maybe if I keep writing, I can forget about my worries and fears and allow myself some joy. For now, I will hobble along and try to keep up.

I’m just grateful to be here again, old friends.

“Not The Mama”

When I brought out breakfast for the boys yesterday morning, Alphonse came up to me right away and kissed me. I was glad to see him looking happier than he had been of late, so, buoyed by the 3Es of the Son-Rise Program, I celebrated with whoops of joy and a silly dance.

Alphonse turned out to be amazingly responsive, using more vocalisations to respond to me. His “red light” moments were shorter, enabling me to sustain longer interactions with him.

While he was having his breakfast, I kept a running conversation with him. At one point, I asked him, “Did you have a good night’s sleep, Alphonse?” He responded with a loud “Yah” and a vigorous nod. I followed it up with “Did you have a good dream?” Alphonse roared “Yah!” again, smiling broadly and nodding his head in obvious agreement.

Of course, this Mama just had to ask: “Did you dream of Mama?”

Alphonse looked at me quizzically, then shouted a deafening “Eh! Eh!” He shook his head emphatically. An expression that can only be described as “ewww” 🤢 crossed his face fleetingly.

I laughed so hard I almost fell off my seat.

I wish I could have recorded the whole thing in video. When Alphonse opens himself up, he is quite the hilarious fellow.

Then again, do I give him nightmares? 🧐

Update:

Today, I asked him the same questions, and his replies were honestly consistent.

Me: Did you have a good night’s sleep, baby?

Alphonse: (shaking his head) Eh.

Me: Did you have good dreams?

Alphonse: (shaking his head again) Eh.

Me: Did you dream of Mama?

Alphonse: (nods sadly) Ya.

I do give him nightmares! This just cracks me up! 🤪

To A❤️

Every year, as the minutes and seconds wind down toward the end of December, we find ourselves with renewed anticipation for the waning days of the year. While Christmas passes sedately in an autism household that does not care much for- or cope with- rowdy and frenzied celebrations, this enthusiasm breathes new life into our holiday merrymaking. This eagerness, however, is not for New Year’s Eve, which will not be for another 24 hours. And certainly not for the first of the New Year, which is a day we all seem to both await and dread. For me and my family, the 30th carries far more weight than any other day of the holiday season, and with good reason. On the 30th of December, we celebrate A❤️’s birthday.

This is one of my favorite pictures of my husband. 😍

I met A❤️ when I was 14 (he was 13) at the Philippine Science High School. We weren’t classmates right away, just two freshies thrown together for a debate team. He was six inches shorter than me, and skinny to boot, with hair always slick wet from Vitalis. Not my type, for sure. 😜 Lest you start to feel sorry for him, though, allow me to state that the feeling was completely mutual. We became good friends, true, and somewhere down the line, we would become best friends, but we never saw each other as anything more than that for years.

We grew up together in the warm, nurturing environment of Pisay, where we were both free to become the geeks and nerds of our dreams. Talk was one thing we had in common. He and I would spend hours freely talking about anything and everything we thought of, and friend that he truly was, he allowed me to hog the conversations most of the time. He bore with me patiently, never mind that he once described me in my junior year slam book as loquacious and voluble, a kindness when I think of it, especially when he could have simply have said I talked too much. Even when he and I went to different colleges, we bridged our friendship with snail mail and calls he made on the pay phone at Bellarmine Hall.

On his 19th birthday, he finally noticed I was a girl. Maybe the chocolate cake I brought to his birthday party did the trick. Maybe it was that single “happy birthday” kiss on his cheek. I don’t know why or how it happened, but having just come back from an extended stay in the United States, he said he woke up one day feeling like he couldn’t breathe without me. Thirty one years later, he says he still feels the same way.

And this is why when the 30th of December rolls around, I am reminded of the greatest gifts the Lord has ever given me- the gifts of undying friendship and unconditional love. This man has seen me at my worst, at my ugliest, and at my fattest, and yet he loves me all the same, cellulite, stretch marks, wrinkles, and all. He has stood by me through our difficult days, leading by example and with such faith and trust in the Lord that I myself did not possess. His is the hand that has pulled me many times from the brink of despair and the edge of sorrow. Today, many years after that day he first told me he loved me, he continues to show me what the meaning of true love is. I only have to look in his eyes to see.

Happy birthday, A❤️, my love, my best friend. I love you so.

Journeys

I came home on Sunday afternoon, rejuvenated, refreshed, and with a newfound sense of purpose, from the Son-Rise Program Start Up, the very first in the Philippines. For the five days I was away from my family, I learned new things, made fast friends, and gained a whole community of support. Over a hundred parents participated in this life-changing program, each one with a different, yet completely relatable, autism journey of his/ her own. In those five days, we learned to shift our mindsets to a new paradigm, forever altering the way we see our interactions with our children in the autism spectrum.

On our last morning, before we all said goodbye to each other, we wrote letters to our children- letters of affirmation, of commitment, of love- and some bravely shared theirs with us. It took all I had not to dissolve into a blabbering, whimpering crybaby as one father said “I would go to hell and back for you.” I still get teary-eyed when I think about it.

Last night, as I said my bedtime prayers after another long day with Alphonse (yes, it’s him and me again!), it struck me how apt and how perfect that line was. Alphonse was reticent and distant the whole day, ignoring me most determinedly. My absence had hurt him, and I knew he was not going to let me back in his life without an apology, which I gave, repeatedly. No dice. He also wasn’t feeling well and a sudden tummy ache turned into a “poo-nami” (think tsunami, but poo😳) at dinner time. While he writhed in what I can only assume to be colicky pain, he threw our dinner to the floor and spilled everything within reach of his hands. Then, he looked at us expectantly, waiting for our reaction. While I silently perused the scene of devastation, A❤️ kept his composure and reached out for Alphonse’s hand. Alphonse took it. My husband helped him get cleaned up, but Alphonse had several more poo-nami episodes that didn’t reach the bathroom just in time. A❤️ patiently washed our son, deftly steering him away from the remains of food and waste on the floor.

It wasn’t the homecoming I expected. After being away, I wanted Alphonse to run to me and act like he missed me. He did kiss and hug me once sincerely, but he moved away just as quickly, eyeing me suspiciously from the corner of his eye. I was hurt, truth to tell, and disappointed, but as my husband talked to Alphonse in a low, soothing voice, I saw in him the lessons I picked up from my time with Son-Rise and, like him, drew strength from love. Even after Alphonse was clean and had drank oral rehydration salts thrice, A❤️ had to scrub a whole section of the house for an hour before it was clean. We had to move furniture to make sure little bits and pieces of our dinner weren’t left for mice to feast on. He scrubbed the floor with bleach and soap and water to remove all traces of poo and I mopped up after him. I laundered the stained chair covers and table mats in one cycle and hang them up to dry. Later, I headed to the kitchen for my hour of washing up and A❤️ followed to help with the rest of our chores.

I realized this is what it means to “go to hell and back for you.” Because every single day, we do. And we do it without complaints, without begrudging him anything, and with much joy and enthusiasm, because we love Alphonse.

Before I finally fell asleep, I remembered something else. I’ve been meaning to write about this picture but a fog had settled in my brain. Anyway, I was sorting the photographs in my camera roll a few nights before I left home last week when my eyes wandered over a particular picture. It was one my husband took while we were in Taipei two weeks before that. It was part of a series of similar pictures- same pose, same squinty smile, same background- and were it not for the figures on the right side of the photograph, this particular photograph would have ended in the deleted pile along with ten others. For some reason, my eyes lingered on those two figures and stayed there.

I drew on my recollection of that day to place them in the picture. On that cold morning, as A❤️ and I ambled along while taking photographs, I didn’t even know that the camera had caught them. What I do remember most was the sound of a male voice mumbling slowly in a monotone behind me as an older female voice talked soothingly and calmly. I remember whirling around to catch a glimpse of where the voices came from. I remember seeing an adult man and an older woman holding hands as she gently led him across the wide main road, talking him through it. I remember thinking that anywhere in the world, a parent loves his/her child with special needs, and this love, while most unique and exceptional, can also be quite common.

Take A❤️, for example. Or the old Chinese woman with her adult son. Or even the father who choked back his tears while reading his letter to his son.

“I would go to hell and back for you.”

Yes, we Will.

Yes, we Do

Love in Lasagna

The very first dish I ever learned to make was a lasagna. Not adobo, which took me 15 years to learn; not sinigang, which I could not stand to eat till I was in my forties. Apart from grilled cheese and liver pâté sandwiches my father taught me to make for our midnight snack dates, lasagna was the only thing I knew how to make for years. I learned from necessity, because I wanted to eat it.

In the beginning, I cooked only for myself. I would make one 9 x 13 pan and devour it in one sitting. No leftovers, I’m not kidding! Well, most of the time, really, heehee. Today, I’m sorry I did not share with my brothers and sisters more, maybe then, I’d  have shared part of my heft too.

When I had made the dish enough times, I found the confidence to share it with others. And so, I made it for my friends in med school. They seemed to like it, judging by the empty pans I would lug home. Well, it was that, or they were just being kind to me.

I also made lasagna to impress my then-boyfriend and years later, when we got married, the dish became his special request for occasions like his birthday or our anniversaries. Of course, as much as we would have wanted to have it everyday, it was a bit over our measly budget as newlyweds and, later on, too labor intensive for new parents.

One memory that comes to mind when I think about lasagna happened when we were very young. On his 25th birthday, amid a series of family disputes (long story), I burnt the lasagna meant for his birthday dinner. In the drama of the day, I totally forgot about it and by the time I remembered, thick, black smoke was coming out of the oven. I remember holding the burnt pan over the sink, crying over it and our woes. I was about to throw the whole thing in the trash when A♥ silently took it from my hands. He set it on the table, helped himself to a huge serving, and ate it without complaint.

“Thank you for a wonderful birthday, hon,” he whispered in my ear.

“It’s burnt,” I bawled loudly.

“I could eat everything in one sitting. I love it because you made it. And I got to spend my birthday with you again,” he said gently.

I cried even harder after that. I also never burned a single pan after that day.

Last weekend, upon request, I made lasagna for the family and an extra pan for Alex’s friends. I worked late Friday night to get them ready and then woke up extra early to bake them. Making them was not easy for my numb, clumsy hands anymore, I discovered, but I worked with only the best ingredients and poured my best efforts into making sure they tasted the same as they always have.

Alex has already asked me to teach him how to make it. On occasions when he is inspired to make something more than a lazy cup of instant ramen, this son of mine dabbles in the kitchen. One day, he will be making the lasagna in the family. Hopefully, he will share it with friends, with loved ones, and with the family he will make. I find this thought comforting.

When he makes his own lasagna, he will be sharing more than just food that has become a special part of our family. He will be passing on years of our memories, of a family history that included one special dish, and all the joys and sorrows that came with it. He will also be passing on love and snippets of our lives.

Which, I hope, much like the lasagna I served for lunch last Saturday, will be enjoyed to the fullest and to the last bite.