In the Catholic-Filipino tradition, a 9-day novena is held immediately after the death of a loved one. On the 40th day, a mass is held in commemoration of this loved one as it is believed that this is the day they’ve ascended into the heavens. It’s also the day where the act of “mourning” (wearing black, for example) officially concludes. It’s supposed to be the time where a person is supposed to outwardly “show” that they’ve began to “move on” with everyday life.
Yet another "borrowed" picture from another cousin
Except … anyone that has ever mourned the loss a love one (or heck, even the loss of anything in life — like the ability to have children, for instance) knows that grief doesn’t last for a set moment in time. Life doesn’t just miraculously get better after 40 days, several months or even years. If anything, grief is a process that must be worked through completely before a person can successfully move on.
Sometime last week was the 40th day anniversary of my Grandma Rose‘s passing. In all honestly, the date escaped me. It wasn’t until I saw pictures of a celebration at my Uncle’s house on my cousin‘s Facebook page that I remembered. And if the rest of my Mom’s family in the U.S. didn’t live on the East Coast, I might have been there celebrating with them. Instead, I celebrated with them in spirit; once again reflecting back on the incredible life my 99-year old Grandmother.
This past Monday, on Memorial Day of all days, I happened to get the first part of an incredible gift in my email inbox. This same cousin, who posted pictures of the 40th day celebration, sent me … along with the rest of my cousins and Aunts/Uncles in her email address book … a scanned copy of a notebook written by Grandma Rose.
About 32 pages in length and written about twenty years ago, this handwritten notebook told the most basic lifestory of my grandmother in her own words. She had left it to my cousin, who took it upon herself to scan in each page and send it to all of us.
It was absolutely wonderful to read these pages and physically see it my Grandma’s own handwriting. Many of the accounts she documented were stories that I can remember her telling me. Other stories were ones that were passed down to me from my own Mom. But reading them now … well, they brought back such warm memories of listening to my Grandma Rose tell these stories and being fascinated on how life in the Philippines was so different than my own.
For years, we had told Grandma that she should write all these stories down … that she had lived such an interesting life. While many of these stories never made it into writing, I still feel incredibly blessed that Grandma left her own legacy behind and in her own words.
Last night, after I finished reading these pages I, once again, felt this incredible closeness with my Grandma Rose. It felt as if she was right there next to me, telling me these stories like she did when I was little. It felt as if I could put my arms around her and hug her, while she read aloud to me what she wrote.
And just like that, the tears sprung up again. Because then I realized how much I missed her and still miss her. Even after these 40-plus days.
***
And because the number 40 always reminds me of this song … I have to pay homage to one of my favorite bands of all time. I have this vivid memory of being home sick one day in high school and watching “Live at Red Rocks: Under a Blood Red Sky” … so it’s this clip I had to post.
For those that don’t know, this song is based on the Bible’s Psalm 40. Which … given how spiritual my Grandma Rose was … is incredibly appropriate. Enjoy.
Years ago, I had a conversation with a co-worker about keepsakes. And when I mean keepsakes, I mean personal items that an individual wishes to pass on to a family member or friend that would appreciate the sentiment behind such a gift. It could be anything from a simple chotski to artwork, or even large pieces of furniture.
This co-worker told me the story about a bedroom set that belonged to her grandmother, which was also passed down from her grandmother from the mid 1800’s. It was a beautiful set, she told me. Very simple, yet classic. It was also something that her grandmother passed down to her, as her grandmother knew that she loved the set.
So then this co-worker asked if I ever had anything “passed down” to me from the previous generations. I admit, I had to think about it for a second. The nurse in me thought … “Duh, yeah. My big butt for instance. And my nose. And the shape of my head.” But then I realized, those were physical genetic traits that were passed down to me from my parents and their parents, etc.
The short answer to the question my co-worker asked me was no. Yes, there have been clothes passed on or an occasional headboard or shelf or table. But those were more for utilitarian purposes. Actual “keepsakes” or “antiques” (if that’s what you wish to call it … )? No. Not really.
Not having any real “keepsakes” from other family members isn’t because I come from a family that doesn’t “believe” in passing things down to the next generation. For me, I believe it’s more or less because I am a first generation Asian/Filipino-American.
Both my Mom and my Dad were born and raised in the Philippines; coming to this side of the hemisphere (separately, and not knowing each other at the time) once they were done with their studies. As they were both young, neither of them traveled with more than what they needed to live in what would be their new “home.” With that said, when they eventually met and married … there was little for them to combine once they moved to Detroit and settled into daily living. In fact, much of what they bought for their new home, again was utilitarian more than something of significant value or sentiment.
And perhaps because it’s something that women often think about, my Mom and I have had random conversations in the past about what she wants to pass on to her children. While, she has already passed on her love of books and art (along with her knowledge in science) to both my brother and me, there is one thing she’s told me is that she’s always wanted to pass on to us. And that would be those special stones or rings or necklaces/earrings that my Dad has given to her over the years; those sentimental “jewelry” pieces that she still keeps. Because, as she herself said, there isn’t much other than her jewelry that she feels she can “leave behind” for her children. Or her grandchildren.
*****
While cleaning out his side of our dresser last week, Hubby stumbled on a jewelry box. And inside this jewelry box were two rings made of Chinese gold. Other than size, these rings were identical and, if pressed into hot wax, would produce a heart-shaped “embroidered” Chinese floral pattern.
Hubby holds these rings dear to him … not because they’re made of Chinese gold and represent his half-Filipino/half-Chinese heritage. And not because they were simply a gift from his parents.
Rather these rings were something that Hubby wore when he was just a child. The first ring was given to him when he was just a baby; most likely to celebrate his birth. And the second ring … that one was given to him before his parents (who met and married in the Philippines) left to prepare a home for him and his sister in the U.S.
Both rings remind him of his youth; of his time back in the Philippines. And anyone that knows Hubby, he has always had a hard time with memories. So for him to reflect back at what little he remembers from his early years in the Philippines … well, that’s just something to treasure.
When Hubby found the jewelry box that held these rings this past Sunday, I couldn’t help but feel sad. After all these were rings that I know Hubby hoped to pass down to his own children. Those same children that would be his legacy. The children that would pass on all of his heritages; his Chinese, Filipino and American backgrounds. The children that would make up half of his genetic traits (perhaps a future comic book artist?). Those same children who would pass on his name.
As I looked up at Hubby, I knew he was thinking the same thing. And all I could say to him was “Sorry.” Yet, (and I must add, I know this is illogical … ) somehow that just never seem to be enough.
Because honestly … not only do I feel as if I’ve deprived him of the ability to be a wonderful father, I feel as if I’ve “robbed” him of the ability to pass on his traits, his skills … his legacy.
This past Sunday morning at our Michigan home was a rough one.
I should preface this by saying that the raggedness of that morning had absolutely nothing to do with the baptism we attended later on that day. Because I was actually looking forward to spending time with these good friends; a couple that experienced the roller coaster of infertility first hand. I was looking forward to meeting their daughter for the first time.
Nor did it have to do with spending time with those other family friends’ kids who are waaay too adorable. Because, believe me … seeing how these kids grew so much over the past six months was just plain fun. (Personally, the story about our friend’s two year old son placing a Vic.toria’s Secret bag on his head and walking around calling himself Opti.mus Pri.me was my absolute favorite!)
Nope, what made the morning rough was what I stumbled upon while cleaning off the top of our dresser.
And the thing is … I should have known better because it was in the same exact place I left it when I last stumbled upon this item.
Hubby happened to be there this time when I found the picture of our two would-be babies. And he noticed the subtle flinch I made as I picked it up and set it aside … this time to pack it away so that it would be “filed” somewhere safe, so as not to be lost while in the midst of our “final” move to Chicago.
And when Hubby asked me if I was okay, I told him the truth. I was okay for the moment, but I was sure that it would affect me at a later date. It could be tonite … or it could be next week.
As it turned out, I would have to face my feelings about my failed IVF at that very moment. Because that was the moment that Hubby stood next to me, picked up the snapshot and said, “I’m going to throw it away.”
“No,” I immediately responded. “Don’t.” And when Hubby asked me why, I responded “Because that’s the only picture I have of them.”
Them, meaning my babies. My one instance at biological motherhood I would ever experience. The one time I could ever say that I had babies inside of me. So what if my babies didn’t “stick”? So what if I never got my second pink line? Or an HCG level that would ever equate to a positive pregnancy test? That picture was everything that could have been. That picture harvested all those unfulfilled possibilities.
And even though that one and only IVF cycle failed … that picture showed that Hubby & I were able to create something (or rather three* “somethings”… even though we didn’t have a snapshot of our third) from the two of us. It was a testament what lengths Hubby & I traveled in order to have children created from our own flesh and blood.
“It doesn’t matter,” Hubby said in response. “We’ll always know what they mean to us.”
And because I had no smart reply to that, Hubby continued. “It’s time to move on,” he told me. “We need to keep moving forward.”
“D*mn it,” I remember thinking to myself. “He’s right.” But rather than acknowledge it (after all, I am stubborn), I continued cleaning off the dresser.
That is, until Hubby snuck up behind me and put his arms around my waist. “It’s time,” he repeated.
“I know,” I finally said to him as he picked up the picture from where I last placed it on the dresser.
Our Two Little "Somethings" ...
“So I can throw it away?,” Hubby asked.
“Yes,” I said. “But do it quickly before I change my mind.” And then as he took the picture and walked towards the trash can, I turned the other way.
“I can’t watch,” I told Hubby.
I listened to Hubby slowly walk away from me and pause by the bedroom door. Where the trash can was. And after a quick rustle of paper, the picture was gone.
*****
I blocked that moment out of my mind for the rest of the day; busy with two parties, the one baptism I mentioned above and the other a birthday party for my aunt. Both at buffet restaurants, may I add. (Still. So. Stuffed.) Then it was the long drive back to Chicago so I could work in the morning.
It wasn’t until Hubby & I dropped my cousin off (who bummed a ride with us to attend our Aunt’s party) that Hubby and I talked about our “babies” again. And how hard it still was for me to let them “go.”
That’s when Hubby turned to me and told me that it was hard for him too. Hard for him to throw away the picture. Harder for him to let go than he thought.
And as sad as that moment was for me, there was that little sliver of hope … that small glimmer of light at the end of a very long and dark tunnel. Because even though our car was packed with stuff we were moving from our old house to our new “home” in Chicago … the weight in my heart felt just a smidge lighter.
I guess this means I’m actually letting go.
~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~
* Our third “something” was a lone blastocyte that was frozen. Hubby and I had hoped that more blastocytes would have survived the initial IVF procedure so that we would have the ability to try a “frozen cycle.”
So I’ve been in the workforce for … well, what seems like forever. Seriously. I started babysitting at the age of 12 years old and spent many a summers watching over the younger neighborhood kids. Or the kids of my parents’ friends
And then at the age of 16, I got my first “official” job as a burger-slinger at the local fast food establishment. (Think of the recent “King-On” commercials on TV. Yeah, it was that restauraunt …) I had a manager who was the spittin’ image of Tim Curry and thought that all Asian girls looked like Conn.ie Chung. He also had a habit of sticking any non-Caucasian employee in the back either making the sandwiches or washing dishes. Amongst other nasty comments he made, the naive person in me took a few years to I recognize what a bigot this man was. So yeah, I lasted about 3 months on that job.
Hubby & I try to take "Foot Fotos" every time we go on vacation. This was taken at Cannon Beach, OR
The next summer I managed to land a job at the local mall working at a music store. No, it wasn’t an independent record store … although I always wished I could have worked at one. Yes, it was one of those retail chain stores that sold mostly Top 40 crap. But the job had its perks, which included a decent discount, first dibs on any “alternative” stuff that managed to come into the store, and a crap load of freebies that the label reps would hand out any time they came into the store. Oh … and we also got a lot of “heads up” on tour dates and album releases before the general public new. Of course pre-internet … that was a pretty d*mn cool perk. It was definitely a fun job to have, and the people that I worked with and interacted with on a daily basis definitely made the mundane more interesting.
I managed to keep the music store job for the next three years; lasting through the summer after my first year in college. And, if you can believe it … I also managed to hold a second job at one of the department stores within the same mall. That one wasn’t as fun, as I managed to get stuck in the men’s clothing department. However, to this day I know exactly how to fold a man’s dress shirt back into the original packaging it may have come in. Ain’t it amazing how we retain the stupidest things?
Dundas Square, Toronto
I finally quit both retail jobs after my first year in Nursing school. And that’s because I managed to get my first job in a hospital as a Nursing Assistant. Which turned in to a Nurse Technician position another year later. Which eventually turned into my first post-college job. Of course, I moved over to the bigger “sister” hospital at that time. Which meant more interesting patients and definitely more Residents (“Doctors-In-Training” … not to be confused with Med School students). Those first couple years post-graduation in my first job had to be one of the most exciting times of my career. Lots of new things to learn, lots of interesting co-worker dynamics, etc.
After about two years, the “glamour” and excitement of working on “the floors” started to wear down on me. Things suddenly became routine. And since by then I was married, working the afternoon shift and every other weekend grated on me because, as a newlywed, I just wanted to spend time with my Hubby. It’s about that time when I started to feel the “burn out” of working on the floors. And looking back now, I have a feeling that the reason I was burning out was more because of the way our unit was being managed* and not by the people I worked with or the actual work I was responsible.
In any case, my “break” literally came when I injured my back on the job. How, may you ask, did that happen? Well, it’s not that a patient fell on me … rather it was me that fell on a patient. Yep. As a fellow RN and I were lifting a patient who slipped off of her chair onto the floor, this patient began to lose her balance. Now … in Nursing School, you’re taught to “ease” a patient that is falling down onto the floor. In otherwords, you don’t let go of the patient; you guide them slowly onto a chair or back down on the floor. Well … while I attempted to “ease” this patient onto the floor, my fellow RN decided to just let the patient go.
At the Bow of a Caribbean Cruise Ship
And down the patient went. With me right on top of her shortly afterwards. And … ouch, what was that sharp pain I felt in my lower back?
I happened to be off that weekend and when I couldn’t sleep comfortably for the next two days, I decided it was time to fill out paperwork. So after a couple of Employee Health appointments and an MRI to my lower back, I found out I had a herniated disk. And despite the months of physical therapy and cortisone shots (which, by the way, I think may have been one of the reasons for my IF issues … ), the pain to my back and it’s associated numbness and tingling down my left leg persisted. So that’s when I decided to have surgery to correct the herniated disk. (What can I say? I was only 25 at the time and I didn’t want to be in pain for the rest of my life!)
And that’s when I met my disability RN Case Manager for the first time. She’s the one who showed me that there were other areas of Nursing that I could get in to with my degree. So armed with that information, when I returned to work I was lucky enough to have a fellow RN who was doing Case Management for the hospital I worked for. She’s the one that got me my first position in Case Management and I haven’t turned back to floor nursing since.
On the beach at Labadee, Haiti
So I guess you can say that I literally “fell” into Case Management. Ha!
Okay, so that long diatribe wasn’t what I was getting at when I first started this post. What I’m really getting at is that since I was a young’in I worked. And once I graduated from college and joined the career workforce, I’ve worked. Full time, mind you. The only time I ever took a break between jobs (besides when I went for my back surgery) was when I left the hospital to work for a health insurance company. And even then, it was less than a week. And when I left that job to come here to Chicago, I took absolutely no time off in between.
Oh sure, I’ve had time off during the year. I mean, we Full-Time folk do accrue vacation time that we are entitled to. And trust me, Hubby & I make it a point to take a vacation because that’s a priority for us in life. I mean really, it’s our time to recharge our batteries and refuel our energy so that we can delve headfirst into our careers with new purpose. We need that time because, unlike others that have different priorities than us, our childless (or child-free, still deciding) life consists of little more than our careers.
At Lake Louise, Banff, Alberta (Canadian Rockies)
Okay, so I’m overexagerating here (or as Hubby says I’m “V.H.1 Storytelling”). I mean, I wouldn’t be writing / blogging and Hubby wouldn’t be sketching if I didn’t do anything more than wake up and go to work every day. But I think you readers may get the point.
It’s been just over five months since I moved to Chicago and started this new job, without taking more than 2 days off (strictly for the NYE holiday) inbetween. And before that, it’s been since July last year that Hubby & I have taken any sort of vacation together. Needless to say, I’m ripe for some time off.
H*ll. I don’t even care if it’s a Stay-cation. I don’t care if I don’t do more than read, write or blog for a week. I just want to have the time dedicated to ourselves. To be together. To fully relish in the big move that the two of us made together. To explore our new local surroundings. (Hmm … I guess you could call that a “Play-cation” then. Not to be confused with “placate” though … ) All without the pressure to keep working. To make deadlines. To set new goals. To maintain the current goals.
Seriously, I’d be happy to just be in bed with Hubby, imagining we’re back in Hawaii lying in a hammock on the beach at sunset. Perhaps we can bring in some fake plastic trees, too.
Cannon Beach, OR again ... Recognize the rock from "Goonies"?
As it is, the next long weekend we have planned will be Memorial Day. (But then, is it a vacation if the rest of your company is off too?!) And the next one would be Independence Day … which is followed closely by my birthday that following Monday. And d*mn it … you know I’ll be taking that day off. I mean, I’ll at least have accrued one or two vacation days by then …
I mean if I can’t take time off to find a new career path or even take time off to take my imaginary kids to a fun vacation spot during their imaginary summer vacation … let alone to take a maternity leave for that imaginary pregnancy, too … I should be entitiled to have my own birthday off. Don’t you think?
~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~
* I know that now, only because being in a leadership position … I know that a person never leaves a job because of the people or because of the actual work. Nope. In my experience, most people that go willingly on to “greener pastures” (or maybe not so “greener” …) leave because of who they report to.
About 32 pages in length and written about twenty years ago, this handwritten notebook told the most basic lifestory of my grandmother in her own words. She had left it to my cousin, who took it upon herself to scan in each page and send it to all of us.
When Hubby found the jewelry box that held these rings this past Sunday, I couldn’t help but feel sad. After all these were rings that I know Hubby hoped to pass down to his own children. Those same children that would be his legacy. The children that would pass on all of his heritages; his Chinese, Filipino and American backgrounds. The children that would make up half of his genetic traits (perhaps a future comic book 
