Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Two Choices
At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves children with learning disabilities, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question:
'When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does, is done with perfection. Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do. Where it the natural order of things in my son?
The audience was stilled by the query.
The father continued. 'I believe that when a child like Shay, who was mentally and physically disabled comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes in the way other people treat that child.'
Then he told the following story:
Shay and I had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked,
'Do you think they'll let me play?'
I knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but as a father I also understood that if my son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.
I approached one of the boys on the field and asked (not expecting much) if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance and said, 'We're losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning.'
Shay struggled over to the team's bench and, with a broad smile, put on a team shirt. I watched with a small tear in my eye and warmth in my heart. The boys saw my joy at my son being accepted.
In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three.
In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as I waved to him from the stands.
In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again.
Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.
At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game?
Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.
However, as Shay stepped up to the Plate, the pitcher, recognizing that the other team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay's life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least make contact.
The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay.
As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.
The game would now be over.
The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman.
Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.
Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the first baseman's head, out of reach of all team mates.
Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling,
'Shay, run to first! Run to first!'
Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base.
He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.
Everyone yelled,
'Run to second, run to second!'
Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to the base.
By the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball. The smallest guy on their team who now had his first chance to be the hero for his team.
He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher's intentions so he, too, intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman' s head.
Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.
All were screaming, 'Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay'
Shay reached third base because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the direction of third base, and shouted,
'Run to third! Shay, run to third!'
As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams, and the spectators, were on their feet screaming,
'Shay, run home! Run home!'
Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team.
'That day', said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, 'the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world'.
Shay didn't make it to another summer. He died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making me so happy, and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!
'When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does, is done with perfection. Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do. Where it the natural order of things in my son?
The audience was stilled by the query.
The father continued. 'I believe that when a child like Shay, who was mentally and physically disabled comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes in the way other people treat that child.'
Then he told the following story:
Shay and I had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked,
'Do you think they'll let me play?'
I knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but as a father I also understood that if my son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.
I approached one of the boys on the field and asked (not expecting much) if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance and said, 'We're losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning.'
Shay struggled over to the team's bench and, with a broad smile, put on a team shirt. I watched with a small tear in my eye and warmth in my heart. The boys saw my joy at my son being accepted.
In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three.
In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as I waved to him from the stands.
In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again.
Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.
At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game?
Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.
However, as Shay stepped up to the Plate, the pitcher, recognizing that the other team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay's life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least make contact.
The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay.
As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.
The game would now be over.
The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman.
Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.
Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the first baseman's head, out of reach of all team mates.
Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling,
'Shay, run to first! Run to first!'
Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base.
He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.
Everyone yelled,
'Run to second, run to second!'
Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to the base.
By the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball. The smallest guy on their team who now had his first chance to be the hero for his team.
He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher's intentions so he, too, intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman' s head.
Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.
All were screaming, 'Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay'
Shay reached third base because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the direction of third base, and shouted,
'Run to third! Shay, run to third!'
As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams, and the spectators, were on their feet screaming,
'Shay, run home! Run home!'
Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team.
'That day', said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, 'the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world'.
Shay didn't make it to another summer. He died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making me so happy, and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!
Friday, April 10, 2009
Death - a Wonderful Explanation
A sick man turned to his doctor as he was preparing to leave the examination room and said, "Doctor, I am afraid to die. Tell me what lies on the other side."
Very quietly, the doctor said, "I don't know."
"You don't know? You, a Christian man, do not know what is on the other side?"
The doctor was holding the handle of the door; On the other side came a sound of scratching and whining, and as he opened the door, a dog sprang into the room and leaped on him with an eager show of gladness. Turning to the patient, the doctor said, "Did you notice my dog? He's never been in this room before. He didn't know what was inside. He knew nothing except that his master was here, and when the door opened, he sprang in without fear. I know little of what is on the other side of death, but I do know one thing... I know my Master is there and that is enough."
Very quietly, the doctor said, "I don't know."
"You don't know? You, a Christian man, do not know what is on the other side?"
The doctor was holding the handle of the door; On the other side came a sound of scratching and whining, and as he opened the door, a dog sprang into the room and leaped on him with an eager show of gladness. Turning to the patient, the doctor said, "Did you notice my dog? He's never been in this room before. He didn't know what was inside. He knew nothing except that his master was here, and when the door opened, he sprang in without fear. I know little of what is on the other side of death, but I do know one thing... I know my Master is there and that is enough."
Monday, April 06, 2009
A Real-Life Jamie Sullivan*
A confirmed true story.
The girl in the picture is Katie Kirkpatrick, she is 21 . Next to her, her fiancé, Nick, 23. The picture was taken shortly before their wedding ceremony, held on January 11, 2005 in the US . Katie has terminal cancer and spend hours a day receiving medication. In the picture, Nick is waiting for her on one of the many sessions of quimo to end.
In spite of all the pain, organ failures, and morphine shots, Katie is going along with her wedding and took care of every detail. The dress had to be adjusted a few times due to her constant weight loss.
An unusual accessory at the party was the oxygen tube that katie used throughout the ceremony and reception as well. The other couple in the picture are Nick's parents. Excited to see her son marrying his high school sweetheart.
Katie, in her wheelchair with the oxygen tube, listening to a song from her husband and friends.
At the reception, Katie had to take a few rests.The pain does not allow her to stand up for long periods.
Katie died five days after her wedding day. Watching a woman so ill and weak getting married and with a smile on her face makes us think..... Happiness is reachable, no matter how long it last. We should stop making our lives complicated.
The girl in the picture is Katie Kirkpatrick, she is 21 . Next to her, her fiancé, Nick, 23. The picture was taken shortly before their wedding ceremony, held on January 11, 2005 in the US . Katie has terminal cancer and spend hours a day receiving medication. In the picture, Nick is waiting for her on one of the many sessions of quimo to end. In spite of all the pain, organ failures, and morphine shots, Katie is going along with her wedding and took care of every detail. The dress had to be adjusted a few times due to her constant weight loss.An unusual accessory at the party was the oxygen tube that katie used throughout the ceremony and reception as well. The other couple in the picture are Nick's parents. Excited to see her son marrying his high school sweetheart.
Katie, in her wheelchair with the oxygen tube, listening to a song from her husband and friends.At the reception, Katie had to take a few rests.The pain does not allow her to stand up for long periods.Katie died five days after her wedding day. Watching a woman so ill and weak getting married and with a smile on her face makes us think..... Happiness is reachable, no matter how long it last. We should stop making our lives complicated.*Jamie Sullivan is the name of a character from the book/movie A Walk to Remember who also got married while she had cancer.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Ugly
author unknown
Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident tomcat. Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and shall we say, love.
The combination of these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect on Ugly. To start with, he had only one eye, and where the other should have been was a gaping hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side, his left foot has appeared to have been badly broken at one time, and had healed at an unnatural angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner.
His tail has long age been lost, leaving only the smallest stub, which he would constantly jerk and twitch. Ugly would have been a dark gray tabby striped-type, except for the sores covering his head, neck, and even his shoulders with thick, yellowing scabs. Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction. “That’s one UGLY cat!!”
All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door when he would not leave. Ugly always had the same reaction. If you turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you gave up and quit. If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body around feet in forgiveness.
Whenever he spied children, he would come running meowing frantically and bump his head against their hands, begging for their love. If ever someone picked him up he would immediately begin suckling on your shirt, earrings, whatever he could find.
One day Ugly shared his love with the neighbor’s huskies. They did not respond kindly, and Ugly was badly mauled. From my apartment I could hear his screams, and I tried to rush to his aid. By the time I got to where he was laying, it was apparent Ugly’s sad life was almost at an end.
Ugly lay in a wet circle, his back legs and lower back twisted grossly out of shape, a gaping tear in the white strip of fur that ran down his front. As I picked him up and tried to carry him home I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and could feel him struggling. “I must be hurting him terribly,” I thought. Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear.
Ugly, in so much pain, suffering and obviously dying was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head, then he turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring. Even in the greatest pain, that ugly battled scarred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion.
At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen. Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, or even try to get away from me, or struggle in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me to relieve his pain.
Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat and held him for a long time afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, deformed little stray could so alter my opinion about what it means to have true pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly.
Ugly taught me more about giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or talk show specials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful. He had been scarred on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me to move on and learn to love truly and deeply.
It was time to give my all to those I cared for. Many people want to be richer, more successful, well liked, beautiful, but for me, I will always try to be like Ugly.
Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident tomcat. Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and shall we say, love.
The combination of these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect on Ugly. To start with, he had only one eye, and where the other should have been was a gaping hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side, his left foot has appeared to have been badly broken at one time, and had healed at an unnatural angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner.
His tail has long age been lost, leaving only the smallest stub, which he would constantly jerk and twitch. Ugly would have been a dark gray tabby striped-type, except for the sores covering his head, neck, and even his shoulders with thick, yellowing scabs. Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction. “That’s one UGLY cat!!”
All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door when he would not leave. Ugly always had the same reaction. If you turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you gave up and quit. If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body around feet in forgiveness.
Whenever he spied children, he would come running meowing frantically and bump his head against their hands, begging for their love. If ever someone picked him up he would immediately begin suckling on your shirt, earrings, whatever he could find.
One day Ugly shared his love with the neighbor’s huskies. They did not respond kindly, and Ugly was badly mauled. From my apartment I could hear his screams, and I tried to rush to his aid. By the time I got to where he was laying, it was apparent Ugly’s sad life was almost at an end.
Ugly lay in a wet circle, his back legs and lower back twisted grossly out of shape, a gaping tear in the white strip of fur that ran down his front. As I picked him up and tried to carry him home I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and could feel him struggling. “I must be hurting him terribly,” I thought. Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear.
Ugly, in so much pain, suffering and obviously dying was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head, then he turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring. Even in the greatest pain, that ugly battled scarred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion.
At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen. Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, or even try to get away from me, or struggle in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me to relieve his pain.
Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat and held him for a long time afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, deformed little stray could so alter my opinion about what it means to have true pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly.
Ugly taught me more about giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or talk show specials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful. He had been scarred on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me to move on and learn to love truly and deeply.
It was time to give my all to those I cared for. Many people want to be richer, more successful, well liked, beautiful, but for me, I will always try to be like Ugly.
Friday, November 28, 2008
One Red Rose
I Have Survived Essay Writing Contest
Third Place & Reader's Choice Winner
Date Posted: 2/4/2005 8:00:55 PM
Author: Zirma Guevarra
"Hey Mommy, what are you staring at? Are you listening, Mom?"
"I said, after watching Enteng Kabisote, let us pass by at Dad's favorite record store and buy him a new CD."
"Shhhh... All right, Josh...," I whispered. "Mom heard you loud and clear," I replied.
Josh just turned 5 years old last December 25. Those five years of being a Mom to a very handsome, sweet and smart kid is probably the most exciting and fulfilling stage of my life.
I'll be 28 years old this Feb. 14. At my age, I can recognize all the anime characters -- from Ghost Fighter to Ragnarok, to Lupin to Mask Ryder. Josh loves watching television and most of the time, I am his TV buddy. Whenever I would arrive home from work, he is always ready with his never-ending stories of what he did at school and what had happened to Mask Rider Ryuki.
Some of my morning rituals, though repetitive, are never boring. I usually wake up at 5AM, take shower, prepare Josh's uniform, and make sure all his stuff are inside his bag including his baon. Then I would wake up his yaya and ask her to give Josh a bath, while I prepare myself for the office. In between putting on my blush-on and lipstick, I would always hear Josh giggling, yelling and making fun of his Yaya Ella. In most times, I would get jealous of Ella, they get along well.
Josh is much like his dad, they are both makulit. At his young age, Josh loves listening to music and oftentimes mimics all rockers he sees on MTV. Before Josh disrupted my thoughts about the CD he wished to buy for his Dad, I was in a trance, pondering the first time I met Kelvin...
It was Valentines Day of 1997 when I first laid eyes on him, it was also my 20th birthday then. I found myself sitting alone in one of the waiting sheds of the campus, when I noticed him walking directly to my direction. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Every stride he made toward my place made me nervous. His good looks and boyish features became too evident as he came closer. I was so conscious that I stood up and tried to walk away until he called out, "Mariz, wait!" I stood still, thinking, "how did this guy whom I never met before know my name?" As I turned my head and looked back, he smiled and uttered, "Happy Valentines". He then handed me a red rose. I smiled back, sat down and we talked.
I learned that Kelvin was an admirer, who befriended one of my classmates to get to know me as well. He confessed that he, together with my classmates, really planned that particular day -- I found out it was the reason I sat alone, waiting without my usual tropa.
We talked for almost an hour -- we were comfortable conversing. I learned that we were both on our junior year, he was taking up ECE while I, Business Ad. We both studied at PLM.
Kelvin and I became very close -- he loved poetry and music; I liked cross stitching. He was always the first one to laugh whenever he delivered a joke. As for me, I often laughed at his jokes because he laughed like a gorilla. We became inseparable since the first time we met. Kelvin became the closest person to me aside from my family. On the eve of my graduation, after more than a year of friendship / courtship, he became my first boyfriend.
In 1998, I graduated from college, and Kelvin was on his 5th year in ECE then.
I remember during the graduation rites at PICC, Kelvin was hesitant to come and see me receive my diploma because that will also be the first time for him to meet my family. I forced him though. I introduced Kelvin to my family, oh, I could not forget that scenario. He was so
nervous and pale.
June of 1998, I was employed in one of the top corporations in Ortigas, while Kelvin was on his last year in Engineering. At that time, we saw to it that our relationship will not be tested by
the temptations of the corporate world and tried our best to fight his insecurity of still "being a student". Every relationship, as they say, has its ups and downs. Kelvin started to show signs of jealousy and insecurity. We seldom went out on dates, he always had excuses. Behind all his aloofness, I knew then that he just did not want me to spend money on our dates. His pride was slowly tearing our relationship apart during those times. There were couple of nights I spent crying instead of resting. My co-workers were asking me to give up Kelvin, they insisted that life and love in college was different when starts working in the corporate world.
October 26, 1998, Kelvin's birthday. I surprised him while he and his study group were busy finishing their case study on Microprocessor Clock Speed. I showed up wearing my old college uniform. He was shocked and he stared long at my old uniform, then he embraced me so hard that I raced for my breath. When he let go, I saw tears in his eyes. He kept repeating how much he loved me and that he was sorry for pushing me away. He confessed that, he was so jealous and insecure that he wanted me to find some other guy that could treat me out in any restaurant I wanted; buy me anything I pleased; or fetch me with nice cars; and shower me with gifts. Then I found myself crying for I never had known then how much I loved Kelvin, until I knew how sensitive he was. How he wished to give me the WORLD, when I only longed for a single red
rose.
February 14, 1999, on my 22nd birthday, he gave me one red rose; same as what he gave me when we first met two years before. And I swore then, that was the only thing I wished to receive.
Thursday, April 1, 1999, Kelvin fetched me from work. He bragged all afternoon, he said he will graduate on the 30th, Friday. He kept on asking me to address him as Engineer Kelvin Regalado. I did. That night, we made love for the first time. It was passionate and unforgettable.
April 18, 1999, our 2nd anniversary, Kelvin composed this poem in front of me.
Star shine's bright on a darkest night...
being with you makes every thing right...
here is my heart with love as pure as white...
here are my arms that will hug with all my might...
at the bottom of the lighthouse maybe the darkest,
amidst fears and sorrows...
I'll be abreast atop mountains and hills maybe the loneliest
but if you find yourself there...
close your eyes think of me... I'll be there, my dearest...
Exactly a week before Kelvin's graduation, at around 5:30 in the afternoon, I received a message from my beeper, it was from his younger brother, Jethro. The message said, "Kuya is at PGH, emergency room". I hurriedly jumped into the first available taxi, I was literally crying a river. I was accustomed to be greeted with smiles by Kelvin's family, but that night was different. They were all crying, and I needed not any word from them to know what was happening. Jethro nonetheless, told me the whole story -- The police came to their house and brought them to the hospital because Kelvin was shot in a pawnshop hold-up incident and that his condition was critical. Jethro narrated that while Kelvin was pawning his necklace which he received from his aunt as an advanced graduation gift, two hold-uppers suddenly showed up and shot both guard and Kelvin. Jethro's last narration dropped like a bomb on my ears. Apparently, Kelvin told Jethro why he wanted to pawn the necklace. "Alam mo Jethro, ayos tong gift ni Tita, isasanla ko muna, para ipambili ko ng singsing, ako magreregalo kay Mariz sa graduation ko."
April 24, 1999, Kelvin died. Up to now I can't find the words to express how I felt then.
April 30, 1999, all of us whom he'd touched, whom he'd shared jokes with; all those who had read his poems, who had heard his songs, were marching not toward PICC for his graduation, but to his funeral. It was the worst breakup.
Two months after Kelvin died, I was diagnosed as pregnant. I cried and cried until tears rolled out empty. My family spoke no word, they pitied me. I thought they would kill me, be ashamed of me, but that did not happen. Both my family and Kelvin's supported me and showed how much they loved me.
December 25, 1999, instead of humming Christmas songs and crying over the thoughts of not celebrating it with Kelvin, I gave birth to a boy I named Josh. Since then, the happiness that Josh and I share is beyond what his dad could have planned for me.
I am no longer particular with dates and time, I don't even wear a watch, and I just make each day with my kid a day to cherish. Each day at the office is an opportunity to give Josh a better life, education and future.
It all started with one red rose.
And until there is a rose, I will never be hopeless.
"Hey mommy, are you crying?"
"No son."
"Magaling ba si Enteng?"
"Di ka naman nanunuod, mommy eh."
"Lika ka na, bili na tayo ng CD para ke Daddy."
"Ayos, Mommy, tiyak mapapagalitan na naman si Daddy ni San Pedro dahil
malakas na naman yun kung magpatugtog."
"Di ba Mommy?"
"Opo."
Third Place & Reader's Choice Winner
Date Posted: 2/4/2005 8:00:55 PM
Author: Zirma Guevarra
"Hey Mommy, what are you staring at? Are you listening, Mom?"
"I said, after watching Enteng Kabisote, let us pass by at Dad's favorite record store and buy him a new CD."
"Shhhh... All right, Josh...," I whispered. "Mom heard you loud and clear," I replied.
Josh just turned 5 years old last December 25. Those five years of being a Mom to a very handsome, sweet and smart kid is probably the most exciting and fulfilling stage of my life.
I'll be 28 years old this Feb. 14. At my age, I can recognize all the anime characters -- from Ghost Fighter to Ragnarok, to Lupin to Mask Ryder. Josh loves watching television and most of the time, I am his TV buddy. Whenever I would arrive home from work, he is always ready with his never-ending stories of what he did at school and what had happened to Mask Rider Ryuki.
Some of my morning rituals, though repetitive, are never boring. I usually wake up at 5AM, take shower, prepare Josh's uniform, and make sure all his stuff are inside his bag including his baon. Then I would wake up his yaya and ask her to give Josh a bath, while I prepare myself for the office. In between putting on my blush-on and lipstick, I would always hear Josh giggling, yelling and making fun of his Yaya Ella. In most times, I would get jealous of Ella, they get along well.
Josh is much like his dad, they are both makulit. At his young age, Josh loves listening to music and oftentimes mimics all rockers he sees on MTV. Before Josh disrupted my thoughts about the CD he wished to buy for his Dad, I was in a trance, pondering the first time I met Kelvin...
It was Valentines Day of 1997 when I first laid eyes on him, it was also my 20th birthday then. I found myself sitting alone in one of the waiting sheds of the campus, when I noticed him walking directly to my direction. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Every stride he made toward my place made me nervous. His good looks and boyish features became too evident as he came closer. I was so conscious that I stood up and tried to walk away until he called out, "Mariz, wait!" I stood still, thinking, "how did this guy whom I never met before know my name?" As I turned my head and looked back, he smiled and uttered, "Happy Valentines". He then handed me a red rose. I smiled back, sat down and we talked.
I learned that Kelvin was an admirer, who befriended one of my classmates to get to know me as well. He confessed that he, together with my classmates, really planned that particular day -- I found out it was the reason I sat alone, waiting without my usual tropa.
We talked for almost an hour -- we were comfortable conversing. I learned that we were both on our junior year, he was taking up ECE while I, Business Ad. We both studied at PLM.
Kelvin and I became very close -- he loved poetry and music; I liked cross stitching. He was always the first one to laugh whenever he delivered a joke. As for me, I often laughed at his jokes because he laughed like a gorilla. We became inseparable since the first time we met. Kelvin became the closest person to me aside from my family. On the eve of my graduation, after more than a year of friendship / courtship, he became my first boyfriend.
In 1998, I graduated from college, and Kelvin was on his 5th year in ECE then.
I remember during the graduation rites at PICC, Kelvin was hesitant to come and see me receive my diploma because that will also be the first time for him to meet my family. I forced him though. I introduced Kelvin to my family, oh, I could not forget that scenario. He was so
nervous and pale.
June of 1998, I was employed in one of the top corporations in Ortigas, while Kelvin was on his last year in Engineering. At that time, we saw to it that our relationship will not be tested by
the temptations of the corporate world and tried our best to fight his insecurity of still "being a student". Every relationship, as they say, has its ups and downs. Kelvin started to show signs of jealousy and insecurity. We seldom went out on dates, he always had excuses. Behind all his aloofness, I knew then that he just did not want me to spend money on our dates. His pride was slowly tearing our relationship apart during those times. There were couple of nights I spent crying instead of resting. My co-workers were asking me to give up Kelvin, they insisted that life and love in college was different when starts working in the corporate world.
October 26, 1998, Kelvin's birthday. I surprised him while he and his study group were busy finishing their case study on Microprocessor Clock Speed. I showed up wearing my old college uniform. He was shocked and he stared long at my old uniform, then he embraced me so hard that I raced for my breath. When he let go, I saw tears in his eyes. He kept repeating how much he loved me and that he was sorry for pushing me away. He confessed that, he was so jealous and insecure that he wanted me to find some other guy that could treat me out in any restaurant I wanted; buy me anything I pleased; or fetch me with nice cars; and shower me with gifts. Then I found myself crying for I never had known then how much I loved Kelvin, until I knew how sensitive he was. How he wished to give me the WORLD, when I only longed for a single red
rose.
February 14, 1999, on my 22nd birthday, he gave me one red rose; same as what he gave me when we first met two years before. And I swore then, that was the only thing I wished to receive.
Thursday, April 1, 1999, Kelvin fetched me from work. He bragged all afternoon, he said he will graduate on the 30th, Friday. He kept on asking me to address him as Engineer Kelvin Regalado. I did. That night, we made love for the first time. It was passionate and unforgettable.
April 18, 1999, our 2nd anniversary, Kelvin composed this poem in front of me.
Star shine's bright on a darkest night...
being with you makes every thing right...
here is my heart with love as pure as white...
here are my arms that will hug with all my might...
at the bottom of the lighthouse maybe the darkest,
amidst fears and sorrows...
I'll be abreast atop mountains and hills maybe the loneliest
but if you find yourself there...
close your eyes think of me... I'll be there, my dearest...
Exactly a week before Kelvin's graduation, at around 5:30 in the afternoon, I received a message from my beeper, it was from his younger brother, Jethro. The message said, "Kuya is at PGH, emergency room". I hurriedly jumped into the first available taxi, I was literally crying a river. I was accustomed to be greeted with smiles by Kelvin's family, but that night was different. They were all crying, and I needed not any word from them to know what was happening. Jethro nonetheless, told me the whole story -- The police came to their house and brought them to the hospital because Kelvin was shot in a pawnshop hold-up incident and that his condition was critical. Jethro narrated that while Kelvin was pawning his necklace which he received from his aunt as an advanced graduation gift, two hold-uppers suddenly showed up and shot both guard and Kelvin. Jethro's last narration dropped like a bomb on my ears. Apparently, Kelvin told Jethro why he wanted to pawn the necklace. "Alam mo Jethro, ayos tong gift ni Tita, isasanla ko muna, para ipambili ko ng singsing, ako magreregalo kay Mariz sa graduation ko."
April 24, 1999, Kelvin died. Up to now I can't find the words to express how I felt then.
April 30, 1999, all of us whom he'd touched, whom he'd shared jokes with; all those who had read his poems, who had heard his songs, were marching not toward PICC for his graduation, but to his funeral. It was the worst breakup.
Two months after Kelvin died, I was diagnosed as pregnant. I cried and cried until tears rolled out empty. My family spoke no word, they pitied me. I thought they would kill me, be ashamed of me, but that did not happen. Both my family and Kelvin's supported me and showed how much they loved me.
December 25, 1999, instead of humming Christmas songs and crying over the thoughts of not celebrating it with Kelvin, I gave birth to a boy I named Josh. Since then, the happiness that Josh and I share is beyond what his dad could have planned for me.
I am no longer particular with dates and time, I don't even wear a watch, and I just make each day with my kid a day to cherish. Each day at the office is an opportunity to give Josh a better life, education and future.
It all started with one red rose.
And until there is a rose, I will never be hopeless.
"Hey mommy, are you crying?"
"No son."
"Magaling ba si Enteng?"
"Di ka naman nanunuod, mommy eh."
"Lika ka na, bili na tayo ng CD para ke Daddy."
"Ayos, Mommy, tiyak mapapagalitan na naman si Daddy ni San Pedro dahil
malakas na naman yun kung magpatugtog."
"Di ba Mommy?"
"Opo."
Don't Let It End This Way
By Sue Kidd
The hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and still like the air before a storm. I stood in the nurses' station on the seventh floor and glanced at the clock. It was 9 P.M.
I threw a stethoscope around my neck and headed for room 712, last room on the hall. Room 712 had a new patient. Mr. Williams. A man all alone. A man strangely silent about his family.
As I entered the room, Mr. Williams looked up eagerly, but drooped his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope over his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. Just what I wanted to hear. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a few hours earlier.
He looked up from his starched white bed. "Nurse, would you - " He hesitated, tears filling his eyes. Once before he had started to ask me a question, but changed his mind.
I touched his hand, waiting.
He brushed away a tear. "Would you call my daughter? Tell her I've had a heart attack. A slight one. You see, I live alone and she is the only family I have." His respiration suddenly speeded up.
I turned his nasal oxygen up to eight liters a minute. "Of course I'll call her," I said, studying his face.
He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense with urgency. "Will you call her right away - as soon as you can?" He was breathing fast - too fast.
"I'll call her the very first thing," I said, patting his shoulder.
I flipped off the light. He closed his eyes, such young blue eyes in his 50 - year - old face.
Room 712 was dark except for a faint night light under the sink. Oxygen gurgled in the green tubes above his bed. Reluctant to leave, I moved through the shadowy silence to the window. The panes were cold. Below a foggy mist curled through the hospital parking lot.
"Nurse," he called, "could you get me a pencil and paper?"
I dug a scrap of yellow and a pen from my pocket and set it on the bedside table.
I walked back to the nurses' station and sat in a squeaky swivel chair by the phone. Mr. Williams's daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her number from information and dialed. Her soft voice answered.
"Janie, this is Sue Kidd, a registered nurse at the hospital. I'm calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a slight heart attack and - "
"No!" she screamed into the phone, startling me. "He's not dying is he?"
"His condition is stable at the moment," I said, trying hard to sound convincing.
Silence. I bit my lip.
"You must not let him die!" she said. Her voice was so utterly compelling that my hand trembled on the phone.
"He is getting the very best care."
"But you don't understand," she pleaded. "My daddy and I haven't spoken in almost a year. We had a terrible argument on my 21st birthday, over my boyfriend. I ran out of the house. I-I haven't been back. All these months I've wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, 'I hate you."
Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I sat, listening, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each other. Then I was thinking of my own father, many miles away. It has been so long since I had said, "I love you."
As Janie struggled to control her tears, I breathed a prayer. "Please God, let this daughter find forgiveness."
"I'm coming. Now! I'll be there in 30 minutes," she said. Click. She had hung up.
I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk. I couldn't concentrate. Room 712; I knew I had to get back to 712. I hurried down the hall nearly in a run. I opened the door.
Mr. Williams lay unmoving. I reached for his pulse. There was none.
"Code 99, Room 712. Code 99. Stat." The alert was shooting through the hospital within seconds after I called the switchboard through the intercom by the bed.
Mr. Williams had had a cardiac arrest.
With lightning speed I leveled the bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs (twice). I positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. I tried to count. At fifteen I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed, Compressed and breathed. He could not die!
"O God," I prayed. "His daughter is coming. Don't let it end this way."
The door burst open. Doctors and nurses poured into the room pushing emergency equipment. A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart. A tube was inserted through his mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of medicine into the intravenous tubing.
I connected the heart monitor. Nothing. Not a beat. My own heart pounded. "God, don't let it end like this. Not in bitterness and hatred. His daughter is coming. Let her find peace."
"Stand back," cried a doctor. I handed him the paddles for the electrical shock to the heart. He placed them on Mr. Williams's chest. Over and over we tried. But nothing. No response. Mr. Williams was dead.
A nurse unplugged the oxygen. The gurgling stopped. One by one they left, grim and silent.
How could this happen? How? I stood by his bed, stunned. A cold wind rattled the window, pelting the panes with snow. Outside - everywhere - seemed a bed of blackness, cold and dark. How could I face his daughter?
When I left the room, I saw her against a wall by a water fountain. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before stood at her side, talking to her, gripping her elbow. Then he moved on, leaving her slumped against the wall.
Such pathetic hurt reflected from her face. Such wounded eyes. She knew. The doctor had told her that her father was gone.
I took her hand and led her into the nurses' lounge. We sat on little green stools, neither saying a word. She stared straight ahead at a pharmaceutical calendar, glass-faced, almost breakable-looking.
"Janie, I'm so, so sorry," I said. It was pitifully inadequate.
"I never hated him, you know. I loved him," she said.
God, please help her, I thought.
Suddenly she whirled toward me. "I want to see him."
My first thought was, Why put yourself through more pain? Seeing him will only make it worse. But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712. Outside the door I squeezed her hand, wishing she would change her mind about going inside. She pushed open the door.
We moved to the bed, huddled together, taking small steps in unison. Janie leaned over the bed and buried her face in the sheets.
I tried not to look at her at this sad, sad good-bye. I backed against the bedside table. My hand fell upon a scrap of yellow paper. I picked it up. It read:
My dearest Janie,
I forgive you. I pray you will also forgive me. I know that you love me. I love you too.
~Daddy
The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it once. Then twice. Her tormented face grew radiant. Peace began to glisten in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast.
"Thank You, God," I whispered, looking up at the window. A few crystal stars blinked through the blackness. A snowflake hit the window and melted away, gone forever.
Life seemed as fragile as a snowflake on the window. But thank You, God, that relationships, sometimes fragile as snowflakes, can be mended together again - but there is not a moment to spare.
I crept from the room and hurried to the phone. I would call my father. I would say, "I love you."
The hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and still like the air before a storm. I stood in the nurses' station on the seventh floor and glanced at the clock. It was 9 P.M.
I threw a stethoscope around my neck and headed for room 712, last room on the hall. Room 712 had a new patient. Mr. Williams. A man all alone. A man strangely silent about his family.
As I entered the room, Mr. Williams looked up eagerly, but drooped his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope over his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. Just what I wanted to hear. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a few hours earlier.
He looked up from his starched white bed. "Nurse, would you - " He hesitated, tears filling his eyes. Once before he had started to ask me a question, but changed his mind.
I touched his hand, waiting.
He brushed away a tear. "Would you call my daughter? Tell her I've had a heart attack. A slight one. You see, I live alone and she is the only family I have." His respiration suddenly speeded up.
I turned his nasal oxygen up to eight liters a minute. "Of course I'll call her," I said, studying his face.
He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense with urgency. "Will you call her right away - as soon as you can?" He was breathing fast - too fast.
"I'll call her the very first thing," I said, patting his shoulder.
I flipped off the light. He closed his eyes, such young blue eyes in his 50 - year - old face.
Room 712 was dark except for a faint night light under the sink. Oxygen gurgled in the green tubes above his bed. Reluctant to leave, I moved through the shadowy silence to the window. The panes were cold. Below a foggy mist curled through the hospital parking lot.
"Nurse," he called, "could you get me a pencil and paper?"
I dug a scrap of yellow and a pen from my pocket and set it on the bedside table.
I walked back to the nurses' station and sat in a squeaky swivel chair by the phone. Mr. Williams's daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her number from information and dialed. Her soft voice answered.
"Janie, this is Sue Kidd, a registered nurse at the hospital. I'm calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a slight heart attack and - "
"No!" she screamed into the phone, startling me. "He's not dying is he?"
"His condition is stable at the moment," I said, trying hard to sound convincing.
Silence. I bit my lip.
"You must not let him die!" she said. Her voice was so utterly compelling that my hand trembled on the phone.
"He is getting the very best care."
"But you don't understand," she pleaded. "My daddy and I haven't spoken in almost a year. We had a terrible argument on my 21st birthday, over my boyfriend. I ran out of the house. I-I haven't been back. All these months I've wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, 'I hate you."
Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I sat, listening, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each other. Then I was thinking of my own father, many miles away. It has been so long since I had said, "I love you."
As Janie struggled to control her tears, I breathed a prayer. "Please God, let this daughter find forgiveness."
"I'm coming. Now! I'll be there in 30 minutes," she said. Click. She had hung up.
I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk. I couldn't concentrate. Room 712; I knew I had to get back to 712. I hurried down the hall nearly in a run. I opened the door.
Mr. Williams lay unmoving. I reached for his pulse. There was none.
"Code 99, Room 712. Code 99. Stat." The alert was shooting through the hospital within seconds after I called the switchboard through the intercom by the bed.
Mr. Williams had had a cardiac arrest.
With lightning speed I leveled the bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs (twice). I positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. I tried to count. At fifteen I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed, Compressed and breathed. He could not die!
"O God," I prayed. "His daughter is coming. Don't let it end this way."
The door burst open. Doctors and nurses poured into the room pushing emergency equipment. A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart. A tube was inserted through his mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of medicine into the intravenous tubing.
I connected the heart monitor. Nothing. Not a beat. My own heart pounded. "God, don't let it end like this. Not in bitterness and hatred. His daughter is coming. Let her find peace."
"Stand back," cried a doctor. I handed him the paddles for the electrical shock to the heart. He placed them on Mr. Williams's chest. Over and over we tried. But nothing. No response. Mr. Williams was dead.
A nurse unplugged the oxygen. The gurgling stopped. One by one they left, grim and silent.
How could this happen? How? I stood by his bed, stunned. A cold wind rattled the window, pelting the panes with snow. Outside - everywhere - seemed a bed of blackness, cold and dark. How could I face his daughter?
When I left the room, I saw her against a wall by a water fountain. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before stood at her side, talking to her, gripping her elbow. Then he moved on, leaving her slumped against the wall.
Such pathetic hurt reflected from her face. Such wounded eyes. She knew. The doctor had told her that her father was gone.
I took her hand and led her into the nurses' lounge. We sat on little green stools, neither saying a word. She stared straight ahead at a pharmaceutical calendar, glass-faced, almost breakable-looking.
"Janie, I'm so, so sorry," I said. It was pitifully inadequate.
"I never hated him, you know. I loved him," she said.
God, please help her, I thought.
Suddenly she whirled toward me. "I want to see him."
My first thought was, Why put yourself through more pain? Seeing him will only make it worse. But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712. Outside the door I squeezed her hand, wishing she would change her mind about going inside. She pushed open the door.
We moved to the bed, huddled together, taking small steps in unison. Janie leaned over the bed and buried her face in the sheets.
I tried not to look at her at this sad, sad good-bye. I backed against the bedside table. My hand fell upon a scrap of yellow paper. I picked it up. It read:
My dearest Janie,
I forgive you. I pray you will also forgive me. I know that you love me. I love you too.
~Daddy
The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it once. Then twice. Her tormented face grew radiant. Peace began to glisten in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast.
"Thank You, God," I whispered, looking up at the window. A few crystal stars blinked through the blackness. A snowflake hit the window and melted away, gone forever.
Life seemed as fragile as a snowflake on the window. But thank You, God, that relationships, sometimes fragile as snowflakes, can be mended together again - but there is not a moment to spare.
I crept from the room and hurried to the phone. I would call my father. I would say, "I love you."
The Bridge
(author unknown)
There was once a bridge which spanned a large river. During most of the day the bridge sat with its length running up and down the river paralleled with the banks, allowing ships to pass through freely on both sides of the bridge.
But at certain times each day, a train would come along and the bridge would be turned sideways across the river, allowing a train to cross it. A switchman sat in a small shack on one side of the river where he operated the controls to turn the bridge and lock it into place as the train crossed.
One evening as the switchman was waiting for the last train of the day to come, he looked off into the distance through the dimming twilight and caught sight of the train lights. He stepped to the control and waited until the train was within a prescribed distance when he was to turn the bridge. He turned the bridge into position, but, to his horror, he found the locking control did not work.
If the bridge was not securely in position it would wobble back and forth at the ends when the train came onto it, causing the train to jump the track and go crashing into the river. This would be a passenger train with many people aboard.
He left the bridge, turned across the river, and hurried across the bridge to the other side of the river where there was a lever switch he could hold to operate the lock manually.
He would have to hold the lever back firmly as the train crossed. He could hear the rumble of the train now, and he took hold of the lever and leaned backward to apply his weight to it, locking the bridge. He kept applying the pressure to keep the mechanism locked. Many lives depended on this man's strength.
Then, coming across the bridge from the direction of his control shack, he heard a sound that made his blood run cold. "Daddy, where are you?" His four-year-old son was crossing the bridge to look for him.
His first impulse was to cry out to the child, "Run! Run!" But the train was too close; the tiny legs would never make it across the bridge in time. The man almost left his lever to run and snatch up his son and carry him to safety. But he realized that he could not get back to the lever.
Either the people on the train or his little son must die. He took a moment to make his decision.
The train sped safely and swiftly on its way, and no one aboard was even aware of the tiny broken body thrown mercilessly into the river by the on rushing train. Nor were they aware of the pitiful figure of the sobbing man, still clinging tightly to the locking lever long after the train had passed.
They did not see him walking home more slowly than he had ever walked: to tell his wife how their son had brutally died.
Now if you comprehend the emotions which went this man's heart, you can begin to understand the feelings of our Father in Heaven when He sacrificed His Son to bridge the gap between us and eternal life.
Can there be any wonder that He caused the earth to tremble and the skies to darken when His Son died? How does He feel when we speed along through life without giving a thought to what was done for us through Jesus Christ?
When was the last time we thanked Him for the sacrifice of His Son?
There was once a bridge which spanned a large river. During most of the day the bridge sat with its length running up and down the river paralleled with the banks, allowing ships to pass through freely on both sides of the bridge.
But at certain times each day, a train would come along and the bridge would be turned sideways across the river, allowing a train to cross it. A switchman sat in a small shack on one side of the river where he operated the controls to turn the bridge and lock it into place as the train crossed.
One evening as the switchman was waiting for the last train of the day to come, he looked off into the distance through the dimming twilight and caught sight of the train lights. He stepped to the control and waited until the train was within a prescribed distance when he was to turn the bridge. He turned the bridge into position, but, to his horror, he found the locking control did not work.
If the bridge was not securely in position it would wobble back and forth at the ends when the train came onto it, causing the train to jump the track and go crashing into the river. This would be a passenger train with many people aboard.
He left the bridge, turned across the river, and hurried across the bridge to the other side of the river where there was a lever switch he could hold to operate the lock manually.
He would have to hold the lever back firmly as the train crossed. He could hear the rumble of the train now, and he took hold of the lever and leaned backward to apply his weight to it, locking the bridge. He kept applying the pressure to keep the mechanism locked. Many lives depended on this man's strength.
Then, coming across the bridge from the direction of his control shack, he heard a sound that made his blood run cold. "Daddy, where are you?" His four-year-old son was crossing the bridge to look for him.
His first impulse was to cry out to the child, "Run! Run!" But the train was too close; the tiny legs would never make it across the bridge in time. The man almost left his lever to run and snatch up his son and carry him to safety. But he realized that he could not get back to the lever.
Either the people on the train or his little son must die. He took a moment to make his decision.
The train sped safely and swiftly on its way, and no one aboard was even aware of the tiny broken body thrown mercilessly into the river by the on rushing train. Nor were they aware of the pitiful figure of the sobbing man, still clinging tightly to the locking lever long after the train had passed.
They did not see him walking home more slowly than he had ever walked: to tell his wife how their son had brutally died.
Now if you comprehend the emotions which went this man's heart, you can begin to understand the feelings of our Father in Heaven when He sacrificed His Son to bridge the gap between us and eternal life.
Can there be any wonder that He caused the earth to tremble and the skies to darken when His Son died? How does He feel when we speed along through life without giving a thought to what was done for us through Jesus Christ?
When was the last time we thanked Him for the sacrifice of His Son?
A Trucker's Last Letter
By Rud Kendall
Steamboat Mountain is a man-killer, and truckers who haul the Alaska Highway treat it with respect. Particularly in the winter, the raod curves and twists over the mountain and sheer cliffs drop away sharply from the icy road. Countless trucks and truckers have been lost there and many more will follow their last tracks.
On one trip up the highway, I came upon the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and several wreckers winching the remains of a semi up the steep cliff. I parked my rig and went over to the quiet group of truckers who were watching the wreckage slowly come into sight.
One of the Mounties walked over to us and spoke quietly
"I'm sorry, " he said, "the driver was dead when we found him. He must have gone over the side two days ago when we had a bad snowstorm. There weren't many tracks. It was just a fluke that we noticed the sun shining off some chrome."
He shook his head slowly and reached into his parka pocket.
"Here, maybe you guys should read this. I guess he lived for a couple of hours until the cold got to him."
I'd never seen tears in a cop's eyes before - I always figured they'd seen so much death and despair they were immune to it, but he wiped tears away as he handed me the letter. As I read it, I began to weep. Each driver silently read the words, then quietly walked back to his rig. The words were bunred into my memory and now, years later, that letter is still as vivid as if I were holding it before me. I want to share that letter with you and your families.
December, 1974
My Darling Wife,
This is a letter that no man ever wants to write, but I'm lucky enough to have some time to say what I've forgotten to say so many times. I love you, sweetheart.
You used to kid me that I loved the truck more than you because I spent more time with her. I do love this piece of iron - she's been good to me. She's seen me through tough times and tough places. I could always count on her in a long haul and she was speedy in the stretches. She never let me down.
But you want to know something? I love you for the same reasons. You've seen me through the tough times and places, too.
Remember the first truck? That run down 'ol' cornbinder' that kept us broke all the time but always made just enough money to keep us eating? You went out and got a job so that we could pay the rent and the bills. Every cent I made went into the truck while your money kept us in food with a roof over our heads.
I remember that I complained about the truck, but I don't remember you ever complaining when you came home tired from work and I asked for money to go on the road again. If you did complain, I guess I didn't hear you. I was too wrapped up with my problems to think of yours.
I think now of all the things you gave up for me. The clothes, the holidays, the parties, the friends. You never complained and somehow I never remembered to thank you for being you.
When I sat having coffee with the boys, I always talked about my truck, my rig, my payments. I guess I forgot you were my partner even if you weren't in the cab with me. It was your sacrifices and determination as much as mine that finally got the new truck.
I was so proud of that truck I was bursting. I was proud of you too, but I never told you that. I took it for granted you knew, but if I had spent as much time talking with you as I did polishing chrome, perhaps I would have.
In all the years I've pounded the pavement, I always knew your prayers rode with me. But this time they weren't enough.
I'm hurt and it's bad. I've made my last mile and I want to say the things that should have been said so many times before. The things that were forgotten because I was too concerned about the truck and the job.
I'm thinking about the lonely nights you spent alone, wondering where I was and how things were going. I'm thinking of all the times I thought of calling you just to say hello and somehow didn't get around to. I'm thinking of the peace of mind I had knowing that you were at home with the kids, waiting for me.
The family dinners where you spent all your time telling your folks why I couldn't make it. I was busy changing oil; I was busy looking for parts; I was sleeping because I was leaving early the next morning. There was always a reason, but somehow they don't seem very important to me right now.
When we were married, you didn't know how to change a light bulb. Within a couple of years, you were fixing the furnace during a blizzard while I was waiting for a load in Florida. You became a pretty good mechanic, helping me with repairs, and I was mighty proud of you when you jumped into the cab and backed up over the rose bushes.
I was proud of you when I pulled into the yard and saw you sleeping in the car waiting for me. Whether it was two in the morning or two in the afternoon you always looked like a movie star to me. You're beautiful, you know. I guess I haven't told you that lately, but you are.
I made lots of mistakes in my life, but if I only ever made one good decision, it was when I asked you to marry me. You never could understand what it was that kept me trucking. I couldn't either, but it was my way of life and you stuck with me. Good times, bad times, you were always there. I love you, sweetheart, and I love the kids.
My body hurts but my heart hurts even more. You won't be there when I end this trip. For the first time since we've been together, I'm really alone and it scares me. I need you so badly, and I know it's too late.
It's funny I guess, but what I have now is the truck. The damned truck that ruled our lives for so long. This twisted hunk of steel that I lived in and with for so many years. But it can't return my love. Only you can do that.
You're a thousand miles away but I feel you here with me. I can see your face and feel your love and I'm scared to make the final run alone.
Tell the kids that I love them very much and don't let the boys drive any truck for a living.
I guess that's about it, honey. My God, but I love you very much. Take care of yourself and always remember that I loved you more than anything in life. I just forgot to tell you.
I love you, Bill
Steamboat Mountain is a man-killer, and truckers who haul the Alaska Highway treat it with respect. Particularly in the winter, the raod curves and twists over the mountain and sheer cliffs drop away sharply from the icy road. Countless trucks and truckers have been lost there and many more will follow their last tracks.
On one trip up the highway, I came upon the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and several wreckers winching the remains of a semi up the steep cliff. I parked my rig and went over to the quiet group of truckers who were watching the wreckage slowly come into sight.
One of the Mounties walked over to us and spoke quietly
"I'm sorry, " he said, "the driver was dead when we found him. He must have gone over the side two days ago when we had a bad snowstorm. There weren't many tracks. It was just a fluke that we noticed the sun shining off some chrome."
He shook his head slowly and reached into his parka pocket.
"Here, maybe you guys should read this. I guess he lived for a couple of hours until the cold got to him."
I'd never seen tears in a cop's eyes before - I always figured they'd seen so much death and despair they were immune to it, but he wiped tears away as he handed me the letter. As I read it, I began to weep. Each driver silently read the words, then quietly walked back to his rig. The words were bunred into my memory and now, years later, that letter is still as vivid as if I were holding it before me. I want to share that letter with you and your families.
December, 1974
My Darling Wife,
This is a letter that no man ever wants to write, but I'm lucky enough to have some time to say what I've forgotten to say so many times. I love you, sweetheart.
You used to kid me that I loved the truck more than you because I spent more time with her. I do love this piece of iron - she's been good to me. She's seen me through tough times and tough places. I could always count on her in a long haul and she was speedy in the stretches. She never let me down.
But you want to know something? I love you for the same reasons. You've seen me through the tough times and places, too.
Remember the first truck? That run down 'ol' cornbinder' that kept us broke all the time but always made just enough money to keep us eating? You went out and got a job so that we could pay the rent and the bills. Every cent I made went into the truck while your money kept us in food with a roof over our heads.
I remember that I complained about the truck, but I don't remember you ever complaining when you came home tired from work and I asked for money to go on the road again. If you did complain, I guess I didn't hear you. I was too wrapped up with my problems to think of yours.
I think now of all the things you gave up for me. The clothes, the holidays, the parties, the friends. You never complained and somehow I never remembered to thank you for being you.
When I sat having coffee with the boys, I always talked about my truck, my rig, my payments. I guess I forgot you were my partner even if you weren't in the cab with me. It was your sacrifices and determination as much as mine that finally got the new truck.
I was so proud of that truck I was bursting. I was proud of you too, but I never told you that. I took it for granted you knew, but if I had spent as much time talking with you as I did polishing chrome, perhaps I would have.
In all the years I've pounded the pavement, I always knew your prayers rode with me. But this time they weren't enough.
I'm hurt and it's bad. I've made my last mile and I want to say the things that should have been said so many times before. The things that were forgotten because I was too concerned about the truck and the job.
I'm thinking about the lonely nights you spent alone, wondering where I was and how things were going. I'm thinking of all the times I thought of calling you just to say hello and somehow didn't get around to. I'm thinking of the peace of mind I had knowing that you were at home with the kids, waiting for me.
The family dinners where you spent all your time telling your folks why I couldn't make it. I was busy changing oil; I was busy looking for parts; I was sleeping because I was leaving early the next morning. There was always a reason, but somehow they don't seem very important to me right now.
When we were married, you didn't know how to change a light bulb. Within a couple of years, you were fixing the furnace during a blizzard while I was waiting for a load in Florida. You became a pretty good mechanic, helping me with repairs, and I was mighty proud of you when you jumped into the cab and backed up over the rose bushes.
I was proud of you when I pulled into the yard and saw you sleeping in the car waiting for me. Whether it was two in the morning or two in the afternoon you always looked like a movie star to me. You're beautiful, you know. I guess I haven't told you that lately, but you are.
I made lots of mistakes in my life, but if I only ever made one good decision, it was when I asked you to marry me. You never could understand what it was that kept me trucking. I couldn't either, but it was my way of life and you stuck with me. Good times, bad times, you were always there. I love you, sweetheart, and I love the kids.
My body hurts but my heart hurts even more. You won't be there when I end this trip. For the first time since we've been together, I'm really alone and it scares me. I need you so badly, and I know it's too late.
It's funny I guess, but what I have now is the truck. The damned truck that ruled our lives for so long. This twisted hunk of steel that I lived in and with for so many years. But it can't return my love. Only you can do that.
You're a thousand miles away but I feel you here with me. I can see your face and feel your love and I'm scared to make the final run alone.
Tell the kids that I love them very much and don't let the boys drive any truck for a living.
I guess that's about it, honey. My God, but I love you very much. Take care of yourself and always remember that I loved you more than anything in life. I just forgot to tell you.
I love you, Bill