In Memoriam: The Heroes of 9/11

Cable channels yesterday ran a marathon of documentaries about 9/11 while news networks covered the memorial services held at Ground Zero, New York; Pentagon at Washington DC and Shanskville, Pennsylvania.

Photo from

I realized last night that this day deserves to be written about. In my history as a human being, this is one of the most important stories in my lifetime. While my grandparents had the holocaust, my parents had the outrageous 60s and Martial Law — our generation had 9/11.

Photo from

But how to begin? How does one write about a day that brought unimaginable terror to thousands of people who did nothing to deserve their fate, save show up for work like they always do every morning? How does one begin to even put into words the emotions brought about by an event of this magnitude and the thousands of stories on why and how this even came together?

If we think about it, what is an act of terrorism, if not an act meant to dispel all the hope and valor in the human heart?

But on that day, hope and valor were not dispelled.

Discovery channel’s “The Heroes of the 88th Floor“ tell the story of 2 such people: construction manager Pablo Ortiz and construction inspector Frank DeMartini. Everyday folk just making a living and doing their jobs the best way they could.

Frank De Martini with his children Sabrina and Dominic. Photo from

In the midst of one of New York City’s most terrifying hours, they found a way against all odds to find an open stairwell for the occupants of the 88th floor so they could make their way out of a building on the verge of collapse.

After evacuating their colleagues, they searched what remained of the floor with an area of over 40,000 square meters amidst smoke, fumes and debris to ensure no one had been left behind.

Photo immediately after the crash in the North Tower. From

And when they were done with the 88th, they decided to keep looking. When everyone else was scrambling to get down, they made their way up to the 89th when they heard banging on the stairwell doors. Using a crowbar to pry apart the plastered walls, they eventually freed the stairwell door and got more than a dozen other people out of the building.

Still it wasn’t enough. Up they went to the 90th and rescued even more people who were just waiting with bated breath to be given instructions to evacuate.

They probably would’ve kept going up, taking them closer and closer to the crash site… Except the way was already far too blocked. From the 91st floor onwards, no one would survive.

So they started on their journey going down. An ordinary person would’ve kept going. They didn’t. They stopped at almost every floor to see if anyone had been left inside. Eventually they made it to the 76th floor, the sky lobby where they were able to free a man trapped inside the express elevator. Where many had failed to pry open the door, Frank and Pablo succeeded.

That was the last anyone had seen or heard from Frank and Pablo for within minutes of rescuing the man inside the elevator, the World Trade Center North tower had finally collapsed.

Pablo Ortiz with his family. Photo from

More than 75 people have a second chance at life today because of these two selfless acts of heroism.

In the same documentary, a few minutes before the North Tower collapses, a middle-aged man sits by the 12th floor stairwell holding the hand of his colleague — a distraught woman struggling with asthma from the trip down 72 floors, the smoke, fumes and her own body weight.

Some ways down their trip, she had taken long pauses to try to catch her breath. At the last few minutes just as they were getting closer to freedom, she tires and despairs.

The rest of their group had long since reached safety.

One man sat by her side refusing to leave her alone. He stayed until firefighters had finally located them and he was forcibly ushered to go on down (otherwise he would be thrown down the stairs), with the reassurance that they would carry his friend down to safety.

He finally exited the north tower just as the building began its final collapse. His friend, and the firefighters inside never made it out.

Thousands of firefighters lost their lives that day. The first ones to arrive when the call was sounded braved their way inside the growing wreckage of the World Trade Center to scour every corner of every floor to find people who needed to be saved. As time went by and it was imminent and certain that the towers were on the verge of collapse, they didn’t flee. They continued in, on and upwards in the attempts of scaling 110 floors to do what they could to find as many survivors as possible.

When the towers finally collapsed, no firefighter managed to even reach the floors above the 50th. There just wasn’t enough time.

Hundreds were saved by the courage and valor of these firefighters, all doing what they could in the call of duty.

Firefighter Dustin Stevens from Franktown Fire and Rescue and his fellow firefighters observe a moment of silence Read more: Metro firefighters remember responders lost on 9/11 - The Denver Post.

On the ground, inside the building and on the air, there were heroes all around.

The passengers of Flight United 93 was the flight that fought back and thwarted the attack on the White House. A handful of passengers took it upon themselves to try to regain control of the plane to whatever end. Perhaps none really knew what would really happen when they had regained control, they just knew they had to try something.

The struggle and distraction provided by the attempts of the passengers to get inside the cockpit made the hijackers lose control of the plane. Instead of making it all the way to the White House, the plane crashed at a 45-degree angle in a reclaimed coal strip mine a few miles from Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

Motorists on the ground witnessed the plane falling rapidly and at an angle right above their vehicles as many prayed the crash would spare the school that was just a few miles away from that coal mine.

The crash site in Pennsylvania. Photo from

None survived the crash. United Flight 93 fragmented violently upon the crash.

While speculations still abound about whether the target was indeed the White House, what we know is that their efforts spared any further deaths on the ground.

Yesterday we grieved, remembered and honored the victims and all our heroes. Whatever the purpose of the attack that fateful day 10 years ago was, it left an entire world devastated. I saw the footage last night and the cries, the expressions of utter despair on the faces of those who were on the streets of New York that day are etched in my mind.

But in the midst of that, many of us are also humbled by the courage and valor exhibited by these true-to-life heroes.

Lives that were irrevocably changed by acts of kindness and humanity to remind us all that in the midst of tragedy, the human heart still prevails. Let them be an inspiration to all of us who are fortunate to still be here with the chance to make a difference.

And maybe then, we can truly say that we’ve confronted terror in its face, and have finally defeated it.

Remembering One Year Ago

This Friday night, something compelled me to reread the posts I had written a year ago. This same time period last year, dad was already in the hospital fighting for his life while cancer cells eroded whatever healthy cells remained.

When I look back at all I had written back then, it’s remarkable how the constant refrain then was how badly I was looking for a semblance of normalcy amidst our crisis.

On hindsight, it seems rather selfish. But it is the way it is. We take normal for granted until it’s taken away from us and replaced by some big event, crisis or tragedy. Then we realize that the normal means all is right in the world and you wish you could just have it back.

Almost a year since dad passed away, I still cringe with the memories it brings. It temporarily eclipses any other thought from my mind when I remember. And for a brief moment, I find myself transported back to a time I wish I could forget. Not to forget dad, but rather, to forget the emotions that I still vividly recall. There are times when I almost wish he had just died suddenly and quickly. That way, the awful memories of how difficult it was for him in his last few months wouldn’t exist.

A parent’s illness and death changes you irrevocably.

While normal life is eventually restored, there will always be a part of you that exists in a layer of wistfulness. The memories, while dormant most of the time, will continue to resurface every now and then. There will always be a tiny, subtle hint of longing, with the unshakable feeling that something in your life will always feel incomplete. And the memories of his last weeks… God, those memories. Somehow, in some way, you’ll feel like you’ve aged just a little bit. Reached a different plane of adulthood that you don’t cross until you’ve buried family. In some way too, whatever other crisis comes your way in its aftermath, even a year later, will always pale in comparison to those months.
On the up side, I feel him always in my heart, always with me and always by my side. I feel like my recent birthday and the surprising peace I felt on that day was his gift to me. In my loneliest and saddest moments, I call out to him and feel that he sees and understands my pain. I feel reassured that there’s a force, an energy in the universe that’s surrounding me and keeping me company.

I visit his crypt in all important occasions that go by, at least whenever I can. I didn’t understand before the compulsion to visit graves, lay flowers and light candles. Now I understand. Since he isn’t with me anymore, his remains are the only tangible thing left of him I can see, touch and visit. Offering flowers and lighting a candle are the only things left I can still do for him.

Next week marks his first death anniversary. I still miss his scraggly, wrinkly, weather-beaten face as much as I did on the day he died. Someday, I pray my memories of him taking his last breath would be softened and finally overtaken by my memories of him as he was when he was happy and alive, and when all in our world was well.

35 Years Old

I celebrated my 35th birthday 5 days ago.

It was kinda cool. It was just a normal day filled with tons of work and problems to mend.

In the evening, since my birthday coincides with my office’s Anniversary, my team and I managed to put together a gigantic, grand party in the office with our Clients. The party left most people with happy memories of a classy but fun night with drinks, food, music, good company and loads of fun. And best of all, no scandals.

Halfway through the party, I went home to spend the remaining hour of the day with my hubby.

After last year’s debacle of one of the worst birthdays I’ve ever had, this year’s birthday was awesome. The normalcy, the predictability of it all but the difference — everyone’s nicer and kinder. It’s not such a bad thing.

Turning 35 was a bigger deal than I thought though. It must be the warnings of my Obstetrician that getting pregnant on or before I turn 35 was highly recommended.

Well, my 35th birthday has come and gone and I remain, as always — very unpregnant. No matter. It’s not for me to decide when we do have a baby, when we don’t really do anything to stop it from happening.

But one thing I realized though.

Being in my mid-thirties, married and childless sometimes makes me feel a teensy bit lonelier than I thought I’d be.

At our age (plus/minus 5 years thereabouts), my girl friends are either married with kids, or completely single. I can’t think of a close female friend who’s married with no kids.

So I find myself often in the company of  single female friends who either talk about the guys they meet and like; or married-with-kids friends who just talk about… well… their kids. It’s not so bad. But sometimes I do find myself wishing I had someone who understood the adventures, triumphs and travails of a childless married woman.

But anyway, that’s a topic that deserves its own entry someday.

For now, I am grateful for this birthday that came without the blues, for the first time in a long time. I think at some point, one starts to accept that birthdays aren’t all they were cut out to be when we were kids. So no expectations and gratitude for a normal pleasant day makes for… well, an extremely awesome way to spend the day.

Last. I haven’t posted in awhile, and I do apologize. I will make it up. Soon.

Seasons of Love

525,600 minutes. 525,000 moments so dear. 525,600 minutes. 

How do you measure a year in a life?

My aunt’s passing opened a new set of floodgates that forced me to contemplate on the topic of life and death all over again.

These days, I’ve been having numerous conversations with my immediate family about how dad died. Contrasted against how my aunt passed away, dad actually died beautifully. If there ever was a perfect way to move on to the next life, I’d say dad’s manner of death was just perfect.

The months when he was sick, all the way until the precise second his heart stopped, he was always surrounded by those whom he loved best.

We all made our peace with him, and he with us.

We all had the chance to let him know and feel that whatever else had happened in his lifetime, he will always be husband and father to our family, and that he is loved.

Even while confined to his hospital room, we found a way to make sure we’d spent quality time with him — watching TV together; sharing magazines; talking and arguing about my younger brother’s love life (or the absence of one); contemplating the mystery of my work and persistent busy schedule; alternately teasing him and annoying him while his grumpy nature would cause send us into fits of uncontrollable laughter…

While transitioning from life to death, there we were again. All around him, holding his hand, whispering words of love and encouragement to let go and take God’s hand while soft music played by his bedside, guiding him toward the path of light and into God’s lovely dwelling place.

Whatever else happened in the course of our relationship with him during his lifetime, he knew at the end how well he was loved.

Somehow, these memories now help soften the agony of remembering those months. Close to a year later, we can finally look back and remember him fondly. While the images of his pain and struggle still remain in our heads and hearts, the passage of time has also cushioned the intense pain it used to bring about when remembered. Now, we can talk about him with less sadness. We can laugh in memory of our grumpy, ultra-sensitive and clueless dad and wonder if he’s already found a new cigarette buddy while his spirit has finally found a peaceful resting place.

My aunt’s passing is a different story. Separated (physically and almost legally) from my uncle, and physically apart from her daughters, my cousins.

At the time her illness was discovered up until her death, my cousins were in Canada. I hear that even during the difficult months of her chemotherapy sessions, they weren’t talking much then either.

When she died, my uncle and cousins were all in Canada. On her death, her sister was in the ICU waiting room along with my brother and sister-in-law.

My aunt is not even a blood relative. My/Our blood connection with her exists because of my cousins.

(Though this biological fact doesn’t lessen the gravity of her death to me — of all my aunts, she was one of the few I was close to while growing up. Apart from being the one to introduce me to reading romance novels, she was one of the few who took the time and had patience enough to spend time with me and play with me as a child.)  

On her death bed and in the last few hours of her life, she couldn’t see, feel, touch or hear those dearest to her because they were all too far away. They couldn’t even bring in a mobile phone for her kids to be able to say their goodbyes — her body was too vulnerable to germs that even mobile phones couldn’t be brought into her room.

After 2 years since they last spent time with her, my cousins came home to Manila to see their mom already embalmed in her coffin.

I cannot imagine the pain and grief they must be feeling now. And somewhere in there I know is a guilt that won’t easily go away.

I’ve always believed — and, since dad passed away, I’ve known — that death is hardest on the ones left behind.

While a loved one is going through the agony of an illness, you’ll never really know what to do and how to behave. While dad was sick, it hurt me that some members of my own family could not find it in themselves to be there for him. On his death bed, none of his own kin (siblings, aunts & uncles, etc.) were around, even if they knew it was just a matter of time. During his wake, his blood nephews and nieces weren’t even around — when his nephews and nieces from my mother’s side were around almost everyday.

What I realize now is that we all deal with these things in our own way. Not everyone is equipped with the strength to withstand the pain that comes with a loved one being terminally ill. Many just naively hope for the best that death is not yet around the corner and there will be days yet to spend together.

In the end, the best thing anyone could hope for is the reassurance, the knowledge and certainty that when their loved one was still around, that they did everything they could not just to ease their time while they were still around, but also to do everything they possibly could to make them feel loved and cherished.

It’s the gift of bestowing the knowledge on one you love — that they lived a life worth living; that he/she can move on to the next life at peace and in harmony with the world, knowing that he/she had truly loved and was truly loved in return.

How do you measure a year in the life? Measure in love. Seasons of Love. 

Written in memory of Josefina Martinez Qua-Hiansen. Ever-loving wife, dedicated mother, loving aunt and friend. June 1957 – June 2011. 

Til Death Do Us Part

I started writing this post two months ago but couldn’t bring myself to finish writing it.

Yesterday, an officemate’s husband passed away and I remembered this unfinished post. I had a moment of intense sadness then, and suddenly found myself with just the right words to write to finish this post. It’s long and may bring a tear or two, but do stay with me. I promise (I hope) that the end of this long post will evoke a reaction, strike a chord or just make you smile. Cheers!  

Growing up, what I knew of marriage was confined to the world I saw within my childhood home.

While friends would share stories about how their parents were either separated or about to be separated; or some of my friends’ fathers were caught to have had affairs, mistresses or worse, illegitimate families — my biggest marriage sob story was that my parents fought and bickered almost on a daily basis — like cats and dogs who’d snap and bark at each other all day long. Their fights could last for as long as an entire episode of Champoy, an entire day, sometimes several days of sniping, snapping and barking. At its worst, cold war ensues.

But for the most part, on family day-Sundays, they’d be back walking hand-in-hand while taking us kids out for a stroll in the mall or a short frolic in the park. Every now and then, we’d catch a glimpse of them stealing a quick kiss on the lips or a peck on the cheek. In the car, they’d tease each other (wholesomely, I might add — or at least I hope it was) and laugh uproariously at a joke that only the two of them would understand. At the dining table, they’d get into long discussions and debates about the latest news report, their friends, my grandparents or whatever blazing new topic is the pick of the day while my brother and I would wish for the long conversation to end so we could just get back to our rooms. At night while my brother and I were tucked into bed sound asleep, they’d spend hours in the family room catching up on their late-night soap operas.

Because of what I saw and heard, I grew up thinking that this is what marriage should be.

Looking back now without the rose-colored lenses of innocence, I know their marriage was far from perfect.

Some of my most painful memories as a young adult involved some of the biggest fights mom and dad ever had.

In one fight, I had seen my mom so distraught and blinded with anger that she lunged at my dad without realizing she was holding a pair of razor-sharp giant scissors. Thank God she missed hitting him. But that same fight made my mom so angry that she left home for the very first time ever, leaving all of us behind. She wasn’t gone long, she also came back that same night. It was a big deal though, for someone who never set foot outside the house without my dad in tow.

On another occasion, they had a fight and dad left home. He was gone for several days without anyone knowing where he had gone. Again, a first for him. He eventually came home four days later stinking from filth and alcohol. By then, my mom was barely coherent from panic and worry. Especially when she discovered that the night before, he had been seriously contemplating jumping off the Guadalupe bridge to drown himself in the Pasig River.

I still remember the scene that greeted my eyes when I eventually checked up on them an hour after dad had finally come home. They were seated on the couch with dad’s arms around her while she cried her heart out.

Days before dad passed away, I marvelled at how volatile mom and dad’s relationship continued to be even after almost 4o years of marriage. I saw for myself how my dad’s fight for his life was rallied on by his love for my mother; and how the absence of her presence, her love and patience (when they fought) even for just a few hours would evoke in him a feeling of incomparable despondence, enough to make him wish he could just end it all.

As all happily-ever-after love stories go, they kissed and made up again a few hours later and she was back to holding his hand, cajoling him out of his morose mood, and simply taking care of him the same way she’s always done all these years.

But as we already know, happily-ever-after would end there as days later, his body succumbed to his illness. On his death bed, I saw my mom crushed and broken for the first time in my life.

The tears I shed and the ache in my heart at that exact moment when she had to let him go is something permanently etched in my heart.

Because in some way, I caught a sudden glimpse of myself…. and crumbled with the intensity of a new kind of emotion I’ve never felt before — pure, raw, unadulterated fear.

The fear of realizing that how much I love my husband… is no different from how much my mother and father loved each other. How their worlds were so fused together, that their worlds could not exist without the other in it. How they were each others’ sources of lightness, darkness, sorrow, happiness and everything else in between. How they spent almost 40 years of their lives together from morning til evening; from sleep to wakefulness. How their lives took on meaning only because they had each other.

And how ultimately when it was time to let him go, it didn’t only leave my mom a grieving widow. It left her suddenly alone, suddenly incomplete, suddenly… just one.

It strikes fear in my heart to suddenly comprehend that this kind of love — its depth, its intensity  —  can turn you inside out, rip you apart in ways that nothing else in the world can.

Already, I see the similarities. How my sun rises and falls with my husband. How tuned we are to each others’ moods. How one frown, one bad day from either of us can dampen the spirits in our home. How days that we don’t speak to each other can make me feel like wanting to just drown my sorrows until I’m numb from the pain. But conversely, how just a simple text from him to say hello in the middle of a workday can lift my heart and bring a smile to my face. How one touch, one hug can make all my troubles disappear for a fraction of a second. How at the end of a long day, all I long for is the sight of his face cracking a joke to dispel the ache in my bones. How I can’t even have a restful night’s sleep without him beside me. How at the end of it all, my world only feels right when I know he’s feeling alright.

Til death do us part. I never really thought about what this marriage vow truly meant until I saw it unfold right before my eyes.

More than my own pain as a grieving daughter, my biggest undoing upon dad’s death was seeing my mom battle a new kind of demon all on her own.

A primal and raw pain when his body was lowered into the crematorium and later on, when his remains took its last trip and were finally laid to rest forever. A sunken, defeated and panicked heart the first few months upon being truly alone now after 40 years of having him always by her side, for richer or for poorer.

For weeks she wouldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. What has become her routine of cooking dinner every night for 3 (mom and dad + my brother) would now just be a meal for 2. What help he used to give her in keeping the household organized, the small things — taking out the garbage, washing the dishes, heating the bath water — would now be tasks no one would help her with. What used to be their 40-year routine of watching a movie or a new show after dinner before they turn in for the night would now be something she would have to rediscover all on her own.

During that time, she would succumb to sudden fits of crying and stay crying for the rest of the day. She told me back then her crying fits and bouts of depression were uncontrollable and took on a life of its own — she wanted to stop but couldn’t. She was always afraid to be alone. Eventually she found a way to keep herself so busy that she would come home at night ready to just drop dead.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months.

But little by little, I saw small, subtle changes. It started with a dream. A fleeting glimpse of his familiar figure hunched over the rickety armchair he loved sitting in.

One day, I saw mom smiling again.

And I began to realize that how much they loved each other in life doesn’t change nor go away in death.

At home, she has the picture of dad we used during his wake. In it, he’s happy, smiling, jolly — wrinkles, whiteheads, age spots and all.

Every day, she begins the day talking to his picture. During the day, she whispers questions or stories to him in her heart. While going about her household chores, she pauses and silently consults him in her head. Every week she continues to visit his resting place, lay flowers and light candles. She sits by his crypt for hours and speaks to him as though he were just right there beside her. She looks around for signs that he’s still around. Every now and then, a butterfly lands on her shoulder as she walks the length of the mall with my brother. Sometimes she smells the scent of candles or flowers at home. Once, she slipped… but miraculously did not fall. Once still, she sat silently by his crypt wondering if he could still hear her, when a yellow petal softly touched her cheek. There were no yellow flower beds anywhere nearby.

At night, she takes his picture to bed beside her and bids him goodnight. He visits her in her sleep and she wakes up feeling calm and at peace.

And now she looks back and remembers all that he was, and all that he is to her. And she knows that all that he is, all that he was — wrinkles, whiteheads, age spots and all — will always be with her, will always be a part of her.

And that in the end, it was all worth it.

And suddenly, my fears take a pause.

And I realize — this is the kind of marriage I want.

While there are times when I wish my marriage wasn’t as co-dependent as ours is; while I sometimes envy friends whose husbands didn’t mind it even if they spent days away from each other for each of them to spend time with their respective friends; while I sometimes wonder what it would feel like to not care as much I do when we’re having one of our bad days and aren’t on speaking terms…

…I also see how blessed I am.  Few people are lucky enough to find someone who makes going through the sometimes-painful, sometimes-exhilarating roller coaster ride with — all worth it. Despite the constant ups and downs, despite the tumultuous everyday — I do marvel that after 10 years, he’s the only one who can make me laugh myself silly til my sides ache (even if I’ve heard the same joke over and over and over again). He can still make me feel giddy and excited even when we’re doing something as mundane as going to Greenhills or Robinsons Galleria on a weekend. He can still make me feel like the prettiest, sexiest woman in the planet — cellulite, sun spots, unwanted curves, white hair and all. He can still make me look forward to something as simple as movie night at home with a bowl of pop corn, the airconditioner turned on at full blast and us lying side by side on the bed while snuggling under the covers.

After more than 10 years and hundreds of fights later (and anticipating the hundreds more coming our way in our lifetime), I’m blessed enough to know that he is still and will continue to be the only one I want to grow old with; the only person I want to hold-hands with when I’ve reached the last years of my life; the only face I want to see every morning, everyday for the rest of my life; the only one to sit on a rickety old couch with while watching reruns of old movies.

At the end of it all, perhaps everyone deserves nothing short of a love like this. The kind that makes you weep with its intensity and depth, the kind that makes you tremble with fear, but also the kind that makes life worth living.

For richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, til death do us part.

Thank you Mom and Dad, for the gift of your love for each other and showing me that the only kind of love worth having is the one you’d give your everything for, til death do you part.

Written in memory of G. Wang Jr. and V. De Ocampo. Clickable photos for original source.

On Injustice and the Dark Knight

Without meaning to imply that I’m an unsung hero, events that occurred today brought me back to one of my favorite scenes in the movie The Dark Knight. This scene made me cry then, and remembering it now makes me cry too.

[Gordon’s son follows Gordon down to where Batman lies unmoving next to Two-Face’s corpse]

Gordon’s Son: Dad! Dad, is he okay?

Gordon: [relieved as Batman slowly pulls himself up to his knees] Thank you.

Batman: You don’t have to thank me.

Gordon: Yes, I do. [both look at Two-Face’s body on the ground] The Joker won. Harvey’s prosecution, everything he fought for – undone. Any chance you gave us at fixing our city dies with Harvey’s reputation. We bet it all on him. The Joker took the best of us and tore him down. People will lose hope.

Batman: They won’t. They must never know what he did.

Gordon: Five dead, two of them cops? You can’t sweep that up!

Batman: No. But the Joker cannot win. [kneels down next to Harvey, whose scarred left side is facing up] Gotham needs its true hero. [turns Harvey’s head so that his unmarred side faces up]

Gordon: [immediately understanding] No!

Batman: [quoting Harvey Dent] “You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” I can do those things because I’m not a hero, not like Dent. I killed those people. That’s what I can be.

Gordon: No, no! You can’t, you’re not! Batman: I’m whatever Gotham needs me to be. [hands Gordon his radio] Call it in.

Gordon: They’ll hunt you.

Batman: You’ll hunt me. You’ll condemn me, set the dogs on me. [In the voiceover, Gordon speaks at Dent’s funeral, then destroys the Bat-Signal, Alfred burns Rachel’s letter, and Fox destroys the sonar device] Because that’s what needs to happen. Because sometimes… the truth isn’t good enough. Sometimes people deserve more. Sometimes people deserve to have their faith rewarded. [Batman runs]

Gordon’s Son: Batman? Batman! Why is he running, Dad?

Gordon: Because we have to chase him.

Gordon’s Son: He didn’t do anything wrong.

Gordon: Because he’s the hero Gotham deserves, but not the one it needs right now. So, we’ll hunt him, because he can take it. Because he’s not our hero. He’s a silent guardian. A watchful protector. A Dark Knight.

There’s a certain baggage that comes with being where I am now at work.

With what we do, we’re at the end of the long chain of support groups that makes things happen. When and if someone majorly screws-up somewhere along that chain, we are the ones who will sadly and ultimately look bad.

Today I was told that after all we had done to get things to come together at the last minute in spite of everyone else’s screw-ups, that ultimately we still dropped the ball on this one.

Out of anger, total and utter disbelief and frustration, tears angrily poured down my face. I lost coherence in front of my boss for the first time since I started this gig.

Maybe it’s the idealist in me. There’s nothing wrong with expecting honesty, integrity and decency among the people you work with, right? Nothing wrong with holding a deep-seated hope that the truth will prevail and those who deserve to be reprimanded — will be reprimanded. And those who did their best and did it right in spite of everything — would, well, be left alone.

I’m not even asking for a pat on the back. I don’t need it. And I can give that pat on the back to my own people. They deserved it.

I’m not asking for acknowledgement either. It’s our job. It’s what we’re here for.

The last thing I expected though is what I got. To be told that my team messed up.

I think everyone else knows the truth.

And I know that as all things unfold, the truth will eventually come out. And heads will roll, tongues will wag, punishments will be meted out. But no apologies will ever be made. All I’m sure to hear will be denials that this was the intent. To be told that maybe I overreacted to words that didn’t mean what they meant. To be told to calm down, stop being so defensive, and then to be patronized. And then pressured again to deliver as though nothing happened. And then everything will be back to normal.

But it won’t change what happened today.

I always wondered about this. When my previous boss was still around, I never realized how difficult it was for him. Now I look back and admire his patience and resilience. And mostly, I admire how he was able to hold it all in and keep it to himself.

I don’t have as strong a grip on my emotions when pushed — as he does. I still wonder how he managed to stay here for almost 3 years and put up with this.

When all is said and done, I know I won’t walk away. I’ll stay and fight. Today was just a setback.

Luckily for me, I have a team of 14 rowdy, crazy but awesome people to take care of and protect. Without them, my job wouldn’t mean anything. Without them, I wouldn’t have a reason to be here anymore.

There are people who cause bad things to happen simply by being who they are. Whether it comes with malicious intent, or whether there are just some loose screws somewhere in there.

There are those who sit back and watch as things unfold before them — staying  neutral and objective about everything. Keeping themselves far removed from conflict as best as they can.

And then there are those that are pushed to fight whether they want to or not. But by simply being who they are, problems seem to flock to them like bees to honey. It’s unfortunate for them too that these same problem-solvers are the ones who feel the strongest urge to protect those in their flock even if it means raising hell for it and looking like the bad (insubordinate) guy.

I can’t say that I’m like the Dark Knight.

But hell, I certainly know how he feels.

And knowing me, I’ll fight fairly even if some people don’t deserve a fair fight. Knowing me, I’ll eventually just let it go and entrust it to the universe to even things out… after I’ve made a point. I’ll keep quiet and take it in, take it on and believe that eventually, the truth will reveal itself. Suck in the fact that none of this is fair. Forgive the fact that a gross injustice was done to me and mine. *Sigh*

Forces of Nature and the Meaning of Life

Imagine the scenario.

The persistent sound of the alarm clock jolts you awake from blissful sleep. You hit the snooze button a couple of times before you eventually decide it’s really time to wake up. You finally get up, have a luxurious stretch, get out of bed, go to the john, go to the kitchen and make yourself a cup of coffee. Then you check the papers, have breakfast, chit-chat with family and plan the day. The kids need to be brought to school so you hit the shower, get dressed and shepherd the family out the door. Together, you brave the rush hour traffic to get everyone to school and work on time.

Throughout the day, it’s a series of meetings, deadlines, phone calls, presentations, arguments and idle moments in the office pantry.

Meanwhile, your mind is on the pleasurable prospect of the fact that it’s finally Friday. You look forward to a night out in town to chill, relax and celebrate the start of the weekend. You imagine the awesomeness that is waking up the following morning, safe and cozy in your own home without the persistent sound of an alarm clock to wake you up. It’s Saturday anyway. You mentally make a note of the chores you need to do that weekend. People you have to see. TV shows to catch up on. Quality time with the spouse. Playtime and a mall date with the kids. Perhaps a golf game or two.

And then with a deep sigh, you force yourself back to the reality that Friday workday isn’t over yet. So you go back to work, but reassure yourself that it’s just a few hours away to freedom.

Then suddenly, you feel dizzy and unsteady on your feet. Around you, others are equally as disoriented and perplexed. The furniture in your office starts swaying, closets and cupboards squeak, wind chimes clang noisily, objects fall from tables, and then you realize — there’s an earthquake.

You panic for a split second. Others around you come to the same realization. Some make a dash for the stairs. Others frantically make their way to the elevators in an attempt to flee the towering heights. Some others scramble to get under tables and door frames.

When it’s over, another one hits. And then another. The tremors just don’t stop. When it finally does, water from the sea rapidly rushes towards the city. Within seconds it engulfs everything in plain sight. Wrecking vehicles, ripping houses off the ground, robbing lives, and leaving behind nothing but a tragic scene of devastation — changing everything you’ve carefully built, tearing you away from those you love, destroying everything you’ve ever known, all in a split second.

Nobody ever thought this Friday would turn out to be this way.


Friday, March 11 at roughly 2:30pm local time, an 8.8 magnitude earthquake struck Northern Japan.

While state-of-the-art building safety technology saved most of the towering skyscrapers of Tokyo, the resulting giant tsunami waves from the quake did not save Sendai. Video footage revealed the devastation that the tsunami had brought. Cars are tossed aside like toys, structures demolished, the city is underwater, people are stranded in whatever remaining structures still remain standing.

Power in most of Japan is still out, as of this writing. As a result, nuclear plants at the North of Tokyo are under red alert with a lack of coolants to control the plant’s temperature.

Meanwhile, Hawaii and Los Angeles start receiving the tsunami waves that have travelled all the way from Japan’s shores. They aren’t expected to be anywhere remotely close to the magnitude of damage done in Sendai.

The Philippines wasn’t ignored by the tsunami. Luckily for us, it barely brought in more than 70cms of waves. Like Taiwan and Indonesia, our geographical positions weren’t poised to receive the worst of it.

None of us are strangers to earthquakes, flooding, hurricanes and forces of nature that render us suddenly, helpless and vulnerable. I still recall the tragedy of Ondoy and all the painful experiences it created as a result of it.

A year and a half later, I still hear stories of friends and acquaintances whose lives were irrevocably changed because of it. The toughest story to forget is a friend who braved the human-height raging flood in the attempts of getting home to her husband and children. While struggling to cross what had then already become a raging sea of floodwater, dead bodies were floating all around her.

While she made it home eventually to a family glad enough to have survived this ordeal in spite of the damage it did to their home, she will never forget the horrors she witnessed that day.

It’s a painful knock on the head. It takes calamities like these to jolt us out of our stupor of complacency and discontent. To realize all over again that life is infinitely precious and should never be taken for granted.

While watching with abject horror the cities in Japan ravaged by the tsunami, all I wanted to do was to call to an abrupt halt the meeting at work I had to sit through… and just go home to my husband where I truly belonged. I wanted to give my mom a call and tell her I love her.

Not because I was afraid of the tsunami hitting the Philippines. Not because there are rumors that countries which are part of the Ring of Fire will inevitably have their share of a catastrophic earthquake in the next few weeks.

But just because it made me realize what the most important things in life are. Everything could change in the blink of an eye. Everything or nothing could be lost by one single act of nature, one incident, one seemingly insignificant moment in time. That’s the way the world works.

If you’re still reading this post, then it means that like me, you too are lucky enough to just be an observer of this entire debacle.

Let this earthquake, and let all the tragic stories we hear about everyday remind all of us that life is too short. Too precious to take for granted. Too precious to spend time focusing on the things which in the greater scheme of things, don’t really matter as much.

Live as though there were no tomorrow. Spend time and give time to those you care about. Stop doing the things that make you unhappy. Be honest, be true to who you are. Do what you love to do. Stop doing things that make you unhappy. Live. Love. And make every moment count.

One of my favorite quotable quotes from a movie couldn’t have said it any better.

Frodo Baggins: I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened.

Gandalf: So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for us to decide. What we can decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.

-The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring


If you want to help the victims of the earthquake/ tsunami, visit this website. Godspeed!

The Secret to a Happy Marriage

In April, my husband and I celebrate our 2nd year wedding anniversary.

Before the day we signed our marriage contract, we had already been living together for 8 years. In a way, you could say we’ve practically been married for 10 years now.

In spite of the years I had to get to know him better while coming to grips with all that comes with being with him, marriage continues to still be oftentimes, a struggle. That’s putting it mildly.

10 years later since the day we moved in together, we still manage to go to sleep at night angry with each other without resolving whatever latest issue is the hot pick for the day.

10 years later, I still wrestle with the difficult task of deciphering what’s going on in those little gray cells that’s his mind when he’s giving me the silent treatment…sometimes for a few hours, sometimes for days.

10 years later, I still lie awake at night occasionally wondering if choosing him to be my future was the best choice.

We’ve heard the cliche: Love is never enough. Love is rarely the reason why couples just choose to end their relationship once and for all.

I’ve heard it often enough from good friends that my husband and I are their favorite love team of all time.

For those few, they know the depth and magnitude of all we’ve gone through all these years.

I wouldn’t call the circumstances of our relationship as being anywhere remotely close to the definition of a conventional relationship.

Growing up with a highly dysfunctional, unconventional and somewhat disturbing family, it isn’t a stretch to conclude that my husband would grow up to have a lot of excess baggage that may be difficult to shake off.

Match that with a woman who probably has a Messianic complex, a dangerous disposition with the potential for extremely unhealthy self-sacrifice, with the intensity of a type A personality — and maybe all we have is a recipe for disaster.

But we are the choices we make.

The day I made my marriage vows in front of a judge was the day I made that lifelong commitment that come hell or high water, I will be with this man for the rest of my life. I knew what I was getting into. I knew the man I married. I knew what to expect, the disappointments and frustrations I will continue having for the rest of my life. I knew the dreams that I would now never get to fulfill.

I had no regrets. I chose him with eyes wide open. There’s no one the wiser to blame for how life turns out to be. We choose our own destiny.

And so after all these years, I ask the question — what is the secret to a happy marriage?

Someone very wise once said — the secret to a happy marriage is still a secret.

Here I am today blabbing away on my laptop, contemplating the mystery that is my marriage.

A disagreement over the weekend, and here we are 3 days later, with my husband treating me with nothing less than cool civility. He has kinder words and warmer smiles to a cab driver and security guard than to his own wife these days.

We aren’t always like this.

On normal days, he’s sweet, affectionate and thoughtful to a fault. I’ve long since learned to turn a deaf ear to his nagging about the simplest, most mundane things like making sure I always carry my rain jacket with me even if it were hot and sunny outside; or whether I’ve taken my vitamins and fiber supplements; or whether the clothes I wear will make me feel cold in the office. He nags a whole lot more than I do… But I’ve come to realize that it’s all coming from a good place with genuinely loving motives.

On normal days, he always welcomes me home after a long and stressful day at work with arms wide open and tons of affectionate kisses that make the problems of the day fade away for just a little while. On normal days, he stops whatever he’s doing to catch up with me and ask me how my day was – and he really pauses to listen and try to help me sort out the most recent quandary I find myself in. On normal days, he can make me laugh so hard that I collapse at the end of long laughing fits from sheer exhaustion.

Not to say of course that he’s not without his faults.

On normal days, he whines and complains a lot about whatever gets his temper flaring for the day. He takes up all my remaining waking hours and makes me fuss over him – bring him water in bed, fix him up a snack, give him a back massage, stay up til the wee hours of the morning so he can talk to me about his feelings, and a host of other chores and errands that he asks me to do since he likes the feeling of having a wife who for a few hours prioritizes him and our home.

On normal days, he can be ultra-sensitive, moody and just plain unpredictable. Sometimes it requires careful tiptoeing around the prevailing mood for that hour. Sometimes he borders on being overly critical of everything I do and say.

I could go on.

And much like this recent setback of ours wherein going home these days feels like just checking into a boarding house with little to no conversation; no warmth and affection; to hugs before bedtime – I could go on and hate him for what he’s putting me through. Couple that with an extraordinarily tough week at work, I could like an injured spouse, decide to confront him here and now and raise hell.

But then, that would just make things worse. In the off chance that he’s actually starting to soften towards me already and be well on his way towards getting over his recent disappointments – raising hell would just set us back even further.

And so therein lies the idea of compromise. And infinite patience. And space. And love. And understanding.

And maybe therein lies the secret of a happy marriage.

All too often I’ve heard stories of couples who fall apart because mistakes get compounded with even more mistakes. The easy way out.

I could do that.

But I think if this recent cold war has taught me anything, it’s the fact that I want him in my life – moodiness, unpredictability and all. ‘Course life would be so much better without those things but that’s the way it is. If it means having to live with those to be able to live with all the goodness that comes with being with him, then I’ll suck it up for now. This too, shall and must pass.

Marriage. It’s a decision every single day. To stick it out despite anything. To weather the storms no matter how turbulent it gets. And to continue believing that with two good, loving and honest hearts, it will all work out in the end.

Meanwhile, I sit here on my living room couch with a silent prayer in my heart that when I go to bed tonight, I can lean on his solid, reassuring and comforting warmth and go to sleep with a smile in my heart.

Three Short Stories

Since I shamelessly (albeit a bit hesitantly) shared my blog URL for the first time ever with office mates today… I feel a little bit ashamed that I’ve allowed this blog to take a dive into the “deprioritized” list hence the absence of new, quality content.

Hence, this new post about random nothings. Well, not really nothings.

Call this little quickie stories to paint a picture of life as it unfolds these days.
















Story # 1: In the Grip of Chaos.

New Year started with an explosive announcement. My boss resigned, and made me inherit most of what he left behind — the responsibilities, the problems, the aches and pains… and occasionally the joy, the fulfillment and pride. And best of all, his MacBook.

It’s been a crazy ride. As if last year wasn’t crazy enough, the world seems to deem me fit and able to withstand all manners of chaos. From my domestic life, to my career, my personal time, my time with my family, and all the other responsibilities, chores and errands in between.

I have a secret nightmare. In it, I fear that my seemingly healthy pallor and constitution will gradually and sneakily take its toll on me someday… and I will suddenly find myself terminally ill.

Lately, my head feels like a mass of nerves. A series of interconnected neurons that have all gone astray, all tangled up and jarred, laid out in a messy heap with no more rhyme or reason. This drives me crazy – the sense of having absolutely no sense of control over anything, and worse —  the head-pounding misery of wondering how this all just came to be. I didn’t see it all coming.

But my story is far from over. So I never lose out on the fervent wish that some day soon, my happiness and peace-of-mind meter decides to take an upward spiral — and hopefully stays there for a long, long time.













Story # 2. Changing Tides.

I know many in the Philippines don’t think much about what’s been happening around the world as a result of the Revolution in Egypt that finally unseated long-time tyrant Hosni Mobarak.

I was watching CNN that day and saw the very first broadcast made by Vice President Omar Suleiman that changed the world. I was washing the dishes in the kitchen; the TV in the living room was slightly muted but intelligible enough that I could figure out the major developments while cleaning out the kitchen. Like many Egyptians, my heart skipped a beat when the Vice President made the proclamation.

A few weeks later, we watch in abject horror as more and more lives are brutally taken in Libya.

In Yemen, the public is calling for the President’s resignation, even though his official rule still ends in 2013.

In Bahrain, police set-off tear gas and fire rubber pellets at protestors who are clamoring for better jobs and political equity.

Even quiet little Oman stages a mini protest — though for what motivation, I can’t be sure.

I don’t know what to make of these events… and what the future holds for the rest of the world. With people marching on the streets, putting their lives at risk to rally for their rights — on one hand the call for positive change while electrifying in different ways, is nonetheless a good change. On the other, where do we draw the line on anarchy? Is this how the world will eventually fall apart at the seams?

Story # 3. The Fight for Democracy Forgotten.

And speaking of revolutions, a hot news item recently emerged in which debates are ongoing whether former President Ferdinand Marcos should be buried at the Libingan ng mga Bayani.

It’s astounding how the polls at ABS-CBN shows that 59% of Pinoys are in favor of having him buried right there. The deposed, unseated Dictator that caused the People Power Revolution in 1986 — buried in a cemetery intended for the nation’s heroes??!?

How quickly people forget. Or is it just because the new generation of Pinoys grew up not really understanding the painful realities that characterized his reign?

It doesn’t help that you’ve got the late ex-President’s son ranting about how if he had stayed in power, the Philippines would be a Singapore by now. Who are we kidding? Take a lesson from History: we were poised to become an economic superpower when Marcos’ Presidency began. By the time he was deposed, the value of the Philippine Peso had declined massively. How’s that for becoming a Singapore if he had stayed on?

Funnily enough, our President now is the son of two freedom fighters who spurred the Revolution that changed the course of the Philippines’ history. To coincide with the 25th Anniversary of that Revolution and not accord it the proper deference by celebrating it as an official holiday — makes me feel that we’re allowing everyone and everything to ignore the significance of that day 25 years ago, and the lives given for the cause of Democracy.

How truly, truly sad.

The Saint of Miracles

After my father passed away, I had been going through a lot of other things that left me feeling down and out for quite some time. Dad’s passing didn’t help much, but for a couple of weeks, I did find myself teetering on the edge of sanity, wondering if anything in my life would ever settle down and give me some peace of mind.

In the brink of desperation, a thought occurred to me.  Maybe I should pray.

As a young girl, well into my teens and early adulthood, I used to pray a lot. But life got in the way… my doubts about my faith and my Religion made me start losing faith in prayer.

I suppose it’s true what they say that there comes a point in time when you feel you have no alternatives or options left — so you just inevitably turn to God.

And that, I did.

And then some.

I’ve heard that there are particular Saints for particular petitions you ask for.

One particular Saint resonated with me, not just because my husband’s named after him as well… but because he was known as the Saint of the Impossible. The Saint of Miracles.

St. Jude Thaddeus. One of the 12 apostles of Jesus Christ… and not to be mistaken for Judas Escariot. The Saint turned to for impossible causes.

I prayed a novena to him 3 straight times — which means 9 days x 3. 27 days of prayer while going about my normal everyday business in a desperate cry for peace of mind.

Part of this novena is a promise I made to spread the word about prayer to him, prayer to God, and prayer in general.

Whatever the outcome of this 27-day devotion, I have yet to see. Answers to prayers don’t come in the blink of an eye. But I do know that as the days go by, the act of praying has brought some measure of peace in my heart that somewhere in this World, there’s someone and something looking after me.

Below is the prayer I recited 9 times a day for 9 days, in 3 rounds. You don’t need to do 3 rounds. Just do as many as you see fit until your soul is ready to let go and trust God.


Start with: 3 Our Fathers, 3 Hail Marys, 3 Glory Bes

O Holy St. Jude, Apostle and Martyr; great in virtue and rich in miracles; faithful kinsman of Jesus Christ; faithful intercessor of all who invoke your special patronage in time of need  — to you I have recourse from the depth of my heart to humbly beg to whom God has given such great power to come to my assistance.

Help me in present and urgent petition. In return, I promise to make your name known and cause you to be invoked. St. Jude, pray for us and all who invoke your aid.

May the Sacred Heart of Jesus be adored and loved in all tabernacles of the world until the end of time, Amen. May the most Sacred Heart of Jesus be praised and glorified now and forever. Amen. St. Jude, pray for me and hear our prayers.

Blessed be the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

Blessed be the Immaculate Heart of Mary.

Blessed be St. Jude Thaddeus in all the World, and for all eternity.

St. Jude, glorious apostle, faithful servant and friend of Jesus; the name of the traitor has caused you to be forgotten by many. But as the true Church invokes you universally as the patron of things despaired of; pray for me who am so miserable. Pray for me that I may finally receive the consolation and succor of heaven in all my necessities, sufferings and tribulations, particularly that of (state intention) and that I may Bless God with the Elect through eternity.

I promise you, O Blessed Jude, to be ever mindful of this great favor; to always honor you as my special and powerful patron; and to do all in my power to gratefully encourage devotion to you. Amen.