This story originally appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer on April 25, 2006.
It was already the wee hours of the morning of April 3, and I was still up, chatting with friends on the Internet. I don’t know why, but for some reason, a friend and I were talking about wakes and funerals. We were going on about where we would want our wake to be, what song would be playing in the background, who we think would visit, who we think would deliver a eulogy for us. It was a long conversation revolving around ourselves and how we wanted to be remembered, but in the end we shared one insight: we would be touched and eternally grateful if someone we least expected to speak went up the podium, reached for the microphone and delivered some kind words about us. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to know that, unknowingly, we had touched someone’s life?
Right after I pressed the enter key to end that statement, my cell phone rang, and I was told that a high school batch mate of mine had shot himself in the head just a couple of minutes earlier.
Words cannot express what I was feeling. Shock, disbelief, bewilderment—all were raging inside me. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. It was my best friend who called, and we had a history of pulling pranks on each other, so even after she said it, I still left room for the possibility that it was not so.
But it was true: Robert was dead. And we all had to accept the fact, however difficult it might be. And it was very difficult.
Late into the morning, my best friend was still spreading the news about Robert’s death through text. They were close family friends, and that was the task assigned to her. It was a simple text informing the recipients of his passing and details about the wake, and requesting for prayers for him and the family he left behind.
His mother was a widow. His brother blamed himself totally because the gun that Robert used was his. It’s always hard for family when a member dies, but given the circumstances, Robert’s death was infinitely harder for his mother and brother.
In high school, Robert wasn’t the kind of student who was called up to the stage during recognition day to receive an academic award. He wasn’t a jock, and had very few extra-curricular activities. He made a couple of imprudent decisions, got hooked on a vice or two, and repeated junior year. From what I heard from my best friend, he wasn’t really close to his family either. In other words, he wasn’t perfect. Just like each and every one of us.
I didn’t know Robert well. He was just an acquaintance, a family friend of my best friend, an ex-boyfriend’s kabarkada in the old days, a familiar face I used to see every day along the hallway of our high school. So I can’t explain why I am greatly affected and bothered by his death. Maybe it’s the manner in which he died, maybe it’s the mystery behind it (he didn’t leave a note), or maybe it’s just the waste of life.
He shouldn’t have died. He shouldn’t have died. He shouldn’t have died. That’s what I think over and over again. No one so young should die. He only lived a quarter of his life, and did not even reach his prime. He should have been in college, doing what me and our other batch mates are doing: living and enjoying our lives.
But life’s not fair. We should deal with it with acceptance, not bitterness, a friend told me. And she’s right. Robert’s dying wasn’t fair to his family, to his friends and even to him, but there are things that are beyond our control and we should accept that. As priests are quick to say, “We should see death for what it really is: the end of poverty and the beginning of riches, the end of fear and the beginning of tranquility, the end of pain and the beginning of strength.”
As for Robert, we should remember him not because of his imperfections but because of all the beautiful years he shared with the people around him. He wasn’t the perfect student, but he was a thoughtful and caring friend. He wasn’t close to his family, but he loved them and they loved him greatly in return. Closeness is a relative term anyway, while love is absolute.
One last thing. Why was I up at past 2 a.m. last April 3? Why was I chatting? Why was that particular friend who asks weird questions online, too? Why were we talking about funerals of all the many weird things to talk about? Why did my best friend call the second after I had pressed the enter key? It’s weird, really weird, but somehow rather enlightening.
Exactly two weeks after his death, I suddenly have an epiphany: Because we were talking about funerals, my friend and I came up with a shared insight. And because of that insight, I’m writing this essay. I am probably the last person anyone would expect to speak about him. But somehow, I feel I owe this to Robert
