Tag: Filipino

priceless gifts

I thought I was going to lose my father. Two months ago, my dad noticed a mass growing on his chest, one that I dismissed so easily when he jumped in on a video call I was having with my younger brother a month ago. “It’s not going away. What do you think it is?” I had a quick glance and told my dad it was probably nothing. I assured him that I would look at it when I visited home.

With my dad’s and my birthday being so close together and ongoing concerns around COVID, this year, we decided to combine birthday dinners to one weekend. My parents living over an hour away from me usually means staying the entire weekend and taking my cat with me. I have to plan this weeks ahead.

And then it happened. My parents said something that triggered old, deep, painful wounds. “Your dad can’t make Saturday dinner. He has to work over time,” Mom said. Suddenly, my chest flooded with feelings of abandonment, bitterness, and loneliness. The oldest sibling, a daughter, a latchkey kid, and an undocumented immigrant, I had a role to play in my family, and while it is one that I honor seriously, it is one that’s led me to develop a crippling anxiety that I’ve only learned to manage well in the last few years. Deep down, I was also angry that my dad, a senior, was being asked to do over time for his manual job. And with that, I was angry that my dad, at retirement age, felt the need to do over time. With this flood of emotions came the cries of a child—likely that little girl in me who never felt she was allowed to be young. I acted out, hurt, wounded, ashamed.

Struggling with my sense of boundaries but still committed to seeing my family, I cut my weekend visit to lunch. I arrive home, and Dad is waiting patiently on the couch watching TV. “No George?” George is my cat, and I’m tickled that this once grumpy, anti-pet dad now baby-speaks to my cat whenever he sees him. I shake my head. Immediately, he gets up and asks me to look at his chest lump. At this point, this is the first time I’m seeing it in person, and it is much larger than when I’d seen it on video a month ago. Its border is smooth but irregular, and with my dad’s smoking history, I start to worry.

A memory flashes in my mind just ten years ago when my mom was telling me about a biopsy she was going to have. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I responded. The weekend passes and I forget about it altogether, until my mom calls me Monday first thing in the morning. I was a medical student rotating through the neonatal unit at the time, and my mom was not one to call during work hours. Finding the call unusual, I picked up. “I got the biopsy results back.” For a moment, I’m confused. I walk into the hall to get some privacy. “I have cancer,” she spoke softly. The rest of the day became a blur.

At that time ten years ago, I thought about my brothers, the younger still a teenager, who might lose their mother at such a young age. I thought about our own fragmented relationship, one that I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to, one that still needed so much tenderness, and one that may not see me graduate with the MD that would make her so proud. I needed more time. Please, more time.

And we got it. My mom has been in remission since having surgery and completing multiple rounds of chemotherapy and radiation. Our relationship changed after then. We changed. It was the beginning of a new chapter that we were all ready to start.

After examining my dad’s chest, whatever I felt before didn’t matter. I suspected something serious, but I wanted to be wrong. I wanted more time. Please, more time. My dad tells me that it’s time to head to the restaurant and rushes me to the car. I try to make the most of our lunch, swatting away any distracting pings of worry.

Immediately after getting home, I hop on my parents’ computer to write a message to my dad’s doctor. I describe my observations with great detail, hoping he’ll take my doctor speak seriously and order urgent imaging. My dad has already scheduled an appointment later in the week, and I wrote that I would be calling into the appointment to ask questions and make sure I catch details my dad isn’t able to follow. This is now the third time my dad is bringing this up with his doctors.

My parents urge me to go home before it got too late, but not without sending me home with food and fruits. I’m racked with anxiety and sleeplessness the next couple of days. “Go to sleep,” Mom insists. It’s 8:30 pm, but I’m exhausted.

My mom sends me a text during the afternoon on Lunar New Year. “Imaging consistent with benign tumor.” I’m relieved, as if I’m taking my first breath after coming up from under the water. This was the gift I’d been asking for. It was the only gift I wanted but the most precious one I could dream up.

morning offerings

I’ve been drinking coffee longer than I can remember. I don’t say that to brag—I really can’t remember exactly when I started drinking coffee. If I had to guess, I was probably three years old.

Back then, I lived in the Philippines with my mom and extended family. My grandparents lived there too, and I spent every morning with my grandma. We all called her Mama.

Every morning, Mama would stir a few spoons of freeze-dried Folgers into her cup of hot water, topped with powdered creamer and a few spoons of sugar. She’d bring out a roll of pan de sal and lay it on a platito, periodically dipping the roll into her coffee before taking a bite and washing it down with a slow sip.

I adored Mama and loved to spend mornings with her, after my mom had already left for work and before I went to nursery. I wanted to be a part of her morning as she was mine, and I started sneaking sips of this glorious kape that she drank every morning without fail. Eventually, she caught on, scolding me for drinking something for grown-ups, while stirring me a cup of my own. This was our special routine every morning until my mom and I moved to the US.

I think of my Mama every morning as I make my own brew; she continues to be a part of my morning to this day. Except these days, I make the coffee for both us.

My morning brew and some oranges freshly picked and gifted by neighbor.

the cycling of the sun and moon

As I’ve gotten older and built my own life independent of my parents (by parents, I’m referring to my mom and stepdad—who, for all intents and purposes, is my dad), my relationship with them has changed. The way I see them has changed. And it keeps changing.

It’s funny how we often forget that our parents are whole people whose lives don’t completely revolve around us, their children, even though that’s often the case for a really long time. No matter the relationship we have with them, we’d often idolize them and see their word as infallible, them—indestructible. Over the years, we’ve all gotten older, wiser, gentler, but they have also become more frail, and the reality of their mortality suddenly feels daunting and sometimes, frightening. Sometimes, maddening.

I find myself having to develop a newfound patience for when my parents fall short of my expectations. Admittedly, I feel guilty about this. Just tonight, my parents failed to make it to a Jo Koy show my younger brothers and I had treated them to. They didn’t check their email to verify the address. They didn’t use Google Maps to see the time to leave. They didn’t understand that parking was a separate charge or that they would have to park far in case they arrived late. They didn’t understand that all bags must be left in the car.

Well, they arrived late. Sure enough, they’d have to park so far and were spooked by the large crowd, on top of having to pay for a locker to store my mom’s purse, that they decided to leave the arena altogether without ever stepping out of the car. “I’ll Venmo you for parking and the locker fees!” I insisted. But they were tired. They’d driven for over two hours in traffic. And most of all, my parents are older. I forget about this all the time. What do my parents know about Google Maps and checking the traffic ahead of time? My dad was just asking me about the Yellow Pages not too long ago. My mom has plantar fasciitis and cannot take prolonged walks.

I found my frustration easing. It is a strange feeling, eclipsing your parents. Thinking about it leaves me feeling uneasy and emotionally and mentally unprepared. There is still so much to say. So much to do. Things to repair.

“Are you driving home? Or will you find a hotel to stay at overnight? Did you eat? Can I order takeout for you?” I texted.

“No, it’s ok,” my mom replied. “We’ll have a good time. As long as we’re together. No worries. Sleep and rest. Ok, low batt.”

an inspired home

At its best, cooking and eating are cultural, spiritual practices. They draw together a plethora of ingredients and sensations meant to be felt and savored in combination and sequence. There is something symbolic about preparing my countertop—the ritual in bringing together and sharpening my knives, the intention behind rinsing produce, the rhythm in slicing and chopping. And then there are the aromas that fill the air. The smoke from searing meat and veggies. The warmth of the kitchen.

I grew up cooking with my family. One of my favorite questions to ask people is about a food that reminds them of home. I moved around frequently—often every year—so geography has little bearing to my perception of this home. For me, home is feeling, a memory, a concept. My most vivid memory of food and home comes from rolling lumpia, the Filipino style of egg rolls, with my family. While my parents worked over the stove in the kitchen, my aunt would sit with me and my cousins at the table, teaching us how to roll tight, uniform lumpia. There was a precision to it, yet at the same time, my family never measured anything. “You can’t taste with your eyes,” my dad would laugh. My dad was always happy in the kitchen.

My parents sent me home with lumpia over the Thanksgiving weekend. They were lovingly wrapped in foil and waiting in the freezer. We typically have lumpia with sweet and sour sauce, but I didn’t have any at my apartment. Just like my dad taught me, I adapted a sauce with what I had. My dad taught me a lot about cooking, and one of them was enjoying the process. “What’s the worst that could happen? Just add lemon!” my dad would smirk.

So I put together my interpretation of sweet and sour sauce for lumpia. Sambal, honey, patis, brown sugar, rice vinegar, water. I found my dipping sauce to taste less like the traditional sweet and sour sauce of my lumpia and more like an amalgamation of Southeast Asian inspirations. Growing up next to Little Saigon and living in Long Beach, I transported myself to a home of homes.

It rained today, so I delayed my grocery run. I reached into my freezer and pulled out frozen steaks. I didn’t use lemon, but I squeezed some lime and sprinkled some sea salt and crushed black pepper on each side. I’m a novice when it comes to cooking steak, but I think I did all right this time.

What’s a food that brings you home?