this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on December 31, 1998.
I never spoke to my grandfather–not in his native tongue, that is. In fact I never spoke to either of my grandfathers in their native tongues. My father’s father died of a heart attack when I was barely 8 years old. The only Kapampangan words I knew then were ”wa” and ”ali.” Standing before his coffin, I promised myself I would learn to speak both of my ancestral tongues. In the following years, I managed to learn some Ilocano during yearly summer vacations spent in Vigan where my maternal grandparents used to live. Sadly however, I would lose what little I knew of the language upon returning to Manila. Then having returned to Vigan only once in the last eight years, I didn’t have the opportunity to improve my knowledge of the language.
For some reason, I declined to learn Ilocano anew when my mother’s father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease more than four years ago. I suppose I thought it to be an exercise in futility. Parkinson’s is a disease that causes a person to progressively lose control of his muscles. It may not sound like one of the worst illnesses known to man, but to me, it sure looked close to it.
First, my grandfather grew weaker and weaker. Then he needed a cane. Then he had to use a wheelchair. Finally, he was confined to his bed. He began to tremble much as Muhammad Ali did when he lit the torch at the Atlanta Olympics. I broke into tears watching those ceremonies as I imagined my grandfather in Ali’s place. Around the middle of this year, my grandfather lost control of his tongue, making eating and speaking difficult. He lost a lot of weight and had frequent bouts with fever or respiratory problems. I had difficulty understanding him, compounding my frustration. By then I had begun speaking to my grandmother in Ilocano, albeit using very simple sentences. But what could I say to my grandfather that would help ease his condition?
I didn’t know how to say ”God will heal you.” Even if I did, my little faith could not have made me sound like I was saying it with great conviction. I had him brought to church a number of times to be prayed over, and each time, it got harder and harder to do. During those times, I could not believe much farther than I could see. I didn’t know how to say ”Let’s play chess.” Even if I did, I would have been no match for him. He was heralded as Vigan’s top chess player once, and he and his still alert mind would have found my ”strategies” little more than a source of amusement. Besides, I would have had to move his pieces for him, and to see him reduced to that would have been too much for me to bear.
On the other hand, I am blessed to have many Kapampangan co-workers at the University of the Philippines and I have caught a few phrases from them. I hope it will not take too long before I can speak to my father’s mother in her native tongue. One may ask why I feel the need to learn these languages. While my grandparents can speak Filipino and English, I believe it would be better to speak to them in the languages of their youth. I believe in the saying, ”First in, last out.” As the elderly lose their hearing or even their mental prowess, it must be much easier for them to understand things said to them in the language they used as children. I felt the need acutely late in September this year when I visited my grandfather. It was also the only time I visited him by myself. Maybe I did that because I had a premonition of his coming death. I sat there in his room while the nurse helped him with his toiletries and with coughing out the phlegm in his lungs. Our driver was also there massaging his legs. I looked at his chart and saw the long list of medicines he had grown resistant to, and the few that still worked. I guess it was then that I knew. I immediately took my leave and managed to reach the hallway before tears began to fall from my eyes.
Early in October, there was an episode on TV where a lawyer gave a eulogy for her former professor. Again I felt the need to talk to my grandfather. It was two days too late. My grandfather was already dead at 87 from pneumonia. Now more than ever I feel the need again to speak the language he liked best. Why? Perhaps so that I could visit his grave ‘and tell him: ”Tata Turo, nagleddangak ti ipapanaw mo (Tata Turo, I mourn your passing).”
