Friday, August 13, 2004

In Memory of Aaron Rabajante


And I thought that my first day at work will top my week. I have even began to mentally draft an essay on how I spent my initial hours on my first job, ever, reading a million greeting cards—some I like, some I don’t—then proceeded on relaying how nice the people in my workplace are. Of course, I would end up saying that they’re too darn nice that if I let them get to me, I’d be sick and I’d have to take a leave of absence for a month.

As much as it would be fun to explore the topics I’ve just enumerated, I’m afraid I have to reserve the fun stuff later to make way for something more important: the major event of my week.

It’s not a good event; rather it’s being tragic leaves a very intense impact on me.

12 Aug 2004, 3:15 p.m. I just came back from my break when I received a text message in my cellphone which read: “…patay na c aron…” I am not sure if it was really cold in the office or whatever, but at that instant I felt like the temperature just dropped close to zero—well at least, the temperature at the exact spot where I was seated. My hands trembled relentlessly. I had no one to share my slight pang of grief. Someone I know just died.

Barely a month ago, my mom and I visited HIM in the hospital. I learned two days before that he had problems with his heart—literally, that is.

Now, I often have pseudo-chitchats in my mind. It’s my way of filtering words that are supposed to be said from those which are better off kept within the bounds of my skull. Anyway, if anyone heard me then, they’d think I’m an idiot. Why? Because I thought, “Boy, you look sick.”

A little annoyed voice inside my head replied, “He should. He IS sick.”

Indeed he was.

Aaron and I were not friends. In the 11 years we’ve known each other, we never became friends. We hadn’t even had a decent five-minute conversation with each other—ever. Not one.

Our connection is bound by the same element that holds the members of a normal family: oblique, filial love. (Note that in my vocabulary “normal,” when pertaining to “family,” is synonymous to “dysfunctional,” thus explaining the “bond” despite the lack of “talk.”)

You may look at it this way, Aaron is like a brother to me. Now that he’s gone, I feel like I lost a brother.

Our interaction within the span of time I’ve known him was limited to “Kakain (na),” “ang mommy ko (mo)?” “oo nga no?” “Hindi ko alam,” “sige”—you get the picture. Together with my siblings and his sibling, we joined a volleyball league in the street where my family and his family used to live. He hated me for missing points by not running after the ball. I hated him back for being harsh on me.

I’d still say he wasn’t the worst kid his age, but I know he wasn’t the best student his age either. He went to school for the fun of it, not the need of it. There was even a time when I doubted if he can actually read a minimum of 1,000 different words or, at least, write his name. It’s mean of me, I know. It’s just that I often wondered why we started high school together (we attended different schools, though) but he seemed to have been stuck there. I reached Second Year College while he remained in high school.

I did not see him or the rest of his family for a while when I decided to be like him temporarily. (Translation: I took the time off from school too.) Later, I just learned that he got his girlfriend pregnant after he told my Ate, on the phone, that he was in the house of his biyenan. So at 18, he became a dad to a boy who looks exactly like him.

We grew up.

He grew up. He used to be shorter than I, but when I reached my last year in college and when he and his mom visited me in my dormitory, I noticed that he was already inches taller than I was.

I grew up. I managed to convince myself that school is important; I graduated college. He didn’t.

He was the typical kabataan. And he lived like a bata (At least, as far as I know.) It made it hard for me to see him sort-of deflated in his hospital bed, not knowing how to position himself just to ease the pain he was suppressing.

I guess, he felt a little better when he began “teaching” us. He said, “Nandito pala ang puso,” then he pointed at the left side of his stomach. He was serious all throughout.

His Kuya and I laughed.

He defended his point by saying, “Nung inexamine ako sa E.R., dito [still pertaining to the alleged location of his heart] nila pinakinggan ang tibok ng puso ko.”
In the mildest way I could muster, I quipped, “Nalipat na pala ang puso?! Ay kaya yan masakit.”

I thought it was funny.

Upon learning he’s gone, the first thing that popped in my head was the idea that he may have died without knowing where his heart is. It made me sad.

I wonder if I’ll die that way too. Expiring without knowing where my heart really is.

I don’t know which one is worse, living without knowing where your heart is or dying without knowing where your heart is.

Last time I saw him alive, he asked me to accompany him to the hospital recovery room. A nurse was taking him there to watch a video explaining what happens to a patient after undergoing an open-heart surgery. I doubt if he watched at all. He kept on vomiting air the whole time. I knew that no matter how unserious a person he used to be, he was seriously ill.

After the mini-seminar, his mom and I left the room. I consoled his mom. I’ve always considered her my 2nd mom. I felt that she needed it. Somehow I know that it is hard for a mother to see her child undergo such risky operation.

I never comforted Aaron nor made him feel any concrete form of moral support during my last visit. I didn’t know how to. I’m just not good at easing people’s pain—at least, people who are suffering from first-degree pain.

I left without bidding him good-bye.

I left without letting him know where his heart was.

I guess, I myself do not know where it was. (I just missed my chance.)

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