Happy Birthday, Tito Boy
Happy Birthday, Tito Boy. How I wish I could still text you today.
Dear Tito Boy,
When you were sick last year, with a tube down your throat to help you breathe and a cardiac monitor counting your every pulse, with your eyes not opening no matter how many times I called your name, I wished, for a moment, that I wasn’t a doctor. It was hard to stand there, knowing what I know, knowing that you would probably never wake up, that keeping your blood pressure up would get harder and harder, that your heart would beat slower and slower and slower. On most days, being a doctor arms you with the power of understanding, but on days like that, I was overwhelmed with powerlessness, knowing there was little I could do except pray for a miracle.
On that same morning, I had a patient in the ICU. I forgot why he was admitted or what his medications were, but I do remember that you were about the same age, and he was also a father, a brother, or an uncle. He, too, was breathing through a ventilator. He, too, had a cardiac monitor hooked to his bed. But when I tapped his shoulders, he opened his eyes. When I squeezed his fingers, he squeezed right back. For a moment, I thought he even looked at me, acknowledging my presence as I did my rounds. In a moment of selfishness, I found it unfair that he was awake while you were unconscious in another hospital —that he could see me when you couldn’t, that he could clasp my fingers while yours barely moved.
Grief is laced with regret as it is with love. When was the last time we talked, I wonder? I remember noticing how your gait had slowed, how your hair had thinned, and how the whites took over the grays and silvers. Time fools us so often, making us believe that it moves slowly, that we have more of it than we actually do, until the days turn to weeks and the months turn to years, and suddenly there is no time left.
I’m sorry, Tito Boy. I wish I had talked to you more. I wish I visited more often, if only to catch up, to see how you were, to cherish the moments when we shared the same space and breathed the same air. You were always so happy to see me. I saw it in how your face lit up and how tightly you always hugged. We talked fondly and frequently of Dad, clearly a favorite person between us. Over and over, we said we missed him, and it breaks my heart that I can no longer share that with you. No more “Remembering Noli” on Dad’s death anniversary. No more greetings on my birthday. This time, I have both of you to mourn.
When you died, I was in a Grab ride on my way to you. I knew you were dying. I knew your blood pressure and heart rate wouldn’t hold up for long. I will remember that night as the worst traffic jam of my life, a ride that, despite all my haste and prayers, could not bring me to you in time. I remember it was dark, despite the flurry of street lights, headlights, and traffic all around. All I could see was the light from my phone, bright and white as I awaited updates from our family group chat. When they told me your time of death had been called, I did not wail, I did not scream, I did not cry. I was merely stunned into silence, unable to process your death. Denial is what they call it. For whatever I know of medicine, of the finality and irreversibility of death, I could not wrap my head around the fact that you were gone. It was only when I finally arrived at the hospital, seeing your lifeless body covered in sheets, that I was overcome with an unshakeable grief. The tubes were removed, the monitors turned off, and the ventilator ceased to hum and purr as it did. You were gone, and no amount of medical science could bring you back. I don’t remember when I started crying, but I remember that it was impossible to stop.
It’s been more than a year since you died. June 8 is your Life Birthday, and it pains me that I can no longer text you like I used to. The pain is more blunt and less paralyzing than it used to be, but there are days like today, a day when the pain cuts deeper and opens up old wounds. I struggle to think of you without tears in my eyes. My only solace is knowing that now, you and Dad can finally celebrate your birthdays together, after years of missing each other. I imagine you taking pictures of all of us from up there, probably gossiping about the rest of us left on Earth.
I remember how, any time we saw each other, even when you were more at ease behind a camera, you’d always ask someone to take our picture. You always wanted a photo with me. We have pictures marking milestones in our lives - my graduation, your birthday, or a family gathering at your house. You posted them, printed them, even had them framed for all to see. You said it was like taking a photo with Noli—your brother, my dad—all over again. I desperately want a picture with you, too, Tito Boy. With both of you. I miss you, Tito Boy. Happy birthday.
All my love,
Ella Mae
