Remembering Tito Boy
A few words I said during Tito Boy's wake, plus a few more that were too painful to say out loud.
Long before I knew of Tito Boy, the talk show host, I’ve always had Tito Boy, my beloved uncle. Tito Boy is my late father’s only brother, and since I am Dad’s only daughter, that makes me, by default, Tito Boy’s favorite niece.
He looked uncannily like my father, so much so that they would often be mistaken for twins. They have the same build, the same walk, the same gentle manner. They were born one year apart, and even have consecutive birthdays: Dad was born on June 7, and Tito Boy on June 8. Tito Boy always reminded me of Dad, just as he told me once that he remembers Dad every time he sees me. He would message me every year on Dad’s birthday and death anniversary. “Remembering Noli today,” Tito Boy would say. Dad was our favorite topic, and it was always clear that Tito Boy loved my father very much, and that love has carried over to me.
Like Dad, Tito Boy was a photographer. Growing up, I seldom saw him without a camera. He had a camera in hand for every family get-together or tapok-tapok. While we were all busy eating, gossiping, or laughing, Tito Boy would walk around amongst the crowd. Before you knew it, he would aim the camera in your direction and catch you chewing food, laughing out loud, or engaging in riveting chika. At the end of each tapok-tapok, we would eagerly wait for Tito Boy to upload and tag us in photos. I, for one, owe a lot of my best Facebook profile pictures to Tito Boy.
Tito Boy always looked forward to these get-togethers. In February of 2012, to encourage attendance at our family reunion, he posted in our Visarra clan Facebook group, “Like branches in a tree, our lives may grow in different directions, yet our roots remain as one.” He liked the idea of family coming together. Some of my fondest childhood memories include visiting their condo unit in Makati, and later on, attending birthday parties and celebrations in their home in Mahogany. Each time, he was always quick to give me the tightest and warmest of hugs.
Even when we didn’t see each other, Tito Boy always made his presence felt, through text messages, group chats, and Facebook comments. He liked commenting on posts and chiming in on the family conversation. He’s also one of the most avid readers of my blog. Even when I just started writing, Tito Boy would be one of the first likers and commenters, especially when I wrote about Dad. Truthfully, Tito Boy is probably one of the reasons why I kept writing at all, because I knew he would be part of the audience. Tito Boy always encouraged me, telling me that I write well. He told me often that Dad would be so proud of me, and each time he did, it felt like Dad was echoing those words as well.
So when we lost Tito Boy, it felt like losing Dad all over again.
It’s been an emotionally turbulent week for our family. Seeing Tito Boy in the ICU is now one of the most painful memories. I saw him every day for the last five days of his life. As a doctor, it’s interesting how quickly my medical muscle memory kicked into gear when I saw him—as if I were doing rounds on my own admitted patients. I checked the fluids, the urine bag, the cardiac monitor, the ventilator, and the pulse. But just as quickly, my family brain took over, and in an instant, I was no longer a doctor checking a patient, but a niece, holding Tito Boy’s hand and watching him breathe, not quite knowing what to say. Each morning thereafter, as I did hospital rounds on my ICU patients, I would think of Tito Boy, and I found myself switching gears once more, from doctor brain to family brain. I found it unfair, how my patients could open their eyes and move their fingers, while Tito Boy couldn’t. It was a tight spot to be in, to know the worst that could happen, yet still fiercely hoping and praying for a miracle.
Unfortunately, the latter didn’t happen, and we lost Tito Boy last March 21, 2024. I was on my way to the hospital when it happened, hopelessly stuck in traffic. I’ve always abhorred Metro Manila’s horrendous traffic, but I’ve never hated it more than I did at that moment. I arrived to find Tito Boy lying in bed—no more tubes, no more medicines, no more life.
We were all overcome by grief, and I learned that grief takes up so much, too much space, leaving little room for silver linings. But at the same time, grief is the most painful manifestation of love. It is true what they say in Marvel’s WandaVision, that grief is “love persevering.” It is in grief that love survives. Love persists in the longing, the missing, in the space left behind. Grief hides nothing; grief reveals just how much love there always was, and how much love there always will be.
A few days ago, I looked through Tito Boy’s Facebook photo albums. Needless to say, they were beautiful, but more than the composition, arrangement, or lighting, what struck me was how heartwarming every picture was. They say photographers capture the beauty, and indeed, Tito Boy took the most beautiful photos. But more than the beauty, I think what he truly captured was time—time with his family, time with his grandchildren, time with his cousins and relatives—all snapshots of the most precious memories. His pictures show us what was always most valuable to Tito Boy—his family. Just as he captured photographs, so did he capture our hearts and our memories. I sincerely hope they have photo albums in heaven, because I know Tito Boy would look at those every single day.
Tito Boy, we will miss you in the space you leave behind, in the photos you would have taken, in the laughter we would have shared, in the Facebook messages you would have sent. We will miss you terribly, but know that you have built a life filled with the most wonderful memories, and that you are kept alive by a ferocious and enduring love.
You’re with Dad and Mommy Stella now, Tito Boy, and I know you’ll have fun up there, talking and gossiping about the rest of us. I love you Tito Boy. Know that, as much as I’m surely your favorite niece, you will always be my favorite uncle.
