Firsts

Here’s a story I have never told anyone.

When someone gets to edit and revise articles written by reporters older than she is, at a job assigned mostly to people twice (or thrice?) her age, writing can be a very daunting task.

Every phrase requires a pause. Every pause requires a scrutiny of everything written, so far. “Who will edit the editor?” was a question I asked more frequently than I drank coffee.

So, a woman and a man challenged each other with writing prompts. This didn’t last long, but it helped.

Past midnight, when I felt confused as to whether I shall or must not include the words P.I. in a cathartic post — is it ethical, will it be helpful — there was only one phone number I dialed. I was half-panicking, I was fuming mad, I was nearly breaking down. The person on the other line knew exactly what I needed: more than an editor, someone to calm me and tell me that curse words were invented precisely for moments such as those. And it’s okay, it’s okay.

This is the same man who dragged me toward the summit of Mount Batulao, while I gasped for air, swimming in my own sweat, unprepared for a hike, wearing skinny jeans and white shoes. The same man who saw how I jumped frantically with a loaded gun on my right hand when I shot my first bull’s eye. The same man who held me, and never let go of my hand, when I ran out of breath and sank in a rocky, gushing river in Rizal, with only my long hair seen from the surface.

But let it be known that it’s not all about the adventures.

It’s also the little things that matter, like a plate of carbonara, sticks of barbecued intestines, and a gallon of strawberry ice cream for no reason other than I have a bottomless stomach.

It’s about the sudden celebration when, after many years, I finally got to reach my toes again.

It’s about knowing that someone has my back, as the dawn breaks, even when I struggle getting out of bed every day for breakfast. Or in the middle of the night, when I call for him because nightmares hiding in red, penetrating lights haunt me. And he tells me that it’s okay, it’s okay, even when he can’t know for sure.

Cheers to the many firsts in my life.

And thanks to the man with whom I get to share my firsts, and many more. •