Summer rain

Raindrops began pitter-pattering on the car windshield. It was a weekday afternoon on the last quarter of the year. I wondered how much downpour, and for how long, until the roads of Manila would be impassable due to flooding. In my head, I was devising a way to get home from our location after the interview.

Stuck in traffic, the veteran journalist I was accompanying that afternoon indulged me and my questions. Aren’t you concerned about death threats? I asked. If they were serious about silencing you, they’ll just do it; there will be no need for death threats, he replied.

I may have asked something about ethics and conflicts of interest, too, though I could no longer remember the specific question. I do recall an “it’s not black and white” response. Later, he told me, Ang generic ng mga tanong mo, bok. I always pondered what that meant, if there were better questions I could have asked in that moment. Years later, I would find myself in the same organization, echoing the exact sentiment to university students who would ask me the questions I asked, too.

We arrived at our location with no crew other than ourselves, bringing our own video equipment which we also set up. I’ve always liked the idea of being an all-around gal, but that experience must have led to my proclivity to learn what I can and be a multimedia journalist who can shoot, write, and edit on her own.

The house stood somewhere in the border of Manila and Makati, unassuming from the outside but quite lavishly decorated inside. Two words popped in my head as soon as I entered: wood, referring to the vintage decor and other items that were likely souvenirs from overseas trips, and old-rich, a general sense but one I was embarrassed to clarify.

Specific details of the interview evade my memory, but the subject remains relevant nearly a decade since that rainy afternoon. I felt privileged to witness an established journalist do his work, fortunate to be shadowing him, and dumbfounded to be welcomed in the abode of a constitutional framer.

After the interview, the journalist told me: His wife died years ago. Since then, he’s no longer been the same. Parang nawalan na ng (gana sa) buhay.

The suffering of so great a loss I could not fathom.

That was until my sister died last year.

More than I can count with my fingers, I’ve thought of leaving not only my job but also the very industry of which I had always aspired to be part. (I had never thought of any alternative to being a journalist. I was that sure I wanted to be one.) I kept joking I could retire. That I’m already tired, have long been too tired. I couldn’t shake off the idea that had I been not too immersed with my work, I probably would have spent more time with my sister.

If I hadn’t spent my holidays and Christmases working, maybe we would have introduced some traditions to look forward to, something familiar and familial even if it involved only the two of us.

When I got the call, not knowing yet that it was the call, there was a fraction of a second when I was deciding whether I should pick up or call back later. I was in the middle of revising a news script for an evening primetime show. I missed the first call. I sent a message to ask what happened. When my phone rang again, I picked up.

Over the past months, I kept thinking about the mental health documentary we aired on national television that was my brainchild, and how many people thanked us for an informative and emotive watch. It was my proudest documentary work. Since its pre-production, I dedicated it to everyone who has felt misunderstood, discriminated, or even pitied for having mental health struggles. Most of all, I had my sister in mind while working on it.

In classes I taught, I tried as much as I could to incorporate mental health check-ins and practical self-care guides, allowing adjustments in my syllabi and lesson plans to accommodate the workload and bandwidth of my students. Those acts were inspired by my sister, whose lowest point in life, at least from what I know, was due to a ruthless critic and professor.

When I purchased my condo before I was even financially ready, the plan was for us to live together. My home was always meant to be shared with her.

I skipped lunches at school so I could afford to bring her to cinemas and malls on weekends, to show I was not only her Ate, but also her friend and confidante, her worthy guardian and secret-keeper — roles I willingly and lovingly carried to this day.

I wonder if she knew how much of my life I dedicated to her.

When the sisterette passed, I finally understood what it meant to exist without an impetus for living.

The storm has passed. It’s midsummer. But in my heart of hearts, the downpour continues and I keep wondering if there’s a way I could go back to where I was before the flood puts everything in a standstill. •

(Mood song: Kina Grannis’s “I Never Wanted Anything More Than I Wanted You” has been in my head on repeat. The song, even the entire album, was Kina’s retelling of her pregnancy and miscarriage.)