Ask anyone if they are afraid to die. You’ll probably expect them to answer yes and otherwise to older ones. Maybe they haven’t accomplished their goals yet, and others might say that they had already fulfilled their dreams; they had been contented in their lives, and accomplished their missions. But if I was the one being asked, I wouldn’t know my answer.
I was very happy and so was everyone in our big family when my youngest brother came to our lives. Among us, he was the different one. He was a blue baby. He had a cardiovascular disease. I was in third grade when he was born. Back then, he was just as small as a medium sized teddy bear. I was afraid to touch him, hold his little fingers and thin arms as if I might break him. Little did I know about his disease because of my young mind but sometimes I pay attention to the grown ups who talked about it so I was able to understand it little by little. People always noticed him anywhere we went. Others thought that he was wearing a lipstick because of his violet lips. And when my parents explained it to them, they wore this pity expression on their faces.
My baby brother grew up into a little boy. He brought joy to our family, and he was a very happy child. He was very thoughtful and kind that I thought this child was an angel for knowing on how to care for others. I wondered, at his very young age, what he could feel inside. He was sick but he always had this smile on his cute little face which brightened our day, especially my mom’s. She loved him so much that I thought he was her favorite. But I disregard this thought because of his disease. She stopped working and decided to take care of him because no one knows how to baby sit him because they were all afraid of his vulnerable condition. My father was the only one who worked for our living. He and my mother seek anyone who could give a big help to our brother for the operations of his heart. We badly needed a financial support at those times because we didn’t have that big money to take care of those things on our own. We were all afraid that he might have a heart attack anytime and die.
When I was in sixth grade, he had a successful operation. He was three years old then and was able to play on his own and blissfully made his own world full of contentment with simple things. His lips were already red. He could talk straight kapampangan (one of the local dialects that we use), and during dinners, we would all laugh at his childish silly jokes. Sometimes, I forced myself to laugh even though it was not funny at all just to make him happy. I could still remember when he talked about going to school when he got a little older and told us of what things he would do to his teachers and classmates. He couldn’t wait to go to school.
It was March. At five in the morning, everyone at home was in panic. There were heavy footsteps going up and down the stairs. As I stood out of my bed, and got downstairs, I saw my brother covered up with white cloth. My mother was very anxious. I couldn’t understand the look on her face. She was pale, trembling, terrified. But my father was trying to be calm as he held my brother on his arms. I don’t know what was happening. They rushed him to the nearby hospital. My aunts and uncles followed after them as soon as they were told about what happened. My siblings and I stayed at home while waiting for any news. I was praying and praying and praying to God to help my brother. I told Him that it was not the time yet, that he should still live with us, and give him a longer life. He was just three years old.
The telephone rang. I grabbed the thing and answered it. My aunt was at the other end of the line. I heard the words that I didn’t want to hear.” Bruce is gone”. He had a heart attack and it would be a miracle if he was able to survive it with his small and weak body. I was shocked, my mouth was half open but I wasn’t crying. It was after a minute when I already absorbed the words that I heard and I burst in tears. I didn’t know what to do. I was just twelve and didn’t know anything about death.
We kept all of his toys in our cabinets and we didn’t want anyone to play with them. The last day of his funeral, many people came, our relatives and friends and they were all crying when my father delivered his speech. On the day of his burial, his favorite slipper and toys were also buried with him, beside on his white coffin.
The day when I went back to school, my classmates were all sorry. I was so silent. I didn’t want to speak to anyone, except when they ask questions (not about the death), because if I did, I was afraid that I was going to cry. I even bought a big guava, my little brother’s favorite, from school. Maybe I was fancying that my brother would be able to appreciate it for bringing it at home and sharing it with him. But he wouldn’t. He was gone and he won’t come back. And it took me a year before I fully recovered and the pain in my heart was completely healed. We loved him so much. I was in regret when there was a time that a thought of him would pop out of my mind and hoped that I jumped so high to look at my brother’s face for the last time of that unexpected day ( I didn’t really care even he looked so sick at that time). I hoped that I had talked to him, embraced him so tight and played with him the whole night before that unforgettable day. I miss him so much. I miss his voice, his laughter, his smile, the way he clung to me when I would make him fall to sleep with his head on my shoulder while I played with his little fingers. I admit that when I dreamed of him that he was hugging me, I considered it a shallow happiness.
And now, while I’m writing this story, I’m holding back my tears. Everything is coming back. All his memories, the pain, the hardships, and the happiness we shared for a short time together with our family. I hope we have a time machine and go back to the past and tell him how much I love him, and then I will hug him so tight and kiss him. And if that’s possible, I don’t want to go back to the present because this time, I also lost my mother.
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