18 days

November 25, 2015

From the moment we got the first phone call to our last goodbyes at the cemetery.

It seems strange to say we were “lucky” for this time. Her death was so sudden. Out to dinner laughing with friends one minute…and then, in an instant, the universe shifted. A 911 call, a series of emergency heart surgeries, a courageous if not unfathomable recovery, a fragile moment of light and hope…before it was taken from us.

Those 18 days were an emotional roller coaster. Ups and downs. Long road trips back and forth from Chicago to Cleveland. Time spent in our heads, praying, hoping, processing, questioning. Running through the carousel of favorite moments and memories.

It’s been a month since she passed. Yet despite that time, there is a still a rawness, a sadness, surely exacerbated by the holidays. The process of accepting that she’s gone, of healing, and adjusting without her in our lives, has only just begun.

Family and friends who heard the news echoed the feeling we all felt, privately in our own hearts, and every time we greeted each other in the waiting room of the ICU, squeezing each other with weary, teary, yet hopeful eyes. Until the end.

“No words.”

After going through it myself, and shortly thereafter hearing of other friends who have lost loved ones—it occurred to me that there really are no words adequate to sum up the loss.

Those 18 days were a mixed bag of doubt, hope, despair, numbness, strength, sorrow and ultimately surrender.

Looking back on the photos I took during that time, I realized that, consciously or not, the images below captured how I was feeling in those moments, in a way that words couldn’t. In shadows, in nature, in art on the walls at the hospital, in moments, in the sky… I was looking for an answer.

Not sure I ever found it in those 18 days. But I did find comfort. In the beauty. In the order of things. In the belief that somehow, some way, there must be a reason why.

portrait of cecilia... part 2

November 8, 2015

A Eulogy for My Mom

When my mom died after years of dialysis and a failed kidney transplant, our family was devastated. Many of you gathered here today knew her – and shared our sadness, pain and sense of loss. With heavy hearts, in anger and disbelief, we all tried in vain to make sense of what had happened.

WHY? Why would God take such a good person—who helped SO many people, touched so many lives? Why would he take her—far too soon: From my dad? From my kids? From ME?

We all reflected on the times we talked with her, worked with her, laughed with her, ate with her, prayed with her, were comforted or healed by her.

Many of us, myself included, were angry about the unfairness of it all.

The irony… The tragedy. That affected us all in such a deep and personal way.

She died 11 years ago. The process of healing for my dad, my brother and I was slow, but over time we came to accept what had happened. She lived on through our memories, stories, traits that she passed on to us, and all the little things—the scent of her Estee’ Lauder Beautiful perfume, the quirks, all the things that made her our “mom.”

But we also knew that physically, in our daily lives, she was gone.

Three years later, my dad introduced us to Cecille. After our mom passed, we felt the void. But more importantly had always been worried about my dad. Would he be ok? Would he be lonely? The most important thing to us was his happiness so we accepted that he met someone new. She would be the companion he needed and we would be supportive of his decision… and that would be it.

But NEVER did we expect that she would be so, so much more than that—not only to him, but to our entire family. She never tried to force her way into our lives. She simply won us over. With her kindness, her fashion sense, her clear love of our dad… When two people meet and fall in love, you usually say they “grow old together”…but these two, it was like they grew “young” together: active, adventurous, always on the go. She was open and completely adored my kids. She was the only Lola they ever knew.

Like my mom, she was beautiful, strong and independent. But she also added this dimension of lightness to our lives—fun-loving, willing to try anything (from tubing to canoing, dune climbing, traveling the world) and she embraced life and new experiences.

Beyond the countless adventures we shared with her and my dad, there were also the unseen moments—not broadcast on Facebook—times that happened when the lights were dim and you could see a person for who they really are…

One of my most special memories of her was something so, so simple and pure. We were on a family trip to California, and during a quiet time in between sightseeing, the kids had disappeared from our hotel room to the adjoining room where Lolo and Lola were. After an hour or so, we decided to check on the boys. When we opened the door to their room, there were the kids. Christian and my dad were reading from a joke book (naturally), and Logan and Lola were lying in bed. She was tickling him. He was squealing, and they were both giggling with laughter. It was a moment of pure love for these kids… and I teared up as I thought to myself “God these kids are so lucky to be loved by her.”

My brother and I felt that same kind of love from her too – talking in the morning over breakfast and coffee, laughing about the kids, sharing good times and even some of our hardest times together.

She didn’t replace our mom… but she was a continuation of her. And we truly loved her.

But now… we’re standing here today with this aching sense of déjà vu. With heavy hearts, in anger and disbelief, we are all trying in vain—again—to make sense of what happened. WHY? Why would God take such a good person, who touched so many lives? Why would he take her—far too soon: From my dad? From her kids? From my kids? From us?

We are all reflecting on the times we talked with her, laughed with her, ate with her, prayed with her, danced with her or were inspired by her.

There were certainly some strange hints from the universe that somehow she was brought into OUR lives for a reason.

There was her name: Cecilia Domingo. My mom and dad’s names combined! Are you serious?

Both she and my dad were #11 in the birth order of their large families.

How could that NOT be meant to be?

But many of us now, myself included, may be angry about the unfairness of losing her. The irony… The tragedy.

The things that her body and spirit endured at the end are unthinkable. NO ONE should ever go through that. But those of us who were there with her at the hospital are in AWE of her strength and will during that trauma. To come back to consciousness, and squeeze our hands and wiggle her toes, and fight through everything to open her eyes… and say goodbye to us one last time. As awful as it was, it was a GIFT.

I wish I had the answer why this happened. As we do in this type of circumstance, we struggle to find a reason for this terrible loss. It may take time… or we may never know.

All we can do now is focus on the light she brought to our lives, and what she left behind.

· A husband who found in her a loving, vibrant companion and true partner.

· 6 kids: Carol, Neil, Michael and Louie + my brother and I, who were blessed to experience her love and support.

· 6 grandkids, who had the most generous, caring and supportive Lola.

· A room filled with family and friends who were touched by her.

There is a connective tissue, a bond that ties us all together now. One that was created because of her.

And like my mom, she will live on through our memories…of her laughter, her amazing sense of style, her kindness, her bluntness, her goodness, and all the little things that made her an amazing mom, grandma, wife, sister, aunt, friend.

We were ALL blessed for the gift of her in our lives.

Her life was a reminder to all of us: to work hard. love each other. travel. embrace adventure. dance. laugh. sing. cherish your family and friends…NOW. because you never know when your breath may be your last.

we are family

June 15, 2014

father’s day. mother’s day. birthdays. anniversaries. they’re times when we stop to reflect on the special people we’re thankful for.

when i think of “family,” the first thing that comes to mind is MY family: our small, tightly knit unit. we live in a city where extended family is far away and we’re grasping for time and sanity to spend in quiet solitude. because our day-to-day is so chaotic, we strive for time alone: husband, kids, dog (when we had one). the occasional visit from my brother or parents. rarely room or time for more than moments we have to ourselves.

but to my mom, it was altogether different. she was the matriarch, the glue. and she was happiest when our house was ground zero for the parade of eccentric characters that came to “our family” holiday celebrations.

growing up i was always a bit annoyed, even resentful, of the mandates that family functions took precedence over friend parties, sleepovers, and all the “cooler” things that everyone else was doing. nope, we had to high tail it to the family get-togethers and endure the annual “traditions.”

they would come from near and far—two minutes to 200 miles away. the caravan of cars pulled in one by one, and lined up like cordwood, spanning the length of the driveway and half-way down the street. there would be hugs and howls as each family entered…and then the real fun began.

being cornered by the overbearing uncle, who would grill us about politics and life choices, and rant about how everything was better in his native country of germany. being simultaneously told you’ve gained weight while also being scowled at for not having a second helping of every dish my aunts cooked. trying in vein to hide from the camera-happy cousin taking pictures of everyone in their least flattering poses and glam shots of all the food on the table (yes, i’m pretty sure my relatives invented food porn long before instagram was ever a thing). having to sing a cappella christmas carols in front of the entire doting clan in exchange for presents at midnight on christmas eve. and later in the night, in the wee hours of morning, trying to find an open spot on the floor to sleep (one year my cousins and i actually slept in my parents’ walk-in closet!) because all the beds were taken by “the oldies.”

this was our family. huge. loud. eccentric. embarrassing…and yet at the same time, though i didn’t realize it then, endearing.

over the years we certainly had our fair share of family drama, and i remember hiding out in my bedroom with my cousins during these functions, fantasizing about the day we’d start our own “normal” traditions. they’d be shiny and civilized, and most certainly rice-less. we’d make a martha-stewart-worthy spread and wax philosophical about art and culture and other noble pursuits as opposed to gossiping about this shrewd uncle or that ungrateful nephew or the best place to buy bittermelon in china town.

but the further i was from home—going to college, moving to another city and ultimately raising my own family—the more i came to realize that i missed it…and understand why she loved it.

last thanksgiving, we had just the kind of holiday i pictured in my head as kid. perfectly roasted turkey, homemade sage cornbread stuffing, carmelized brussel sprouts and cranberries by candlelight, yoyo ma on the ipod and wine by the fire. it was lovely—180 degrees from the merry, motley crew of family get-togethers growing up.

the festivities went off without a hitch, yet there was still a vague, subtle sense of something missing. certainly not the torment or judgment…but definitely that feeling of something larger than yourself.

connectedness. despite all our crazy idiosyncrasies, the blemishes and black sheep that every family has, we shared a tie—that bonds us all together, when life pulls us apart. for better or worse, we share a past. a history. memories far more enduring than the ephemeral acquaintances that grace our facebook feed.

watching my kids at the rare family function, it struck me that sometimes the thing you’re trying to run away from is the very thing you gravitate toward. or at a minimum, with age and years and hopefully a bit more wisdom, you simply look at in a different light. a more forgiving one.

my black and white notions of what family was supposed to be: they’re softer, warmer, smoother around the edges. like an old cozy sweater, family is comfort, the familiar. no pretense. just there, on the shelf, waiting to wrap you up when you need it.

what lies ahead

December 31, 2012

heading into the holiday season, i spent several days pouring through photos (and if you know me, there are thousands) to find the perfect shot for our holiday cards. as i sifted through the archive, i found many images that pulled me in, but that i couldn’t use because they all had one thing in common: they were shots of my kids from behind—taken from the vantage point of a mom, hanging back a couple steps and watching as they plunged into whatever lay ahead.

running at full speed up the 150-foot sand dunes with tiny shovels in hand. standing with pant legs rolled up as waves devoured their delicious little toes. sprinting to find the perfect pumpkins. staring with awe into fish tanks and candy shops, holiday windows and bakery shelves. setting aside brotherly quarrels to walk hand in hand through the crunchy fall leaves and giant rain puddles.

you can’t see their faces, but you can sense their wonder, the gusto with which they plunge into new experiences. as parents, you watch with a mix of pride and perhaps a touch sadness as these little beings go out into the world to explore, to experience, to see, touch and taste, to learn to stand on their own.

you try to prepare them as best as you can. when you fall, brush it off. if you lose, congratulate the winner. if you hurt someone, say you’re sorry. all the rules of engagement and pithy life lessons make sense…in a world full of order.

and then something happens to remind you that sometimes you simply have no control. though it’s been two weeks since the sandy hook tragedy, the horror of that day is the worst case scenario, every parent’s most horrific nightmare come true. one day, we were worried about protecting our kids from skinned knees and scary dreams, bullies and bike falls…and now this?

for our kids—and even for ourselves—we don’t know what lies ahead. but what we do have is the ability to be present and grateful for each moment that we have.

that doesn’t mean it’s all rainbows and butterflies. in fact it’s the opposite. it’s hard to juggle life’s demands, be there for your family, keep your perspective and see the good. but try to remember, in those times, to hang back for bit. step away from the chaos. take a cue from the little ones and embrace the wonder of moments that happen every single day. you never know when they will be your last...

the apple and the peach

March 24, 2012

It’s a cardinal rule of parenting that I’m convinced every couple with more than one child has broken: Thou shall not compare your kids.

Try as you might to cherish each one for his or her unique gifts and talents, it’s simply inevitable. You go along for years with a single object of your undying love and adoration, and then, from the instant that the next sibling is born, the comparisons begin.

“Baby A was 8 pounds 3 ounces, but Baby B was only 7.6 pounds. This one walked 6 months sooner than that one. Mikey hated meat but Marky snarfs down sausages. And on and on.”

Consciously or not, you begin to measure each developmental milestone relative to the other child. The empirical differences are very straightforward: facts, figures, dates. But when it comes to contrasting personalities, things start to get a little tricky. The incessant warnings about “labeling” your kids—and thus relegating them to some dreaded self-fulfilling prophecy—have been deeply ingrained into our collective parental psyches, and so we try with all our might to avoid explicit comparisons.

But I have come to realize through my two boys that, while the contrasts may be stark, variety is the spice of life and it’s ok to not only call out, but celebrate their differences.

So this is a tale of “The Apple” and “The Peach”: two fruits that fell from exactly the same tree, yet are wonderfully, scrumptiously, 180 degrees different.

The Apple. Of our eye, that is. Our firstborn. Out of the womb, bright, curious, soaking it all in like a giant sponge. A smile that’s simply delicious. Lighting up his entire face—no, the entire room. Shining brightest when he’s pleasing: lending a hand, singing, whistling, sharing. And devastated when he disappoints. Toddler timeouts were spent with projectile sprinkler tears and eyelash-stained “I’m sorries,” full-body draped in complete repentance. He’s feistier now, but will always have the kindest soul and a heart of gold. He is my snuggler, thinker, dreamer, cleaner, helper, animal lover, rule follower, heart warmer.

And then there’s “The Peach.” Rosy cheeks, juicy lips and a mischievous twinkle in his shiny brown eyes. If The Apple wears a big red heart on his sleeve, The Peach leads with his cute dimple chin. All action, all the time, The Peach plunges feet first—without a parachute. Fingers grubby, leg bruised, wheels churning, stone overturning, exploring, adventurous, plowing through life with gusto and glee. All with a stinking grin on his precious little face. The only times he stops are in the early morning, bleary-eyed, a bundle of love, the calm before the storm of daily life: toy chest dumping, ball throwing, book page ripping, screw removing, tower building, treehouse dismantling, bright shiny object eating exploits until he crashes into bed, cheeks rosy, mission fulfilled, our hearts melting until we get up and do it all over again. He sucks the marrow out of life and us, when he squeezes as tightly as he can, eyes wide, lips pursed, love and giggles overflowing.

The Apple and The Peach. Comparisons are inevitable, but in the end, they’re cut from an entirely different mold. The key, I hope, is a common set of values to ground them, a consistent framework to guide them, but a unique set of expectations to nurture them.

Every time I catch myself wishing for a little more sanity, nostalgic for the days when grownups outnumbered little people, and the odds were definitively stacked in our favor, I look at these two precious gems. A large marge and a mini-me, delectably cute, diametrically different, dropped from the same tree. Our tree. And I’m thankful for the bounty they bring.

I can’t wait to see how they grow…

canceling santa: why the recession is killing our sense of magic

November 29, 2011

As a working mom, it’s challenging to stay on top of the news. By the time dinner and clean up and PJs and teeth-brushing and tucking in are finished, there’s little time or energy to catch up on the day’s headlines. When I do make a concerted effort to tune in, the bombardment of depressing headlines: from murders to kidnappings to protests to political chest-thumping make me question whether ignorance may be a hec of a lot more blissful.

Sadly, outside of the stolen glances at HuffPo, a major source of news for me comes on my usual morning elevator ride up to work. There on the little screen in the corner, I get bite-sized bits of info on top news, trending topics and pop culture.

One day a few weeks ago, my bleary-eyed ride to the 20th floor was interrupted by a very disturbing headline: “Town Cancels Santa due to Recession.”

WTF. My heart sunk. The elevator doors opened and I slunk out of the elevator with a nagging feeling that I couldn’t shake. Could it be true that the sad state of affairs in our country had led to this: canceling Santa Claus?

I hopped online to check out the blasphemous assertion. There it was on Bloomberg clear as day: “Santa Gets Scarcer as Cash-Strapped U.S. Cities Cancel Parades.” From coast to coast, California to Pennsylvania, cities are cutting their Christmas festivities based on budget cuts. What’s next, I thought. Occupy North Pole?!

As my friends and colleagues know, the recession we’re in—and the egregious behavior on Wall Street that got us here—enrages me. But this news elicited a different reaction: profound sadness. What kind of world will our kids grow up in? What hope do we have to offer them? My sadness wasn’t just about Santa, but about what he represents: optimism, goodness—in a word: magic.

One of our favorite holiday traditions in the city revolves around old St. Nick. Every year around this time, we go down to 900 North Michigan to see “the Real Santa.” At the risk of making the line exponentially longer, I will share the tip that this is not your typical Mall Santa. His cheeks are rosy, his red suit more luxurious than a Snuggie, his beard wistfully white and his eyes, those eyes have an unmistakable twinkle. My kids are convinced—and at times even I am—that this is the real deal. We take the escalator up to the third floor, and they wait in line, fidgeting, nervous, anxious, hopeful, bashful, running the year’s highlights in their heads to make sure they were “not naughty, but nice.” It’s a simple encounter that sticks with them, a magical moment that lingers long after we have left.

In a few years, I know that their belief will dissipate. That as they get older, reality will set in. The wonder in their eyes will be replaced by wry knowing smiles: that “Santa’s just a man in a suit” and “the Easter Bunny is really you hiding eggs around the house!” But given all that’s wrong in the world right now, we owe it to ourselves—and our kids—to keep the magic alive a little bit longer.

There’s plenty of time to be smacked in the face by reality. We as grown ups are weary, jaded and probably have been beaten down far too often in these harsh economic times. But it’s the magic that starts when we’re young, and hopefully lives on in our hearts long after, that gets us through. So long live Santa Claus!

love in a pot

July 25, 2011

for italians, it’s pasta sauce. for jews, it’s matzo ball. for southerners and sports fans, it’s chili. and for filipinos, it’s sinagang (pronounced “sin-ee-gung”), a sour tamarind-based soup that is the country’s quintessential comfort food. what is it about these dishes, cooked in a pot, bubbling on the stovetop, that makes us swoon? why, when we bite into them, do we experience so much more than mere flavors and textures, but also warmth, togetherness, security, sustenance—the visceral, irresistible taste of home?

recently i went on a trip to LA to visit family. much like the midwest, they’ve been going through a nasty heat wave, and our first few days there were scorchers. to deal with the blistering temperatures, we consumed lots of salads, fresh fruit, coconut water, pinkberry, and more than a few glasses of sauvignon blanc.

yet when my parents arrived, the culinary conversation took a 180 degree turn. they gathered their luggage from the car, flung open the door, and my son, bursting with anticipation, ran to my dad. he stretched out his arms and squeezed.

“lolo [a term that means ‘grandpa’ in filipino]! can you please make sinagang?!”

there, in the 110-degree, sweat-inducing oven that was the san fernando valley, my son was begging for a bowl of hot soup.

and, as scalding as we were, we jumped right on the bandwagon. it was no-brainer. “fire it up, dad! we went to the farmers market and got all the ingredients. all you need to do is cook it!”

you might think it cruel that the poor guy, now in his 70s, flew 4.5 hours to get here to be with his family, only to be told he had to step on over to the kitchen to start cooking…but you’d be wrong. dad is “the man” in the kitchen and there is no place he’d rather be than with his family stirring up a big piping pot of sinigang.

it’s a “kitchen-sink” kind of soup, chock full of ingredients and simple to prepare; yet for some reason it never quite tastes the same as when dad makes it. he starts by trimming the meat—usually short ribs but sometimes oxtail or chuck. then he slices the vegetables: chinese eggplant, broccoli, cabbage, green beans, okra, parsnips and a bit of ginger. he throws it all into the pot (the biggest one he can find) and sprinkles in the knorr sinigang seasoning, which gives it a delicious sour flavor similar to thai tom yum soup. for more nuance (and also to preserve his status as the best sinigang maker in our family), he always throws in a couple extra mystery ingredients at the end when we’re not looking: a squeeze of calamansi, filipino lime, to infuse a hint of acidity, a dash of patis (fish sauce) for a bit more saltiness. he brings it all to a boil, occasionally lifting up the lid to make sure every veggie and piece of meat soaks up the flavor. delicious steam rises into the air. and then he drops it down to a simmer.

flavors are extracted. aromas start to permeate. we all breathe in deeply…love is in the air.

we love it. and we love him. and all of that love goes straight into the pot…and down into our bellies. we sit together at the table, and for a rare few minutes in our boisterous household, it’s quiet—save for the clinking of spoons and forks as we shovel in the “sabaw” or broth-soaked rice and fight for the last pieces of broccoli. the table inevitably erupts into giggles when my brother, as he has been doing since we were little kids, gets up for a third plate of rice and scrapes the bottom of the pot for any remaining morsels.

no matter what it’s called, this kind of meal is so much more than food—it’s love in a pot. it’s rituals passed on from generation to generation. like chicken soup for the soul, it’s healing. it’s warmth. it’s sustenance. it’s comfort and connectedness. it’s your history. your family. it’s home.