Jose R. Paragas, Sr. • 1927-2019

DAY 169 OF MY GRIEF
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As hard as it is to deal with the novel coronavirus epidemic today, I could not help but to reflect on the perfection of Lolo Jose's passing. It's as if my Old Man knew just when he should exit from this god-forsaken world that we all currently live in.

Imagine how hard it would have been to care for someone in critical condition when the Philippines' healthcare system is in danger of getting overwhelmed. Imagine how hard it would have been for all of us here, abroad, to know of his critical condition when the borders are closed and we cannot travel home even if we want to and are financially able to. It would have been double... triple... quadruple harder than it is right now.

And so, here I am, amidst a pandemic crisis and potential global economic collapse feeling thankful. Thankful for things that could have happened but did not. Thankful for the gift of time and perfect timing. Thankful... and hopeful... because, what other choice have we got right now?

DAY 144 OF MY GRIEF
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Today is Ash Wednesday. It marks the beginning of Lent.
Today is also the 144th day of my grief.

I promised to take you with me through the ups and downs of grieving, and that includes periods of hiatus from writing. Sometimes, our pains are too heavy to immortalize in words.

Losing Lolo left my heart with this big void that I did not know how to fill. My love for him was such that it hurts knowing that the person who used to receive it is gone forever.

Where does love go? Does it die with them too?

Since love is infinite, we have the power to choose what happens to it during the time of grief. We can choose for love to turn into pain. We can choose for love to turn into hate. We can choose for love to turn into apathy or indifference.

Or... we can choose for love to stay as is, so we can share it with others again.

During the homily for Ash Wednesday, I was reminded of the Mythical Phoenix Bird. According to myth, The Phoenix's life ends in a show of flames but it rises from its ashes to be born again. Its next generation goes through the same process of painful yet poetic rebirth.

How beautiful is it to view our struggles and pains under the lens of The Phoenix's legend? It teaches us that sometimes, life needs to put us through fire and turn us into ashes in order for us to see life in a new and different way.

Lolo Jose, I still miss you. I still hurt when I think of you. I do not think I will ever get over losing you. But, I am wiser now.

This love stays because someone, somewhere, needs to be loved as unconditionally as I loved you.

Mailiw-ak unay kenka.
'Toy apom,
JT

| LOLA

On my grandfather's memorial page, today, I write not about him but about the woman who stayed with him until her last breath... my grandmother, Vicenta.

To me, she was just Lola.
I have many other grandmothers, sure. Many of them, in fact, I also call "Lola" but those ones always had their names attached to the title. They were "Lola this... Lola that". Lola was just... Lola.

If I base their relationship off of my own definition of romance, my grandparents would definitely NOT earn a passing grade. They were born when the 30s were unfolding and their teenage years were marked by the Second World War.

I think that should give them enough of an entitlement to charter the course of their relationships. I rest my case.

Lola was the strongest, smartest, most accomplished, and most beautiful woman I have ever met... and yet, she did all that under the radar and with genuine humility.

She kept her emotions in check. Just like me. That's why many people thought of her as cold and tough. Well... she was tough.

But, in the quiet of the night and in the privacy of our home... my Lola was the person who was there for me. The one who never failed to cover me with a blanket in case I was cold. The one who made sure I had no mosquito bites. The one who made me breakfast and dinner every single day... with no fail up to the day I left home for college.

I am writing all these on my Lolo's memorial page because my Lola's memory deserves to be written all over his... superimposed over his... her accomplishments highlighted alongside his... because my Lolo would have been NOTHING without the woman who stayed by his side until the day she died.

Truly... a man's success or failure largely depends on the woman who decided to stay by his side.

I miss you Lola. I love you always and forever.
Happy Birthday.

Jen

Hamoud Elias
Nasreen Chowghule

Lolo’s special request from Chef Meen.

We miss you Lolo.

A Study Of My Grief (Part 5)

Earth to earth.
Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.

This is perhaps the most annoying sets of words I have ever read. It continues to irritate me every single year during these days for Souls and Saints.

Today, I am particularly crabby and I have not an ounce of patience left for such nonsense.

How dare you tell me that my loved ones turn to dust when they pass away? A pile of dust can get easily scattered by the wind until not a single speck is left for me to see.

No. Do not reduce their memory to something so ordinary and insignificant.

I will ditch that dusty book and take Nikita Gill’s words instead of yours. ..that our souls are made of flames...that we are stars with people’s names.

Not dust to dust. Never.

My loved ones were stars I can still catch glimpses of in the night skies... who gaze back at me from across galaxies.

No. They were not turned into specks no one can ever see because they left as comet in flames... stardusts are but their particles... their stars are intact lightyears away.

•jen
- for my Dad, my Daddy, my Lolo, my Lola, Tito Arthur, Tita Marivic, Papa Pids, and my brother Eb.

📖: Your soul is a river
🖊: Nikita Gill

Took screenshots of our Facetime conversations during his birthday last June. He was very cheerful but for some reason, he kept on insisting that I should go home “sa October” and not at a later date as planned.

I miss you Lolo.

•jen

A Study of My Grief (Part 3)

When my Aunt Evelyn pronounced my grandfather dead at approximately 1:30AM on October 5, 2019, she had no idea that those words felt like someone turned the light-switch off for me.

Grief is irrational, I know that very well. But, to study grief is to confront exactly how it feels to me so others find solace in knowing that they are not alone within this uncertain space.

With flair for dramatics, I sort of wished for the sun to stop rising, for the stars to dim, for the clouds to settle in, and for the rain to never stop pouring.

But as we all know, the sun keeps setting at dusk even when it felt like mine stopped rising on October fifth. Some rain did pour but it ended in thirty minutes. The earthquake came though... perhaps it wanted to sympathize with what I am feeling.

“You lost your grandfather. Big deal.” Others might say. Those people have no fu***ng idea how even the most rational of minds can lose control when grief settles in. Only time can kick it out.

He may be my “grandfather” but he was the “father” who saw me through. And saw me through he did even in the twilight of his days.

There is no clear and quick way to get out of my grief. I have come to terms with the fact that for now, I just have to find a way to feed my mind and heart with reasons for it to “write” and “be right” again.

No one will ever know exactly how I feel. No one does and no one will.

•jen

A Study of My Grief (Part 2)

I do not know about other people, but for me, going home to the Philippines has never been a real vacation.

Real vacations mean arriving at places with the wonder and curiosity of a child who is not necessarily aware of the harsh realities of the world around her. On the other hand, arriving home means being confronted with the realities of the impact of time and change.

Time has robbed me of people and chances.
Change competes with the memories I am trying to hold onto forever.

When real vacations end, I prepare my brain for the onslaught of unread emails, meetings, new projects to tackle at work.

Ending trips to Philippines means I have to go through all of the above plus bracing for impacts of loss, grief, and sadness that no amount of anticipation could really prepare me for.

Leaving home is extra difficult and heavy today. I am not healed yet because healing takes time. In healing, time is my friend. But, how can I rely on time if time is the trickiest of foes?

Grief is difficult. Grief is irrational. However, with the turbulence that it brings comes wisdom that we tend to ignore otherwise.

What form of wisdom comes with this crushing grief that currently fills my soul?

• jen

A Study of My Grief (Part 1)

Exactly 17 days and 9 hours ago, I was a witness to my grandfather’s passing. I was able to help take care of him during his last 3.5 days.

For the past 2 weeks, I have been able to function and think objectively. That is where I am good at. I am good at compartmentalizing my life and creating barriers to avoid one issue infiltrating and clouding the rest.

But this piece of writing is not about me dealing with grief flawlessly. This piece will speak about how bad I am at dealing with it. The goal is for all of you to know that it is ok to grieve in the most crushing and broken way possible. The goal is for the rest of my family to know that while I may look composed on the outside, inside me is a giant mess of emotions waiting to unleash and manifest itself... eventually.

For the 3.5 days that I tried to keep a strong façade while I witnessed my Lolo’s physical strength slowly fade away, I had a goal to accomplish - to help him feel better, in anyway I could. I am not a nurse by any measure and so my role was the assistant to anyone about anything they needed.

There were good moments when Lolo would call on me to ask me random questions.
“How is Trump lately?”
“Is Mommy doing abono for her corn today?”
“When is Manny Pacquiao’s fight replay showing?”
Those were the moments when I knew my grandfather was still with me.

There were curious moments that sliced my heart into a million tiny pieces. When Lolo said things like:
“Are we waiting for anyone else to arrive?”
“Jen, always take care of your mother.”

There were conflicting moments too, when I selfishly asked God and all other gods to extend his life some more even as I witnessed him as he tried to catch his breath, struggled to get up from his bed, and painfully and effortfully chew and swallow his food and drink.
“God, I know I am being selfish but I cannot let him go just yet.”

My family would tell you a story about Lolo telling all of them to “Relax lang, huwag mag panic” during his last hours.

But that is not entirely true.

The truth is, when I was taking care of Lolo and I saw him struggled with his breathing it was I who was telling him softly, “It is ok Lolo. Huwag kayong magpanic. Irelax nyo lang ang paghinga ninyo.”

That was our little secret.
Lolo tried to be calm and calmed everyone else around him but in the secrets of our quiet time alone together, I calmed him down. During his last moments on earth, my strong man looked at me for strength to tell him it will all be okay... just like he did to me as a little girl.

That was our little secret.

The shock of losing him has not hit me yet. I write this right now in the comforts of my hotel room as I gaze longingly across the horizons of Laguna de Bay. Here I am waiting for the wave of emotions to come... it has not yet but it will come at some point when I least expect it.

Today, I have no tears to shed and no tears to dry either. It does not mean I am incapable of crying. It only means my grief comes slower than most people. It also means that my grief does not really fade away over time. I have come to accept that reality. My grief is something I just need to carry for my entire lifetime.

Today, I am not okay. There is nothing wrong about being weak sometimes. As the song goes, “even heroes have the right to bleed”. I am telling the world about my vulnerabilities because I want my family to know that sadness is but a normal part of the process of loving someone and losing them.

Today, I am not okay.

• jen

A eulogy in honor of Jose Rufo Paragas, Sr. Delivered by Dr. Jennifer Paragas Teves on October 15, 2019.

Good morning/evening.

My name is Jennifer Paragas Teves. I am the daughter of Josie Paragas; the second grandchild of Jose and Vicenta Paragas.

I am not very good at many things when I am in Upi. My family could not count on me in the kitchen or any household chores, but I am their designated family nerd, writer, and keeper of memories. And, that explains why I am here in front of all of you right now.

I am here to represent myself and my twelve other cousins, totaling to 13 grandchildren of Jose and Laur Paragas. There are 8 of us girls and there are 5 boys. With us today are 7 out of the 13 - my siblings, Jessameen and Jose Allan Paragas Cortel; Tita Evelyn’s first born, Mohammad Ilias “Hamoud" Paragas Chowghule; Tita Marilyn’s children, Marjorie, Maureen Joy, and Ellyn Marie Paragas Burgos. Two more of us were here during the first few days of the wake, Yasmeen and Nasreen Paragas Chowghule. In fact, Nasreen was able to join us in Upi 2 days before Lolo’s passing. They both had to leave early because their visa to enter Kuwait is set to expire tomorrow. My two other cousins, Adrian and Linus Paragas (Tito Jun’s children) are in Louisiana but they were both able to come home in July to see Lolo. Tito Allan’s children, Alleesa and Allen Paragas are in Toronto, Canada in the middle of their school year; they were able to celebrate Lolo’s 90th birthday in Philippines two years ago.

This year, I turned 37 years old. The first half of my entire lifetime, my first 18 years that is, were spent in this town, this Sitio with its roads that seem to take 1 million years before it could get fixed, its chilly and foggy mornings, its curiously blue mountains, the sky that turns purple at dusk, and protected by these very same walls that are surrounding us right now. This place, as humble as it looks remains to be my only true home.

My cousins and I sleep most soundly here, but not because of any superficial reasons for comfort. It’s not the five-star hotel accommodation that has become the norm of my executive traveler lifestyle as of late. Over here, we often have power outages that could last 10 minutes or several days. Water supply is mediocre & even until now, we still need to store water in several buckets because it is only strong at certain times of day. Cellular connection is crap & it is normal to see us walking around, hands raised, trying to get connection when trying to communicate with the rest of the modern world. Internet connection is snail-paced, if not inexistent, so video-calling or online transactions are hopeless endeavors.

Despite all these shortcomings… it is home. And, I will never call any other place home. It is home because this is the place where our Lolo and Lola started... where they decided to establish their roots, which, in turn, became our roots too. This is home because this place holds all of the most tender of moments we have shared with our grandparents starting from our childhood all the way to our lives as adults... Including the turbulent years in between.

This is where my cousins and I took showers under the rain, in our bathing suits.

This is where some of us lost our first tooth.

That is the front gate where our Lolo would wait for our return home in the afternoons, hands on his waist.

This is where we all brought our first boyfriends and girlfriends to nervously introduce to our Lolo.

This is the place where neighbors know each other for the past four generations… where our neighbors are our family members who also spent their childhood running within the walls of this very same compound playing hide and seek under the bright full moon light. During Lolo’s wake, I see my niece and nephews (Lolo’s great grandchildren) running non-stop with sweat dripping from their backs with the great grandchildren of the Rosales & Colcol families whose parents were our playmates, whose grandparents were our parents playmates.

This place is my home and yet it holds so much history that is important not just for my family but for the people of Kabutoyen and Blensong, and all of you who are curious enough to learn about it. The original, smaller, and even more humble version of that house was home to the very first classroom of the now Kabutoyen Elementary School, courtesy of my grandmother Vicenta who was one of the first teachers of this municipality. The electricity that we all enjoy today in Kabutoyen was realized by the initiative of my Lolo Joe, who initially funded the Magelco posts that were used to bring electricity from Nuro to here. With Lolo’s partnership and friendship with Tito Chang, Wilfredo Chew for most of you - the roads going to Leguden were paved, in order to ease transport of goods from the mountains to the traders in the cities.

When we were kids, our family owned the only vehicles in the barangay and because of that, we also doubled as the barangay “ambulance” where people run for help when they need to take a family member to the hospital. Look around you right now and ask a family from Kabutoyen whose lives were not touched by my grandfather - in small or big ways. In births, baptisms, weddings, sickness, graduations, and even death… through it all we’ve gone with you and I thank you for going through this passing with us too.

During my growing up years, I woke up each day to the sound of my Lola Laur calling my name to start getting ready for school, followed by a bone-chilling cold shower, and a highly-regimented breakfast in front of my Lolo Joe who would unfailingly monitor what I eat, how much I eat, what I wear, and how prompt I was to leave home for school. To my Lolo Joe, being on time means arriving at least 30 minutes early. Arriving on the dot means you are already late. This is the type of discipline that has been instilled upon me as a little girl. It is something that I still follow today, in my adult life.

My Lolo wore my accomplishments like jewels on his own crown. Having been the granddaughter who grew up inside his house, I was showered with all of his attention - for better or for worse. While it is true that I was the apple of his eyes even in the twilight of his days, it is also true that I was subjected to his strictest rules growing up. Thankfully, his methods, when combined with my personality, resulted with me being quite adept with taking highly-calculated risks… and like my Lolo, all my risks have had, so far, returned high-yield rewards.

One of my most notorious memories of my grandfather was back when I was about 3 or 4 years old. I was a kindergarten at the San Isidro Parish Learning Center in Nuro and each day, Lolo’s old Toyota Tamaraw would drop and pick me up to and from school, along with my yaya Manang Inday. One day, it was raining hard so our Toyota Tamaraw could not go through the roads (Remember what I told you about our roads taking 1 million years to get fixed? I was not kidding.) Manang Inday and I waited longer for our sundo to arrive and when it finally came, Uncle Caling Colcol (who was then our family driver) arrived in one of Lolo’s covered tractor. Being the s**tty spoiled brat that I was, I devoted all of the energy in my 3-4 year old body and soul to protest against riding that horrible beast because I was embarrassed that people in Nuro would see me riding a tractor. I bravely and stubbornly marched under the storm, my yaya Manang Inday following me with an umbrella, and after us was Uncle Caling slowly driving in the tractor until we reached the palengke in front of the Sarzaba’s where I finally relented because by then, I had to choose between my shame and the unbearable site of mud touching my shoes and socks complete with ruffles and ribbons.

When we got home, my littlest protest was reported to Lolo Joe. Thanks to Manang Inday and Uncle Caling. (Seriously, those two were not loyal to me at all!) When Lolo Joe heard what I did, I braced myself to be shouted at or to be scolded but I saw him struggling to keep a serious face and hiding his laughter behind his voice.
He asked me: “Bakit ayaw mo daw sumakay sa tractor kanina?”
I answered him with quiet sobs of a scared brat.
Then he said: “You wanted to ride the Toyota Tamaraw instead of the tractor, don’t you know that this tractor costs 10 times more money than that Toyota? You cannot always judge the value of something by how it looks. You should not prioritize what other people think of you. What you should prioritize is your safety and your health over public opinions.”

Mommy forced me to say sorry to Lolo after, which I did, but I did not know why I had to apologize. I only realized how valuable that day was many years later when I started to earn a living for myself. Today, I look back and with just that single memory, my Lolo has taught me:
1. Don’t give a s**t what people think about you. You do not owe the public anything.
2. Prioritize your safety and your health above public image.
3. The simplest and ugliest of things could actually have greater value than something shiny and flashy.

I have so many precious memories with my old man that this service could last an entire year if I decide to share them all. Those are memories that I will be writing down one by one, in the quiet of my hotel rooms, in many corners of the world, as I bring his memories with me on my adventures. Those memories are tales that I will tirelessly tell my cousins, nephews, and nieces over our dinner tables, over card games, over car, plane, and ferry rides, over sleepless nights.

Lolo died in the ripe age of 92. He was as old school as it could get and yet in some ways, he was super progressively-minded and liberal. I have made decisions in this life that were different or even against his own views of how I should live my life, but I never heard him criticize me - maybe he did behind me, but at least he had the decency not to say it to my face. Respect, I guess, begets respect. I respected my old man to the very core of my being and because of that, he respected me too. Lolo never questioned my decision of not changing my name after I got married, primarily because he knew that keeping my name means his last name will still be there. Lolo never doubted my decision of not having children, because he trusted my capacity to make decisions and he knew my risks are calculated ones.

And, in the many challenges that I had to face throughout the years - I chose him and his welfare.
When there was a choice between his wishes and my perception of his safety, I chose to listen to his wisdom to come home to Upi.
When there was a choice between my family’s safety and his welfare, I resisted and then relented in the end to choose him to be in the company of family in his old age.
When I had to choose between his peace of mind and another loved one, I chose his peace of mind no matter how piercing it was in my heart and in my conscience.
When I could not bear to see this place again because of all the heartaches and pains it has given me, I chose to come home because I needed to see him & be with him… twice… the last one, I had to watch his life slowly slip away.

I can face the world and my Creator with a straight face and honestly say that when I was dealt with the most difficult of cards, I chose to pull the card that had Lolo’s name on it. I chose him, over and over, just like how he has chosen me and my welfare, over and over.

Right now, I am on auto-pilot. I am not even grieving yet. I have cried streams but I have not cried my oceans yet. Those are yet to come. Those cries come at random. Sometimes, they come in the middle of the night. Sometimes, they come in the middle of a board meeting. At times, during a plane ride or while watching a movie. My grieving process is very slow and frankly, grieving does not really truly end - it is a weight that you just have to carry throughout your entire lifetime. And, that’s ok. I am ok to grieve you forever, Lolo, if grieving means always remembering you… if grieving means not forgetting about the memories I have shared with you.

As I am preparing my entire body and soul to absorb the shock of Lolo being really gone, I realized that he left me just one more life lesson: “Do not leave any family member behind. If they are caught in a strong storm and have no way of getting home, it is not enough for you to just wait for the storm to stop. You have to send whatever it is at your disposal to ensure that your family member is able to come home safe and sound. Sometimes, the help that you send can come in a form of tough love in order to teach them a lesson. Sometimes, the help you send them is in the form of a tractor instead of a luxury vehicle. Whatever form it is, your heart should be clear about what your goal is - to help them make their lives better, to help them safely come home. Their journey home is not always a straight line. Some of them may even take a detour, but giving up is not an option. Lolo’s brand of love has always been tough love and his kind of love does not leave any single one of us behind.”

Thank you.

Lolo A eulogy in honor of Jose Rufo Paragas, Sr. June 19, 1927 - October 05, 2019 Good morning/evening. My name is Jennifer Paragas Teves. I am the daughter of Josie Quinto Paragas; the second grandchil...