love even in the afterlife
An inspiring reminder of love found and fulfilled in modern-day Manila, written by Emily Abrera, Chairman Emeritus of McCann Philippines, who lost her husband Caloy to a freak accident some time ago.
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Part 1: Article for Mr. & Ms.
25 May 2005
Saturdays are tough for me.
Although they continue to represent what I treasure most --- the break from the workweek and time at home with family --- Saturdays have been a spiritual hurdle for me since a year ago, when my life partner met a fatal accident and in the blink of an eye, our world was altered forever.
It sounds presumptuous to say "our world" or "forever", but the thing is, I know without a doubt that for both of us, life has taken on a dramatically different and expanded meaning.
Anyway, Eggy happened to call me two Saturdays ago, to chat about her ideas for her magazine relaunch. Then a week later she calls again, this time to ask that I write this story and I agree, thinking, "Yes, it is time."
And so not surprisingly, SATURDAY is back, smack in the center of my thoughts all week.
It is market day for many of us in the village. As Caloy and I used to do, I still rise early to walk the two blocks to the FTI Aani market just outside the back entrance to United Hills, where we live.
Nothing has changed. At the market are not only fresh produce, cut flowers, plants, handicrafts and regional specialties, but a steady stream of friends and sukis, all of whom radiate that happy-lazy kind of Saturday energy. The exchange of smiles, mimed greetings and bits of conversation are all part of what I imagine are ancient rituals that attend to the preparation of food, and they subtly weave together, making the weekend market a catchbasin of simple, undiscriminating grace and so I go faithfully to restore and replenish my spirit; to "carry on", as one often urges those who have experienced the loss of a loved one.
Reflecting on it now, I realize that Saturdays are when we have long breakfasts, the kind that become brunch and sometimes even linger into lunch, depending on which friends drop by, or how late our grandchildren have stayed up the night before.
On Saturdays the house is happy, bright with flowers that Caloy used to expertly arrange (only one of many things he enjoyed and did beautifully). Although I am far less skilled at it, I like fixing flowers and hence have taken over that task; it is good meditation.
On Saturdays, after the flurry of putting away the finds of the day, we would often postpone other chores; do nothing more than just sit in the living room, marvel at the perfect proportions of our home, listen to the streams of sound and quiet that mark our living space, feel the blessedness of our life together.
Even now, as I write this, a Saturday moment is recreated like a hologram: I am seated across from my husband; our feet are up on the center chair, sole touching sole, and not a word needs to be spoken; we have everything we could possible ask for.
I suppose that's why he went on a Saturday, after we'd done the marketing, after the long breakfast, after the flowers had been fixed, after he'd dropped me off for a short meeting, after we had kissed goodbye, after all the precious everyday things we'd done a thousand times before. Caloy is the most thoughtful and loving person I have ever known, and it's not farfetched to believe that if he had any influence in picking the day of his accident, he would have picked a Saturday.
We had spent the Easter holiday together with our children and grandchildren and my brother's family, happily, at Mount Makiling, where we'd gone for the last three years. He had taken the opportunity to shoot footage, do a couple of interviews that would go into the production of a short documentary about how people and mountains can live together. Easter Sunday we were back home, and I asked Caloy to be the one to write our greetings to the kids, in Easter cards I had bought for the occasion. Later that day, Paolo and Suzi broke to us the good news that they were expecting their second child, and it was perfect Easter news.
The rest of the week was full for both of us. On April 17, Saturday, we had a couple of commitments that needed attending to in the morning, and Caloy offered to bring me to mine.
I received the first call less than an hour after we'd parted, and was at first told that I should go home immediately, that Caloy had had an accident, something to do with a train. I began to pray that it was not true. Thankfully I was among kind people at that meeting and right away a car was provided. A close friend came along, and I was thankful that she was there, and that I had a hand to hold. From the moment the call came, my body had turned cold and I had started to chill.
As I contacted my daughter and told her to head home, I tried to keep calm, tried to breathe in and out slowly. Suddenly, just like that, I knew in my heart with certainty that he had died. I could feel him near me, and I talked to Caloy continuously as we approached the familiar East Service Road, asking him to stay by me and help me be strong through the next few hours for the kids. I did not ask why, I only asked that God help us both to accept whatever this unexpected tragedy was.
In the ten or fifteen minutes that it took to reach the garden where Caloy's truck was parked peacefully as though nothing had happened, our life together flashed before me. It was as if Caloy was telling me to remember that I had so much to fall back on; there was so much love in that life and that nothing had changed, he had simply moved to the next phase a little ahead of me.
I do not know how I lived through that day but I did. Many friends were there in those first few most difficult hours, as we waited in a bahay-kubo in the midst of a garden, waiting for the ambulance service. Our helpers had covered Caloy's body with his favorite blanket and made a shelter over it from the noonday sun, and they hovered around him, guarding his body, and weeping the whole while.
I asked my son-in-law to bring me Caloy's wedding ring and I slipped it on, next to mine. I felt suspended, as though I could see everything that was happening from a distance, all the shocked and grief-stricken faces of people who loved us. I felt an overwhelming desire to comfort them, to reach out and embrace each one, to assure them that we were alright, that things would be alright.
The time seemed to stretch out; nothing seemed to bother me anymore. I seemed to be both outside the event and also right inside it. I can remember countless details, decisions I had to make, calls to family, and all throughout it, friends offering this and that and making available everything we needed. Messages poured in; I dutifully read them. I marveled at our surroundings; if one had to die in an accident, what better place than in the midst of lush greenery? And the sheer kindness of having that little bamboo shelter was not lost on me. How very like Caloy!
Later, friends confessed that I was so calm it frightened them and they worried that perhaps I was in denial of what had just transpired. I wasn't; in fact I was so keenly aware of all that was going on, but I was experiencing it from some place that was shielded from the storm, a sanctuary. I was with Caloy; his steady hand held mine; he was present, fully with me, and it allowed me to draw from the timelessness of our love and our life and for that first day, it was enough to keep me composed.
Our son Paolo and his family flew back immediately from Cebu, where they had gone, just the day before, for a holiday. We made arrangements for cremation, and around midnight, finally brought Caloy's ashes home. After a brief visit to the chapel nearby, our friends took leave; Paolo and wife Suzi went next door to their home to get some rest; Joanna, husband Marty and family camped in our bedroom to keep me company. Julio, our second oldest grandson, asked to sleep beside me, in his Nonesy's place. (Nones, or Nonesy, is what the grandchildren call Caloy. Altlhough we are officially Nonno and Nonna, Italian for grandpa and grandma, our grandchildren have taken liberties with our titles and evolved pet names for us.) I placed his urn, a favorite stoneware jar, on my bedside table, but exhausted as I was, I found it impossible to sleep for the remainder of that night.
By five, the sky began to lighten and I got ready to bring the urn to the chapel. Throughout the day, visitors came to pay their respects. Sometime in the early afternoon, a young woman arrived who introduced herself as M., someone who had worked with my husband some years before. I liked her instantly. When she asked if I was willing to listen to a message from Caloy through a clairvoyant friend, I naturally said yes. She seemed relieved, and explained that she was unsure how I would respond to her suggestion, but since Caloy had died so suddenly, she thought that he may want to send a message to me. Her friend could "channel" such a message.
A few moments later, she relayed what she had apparently received by text from her friend. "Tell Emily I love her and the kids. I'm sorry I didn't hear the train; she should process the papers soon." It was the second line that told me it was indeed Caloy who was coming through. He would say something like that.
I asked if her friend was a medium and was told no, but that she could channel. M. offered to arrange a visit with her friend.
Later that evening, I met K. I had no idea what to expect, but felt this was meant to happen. Slipping away from the chapel, I found K. waiting at our home with M., who had kindly returned to introduce us. Whereas M. had struck me as a quiet introspective person, K.'s first impression on me was almost the opposite: here was a cheerful, outgoing personality with an open, almost child-like curiosity.
K. remarked that from the moment she had contacted him to ask if he had a message for me, Caloy had been urging her to come meet me. "You will like Emily; please see her; go to our house. I want to talk to her."
I took them upstairs to our bedroom where we could have more privacy; M. offered to take notes. Except for reading a news article that afternoon about Caloy's accident, K. did not know much about him, nor about any of us, his family. To the best of my recollection, and with the help of M.'s notes, here is how part of the session went. She began, almost as soon as we were seated, by describing what she "saw."
She was accurate on every count. I could not help it; I wept as I spoke to Caloy.
This made me weep even more.
(Caloy and I were married in a civil ceremony but never in church. I never wanted to say 'till death do us part.')
We continued the conversation for a few more minutes, then K. stopped suddenly and asked me whether Caloy wore pajamas. I had to say no, and wondered why she had asked.
She said that she could now see him in what appeared to be long white pants and a long-sleeved white shirt with no collar. The shirt was long, almost to his knees. With a start, I realized that she was describing him in his cotton kurta!
Caloy had adopted cotton kurtas as his regulation pambahay since our first visit to India many years before. As soon as he got home, he would shower and change into his kurta, and settle into his favorite chair downstairs with a book or a magazine.
K. told me that he seemed now much more relaxed and that she could see him smiling. She closed her eyes for a second and said, "Wait, there's something more. He is also wearing what looks like a white malong? It has a dark red border on the edgeâ¦"
Of course I recognized the malong. It was his prayer shawl; we had identical ones, gifted to us during a retreat we had attended in Mount Abu in India. He never traveled anywhere without his, and he used it each morning in meditation on the sofa in our room. I was amazed and cried out with joy. I knew what that meant: Caloy was feeling less disoriented, and more at home on the other side.
TO BE CONTINUED
Part 2: Mr. & Ms Article
June 30, 2005
A few moments later, I was smiling through my tears, thankful that this opportunity to communicate with Caloy had presented itself. (that's merely a turn of phrase; I don't really believe anything just presents itself. Rather, a Higher Power puts these graces at our disposal when we need them most.) It was barely 30 hours since he had died, and I had been given a direct line to Caloy! M. and K. were like a pair of angels sent to comfort me and ensure that I would not slip into despair over such a tragic turn of events.
Caloy has a talent for "working a crowd". I, on the other hand, have always felt lost and claustrophobic in large groups, preferring more intimate conversations with individuals whom I'd like to get to know better.
We talked for a few more minutes and then I returned to the chapel for that evening's mass. It is hard to describe how I felt. Relieved and comforted, and excited to share what I had just experienced with the rest of our family. I felt as if I had just come from a lover's tryst, and could still feel Caloy's embrace. M.'s notes were in my pocket as a reminder, but I could remember almost every word of our conversation. We had talked for about 45 minutes.
M. and K. promised to come over again after the final mass on Tuesday, which was to be celebrated by Father James Reuter who had offered to do so. I was touched and grateful. Later, after I had shared what had transpired, the children and I gave thanks for the happiness of our years together as a family, for the joy of having had Caloy in our lives, and for the strength it had given us. And that night, just seconds after I had stretched out in bed, I was asleep.
I was up with the sunrise, feeling peaceful and rested. I showered and got ready to bring the urn to the chapel. While dressing, I felt a sudden strange sensation: as though I was weightless and my body had lifted a few inches from the floor. It lasted only for a fraction of a second, and I could not help but think it had something to do with Caloy. (On Tuesday, K. told me that a few hours after our talk, Caloy had gone from the waiting place and towards the Light. Our conversation had been good for both of us.)
That afternoon, the head of Forestry at Mount Makiling came to condole with us and to bring two saplings which he said Caloy had requested the week before when we were up there for Easter break. He'd been shocked to hear the news of Caloy's passing when he had called earlier to tell us that he would deliver the plants.
The two flowering trees that had caught Caloy's fancy were the Amherstia, also known as the Queen of Trees, and the Siracca, also referred to as the King of Trees. Originally from Indonesia, one has yellow-orange flowers and the other red. The Forestry Chief said Caloy had inquired how far from each other they had to be planted in order that their branches might touch when they were fully grown, and this made me think that Caloy had probably planned to surprise me with the trees (this was exactly the sort of gift he would come up with from time to time). I imagined he wanted to plant them at the entrance to the farmhouse we wanted to build in Candelaria, Quezon. But that wasn't all. Before he left, the Forestry Chief said, "Oh, by the way, Mrs Abrera, Siracca means 'tree of no sorrows,' because it flowers all year round."
On Tuesday afternoon, friends joined us for the final blessing at the church. It was a warm day; yellow sunlight bathed the flowers, the altar, and all who had come to celebrate Caloy's life. Again, I could sense him standing beside me, his presence almost palpable.
Later, I was told that many people were under the impression that Father Reuter was probably the priest who had married usâ¦for in his homily that afternoon, he spoke as though he'd known us a long time, and our work as well. The way Father Reuter chose to address the gathering that day was truly uncanny; he described Caloy and his advocacy with great familiarity, and his words soothed our spirits. Strangely enough, I felt like we were being married in church finally, after all those years.
After the mass, I went to thank Father Reuter. I tried to express to him how moved I was by his being there and by what he had said, only to find that the tears had begun streaming down my cheeks again and I could do nothing to stop my weeping. He then did a strange thing: without uttering a single word, he looked straight into my eyes for the longest time⦠then he reached up slowly, held my face in his two hands, and slowly and lovingly planted a kiss on my forehead, and on each of my eyelids. I remembered what Caloy said to me when we talked, and I knew it was him, reaching across from the Other Side, making good his promise through this wonderful man of God.
We stayed there for the rest of that afternoon in remembrance of Caloy, with friends and family who delivered beautiful and funny stories about him. As the day came to a close, friends we had known since our college days walked home with us. I had prepared pasta and salad for them, which was what I thought Caloy would have wanted.
True to their word, M. and K. made time to be with us that evening. The couples that had become our barkada through decades of friendship gathered at home, their usual chatter only slightly subdued. One dear friend who was supposed to leave that afternoon for the U..S. had missed his flight (something that had never happened to him before) and came straight over, sure that Caloy wanted him to be there.
Although I thought it might be too distracting to get through to Caloy under those circumstances, K. seemed to have no trouble connecting. This time, I recorded the exchange.
K. relayed that Caloy was happy that all our friends were there, and he wanted us to know that he, too, was present. She said he was looking well; younger now than when she last saw him, with a fuller head of hair and a darker beard.
Our friends asked all sorts of questions, about celebrities, saints; had he come across St. Peter yet? He responded respectfully.
There were so many more things he shared that evening. Among the most precious to me were the following:
I could almost picture him snapping his fingers, shaking his head and laughing. And knowing how much Caloy loved to read and learn new things, I could just imagine his excitement and eagerness to grow, to master the new aspects of his existence on the other side. He even tried to describe to me what kind of sounds he could hear, and how he perceived all other living things.
The evening did not end without his taking time to greet two of the quietest people who were there, women friends of ours, whom he reassured that he was fine, and had not suffered any pain when the accident happened.
The whole time this was happening, I was listening intently and also trying to discern the accuracy of what was being relayed. After all, a "channel" receives impressions, and tries to relay these as faithfully as possible but can only do so with words and concepts familiar to her own experience. As M. and K. stood up to leave, I was wondering how I might be able to ascertain what had just come through that night. At the door, K. turned to me and said, "You may want to consult another channel or medium to check out what Caloy has shared, and that's okay. You should do that."
I smiled. Nothing could surprise me anymore after all that had happened in the last four days. But I did not know any other mediums; K. herself had practically been delivered to my doorstep by an unseen power. We promised to stay in touch.
The following week, I decided to go visit my office to restore a sense of normalcy to my life. The first person I met at the elevator was one of our creative directors who, out of the blue, offered to put me in touch with her cousin, who, she said, was therapist and a clairvoyant, and might be able to help me adjust. I did not even have to look; here was the "other medium" I was probably meant to see. I agreed, which is how I happened to meet Jinky Amores.
Although she was busy preparing for a trip to the U.S. the next day, Jinky was kind enough to give me an appointment. This time, I asked our daughter Joanna and our son Paolo to come along. We waited in the waning afternoon in a beautiful Zen garden, beside which Jinky held office, not quite sure what we would do or even exactly why we were there. I only knew that it was where we were supposed to be.
She arrived a little late, apologizing for the Bulacan traffic that had caused her delay. She is a diminutive woman, of a brisk and sober demeanor, and it was obvious that she had had a very busy day. I suddenly felt embarrassed that we were imposing on her but she smiled and invited us into the room, which was softly lit and welcoming.
I introduced myself and the kids, told her briefly about Caloy's accident and requested that she try to reach him if she could. She explained that since it was only 11 days since his departure, she was not sure that we could communicate with him. Although she would try, she cautioned us not to expect too much, as he could still be adjusting to his new circumstances, and not yet ready to connect to the earth life he had left just recently.
After explaining the process, and a short prayer, she requested for him to come through. He immediately responded, to her surprise, and agreed. As I spoke to Caloy, she wrote his responses in her notebook. Every few minutes, she would pause and read out her notes to me. It was a short session, but what she wrote down was so accurate that I did not doubt it was indeed Caloy I had talked to. Not only did he address me in the way he always did, but the humor and his usual gentle banter were all thereâ¦and once again we were deeply comforted and reassured. If K.'s channelling needed corroboration, this most certainly did it.
I proposed to see Jinky again when she returned from her trip and she agreed. Many weeks passed, though, before we met again.
In the meantime, on numerous occasions, Caloy was sending us messages: in dreams, through friends, in strange and unexpected signs and always when I was conversing with him in my mind. For instance, when we brought the trees to the farm to be planted, I was in our son's car, wondering to myself if Caloy was making the trip with us on that day. I looked up to see a line of election posters for some local candidate whose first name was Caloy. Everything on the poster was black and white, except for name "Caloy", which was in yellow, and hence easily visible.
It was too much of a coincidence, but my skeptical mind remained unconvinced. I started to relate the situation to Paolo, when across the street came another long line of streamers, this time with the word "Nones" in red, the family name of some other candidate. We had to burst out laughing, for that is what the grandchildren call Caloy. ("Nones" is their pet name for their Nonno.) Right then, my celphone received a text message from a friend, suggesting that I read Gilda Cordero Fernando's article about serendipity which was in that Sunday's paper. As soon as we got home, I did look it up and it was so apropos what had transpired that morning. There were so many more instances like these.
When I did see Jinky again, she, too, had something to tell me. On the fifth day after she arrived in the U.S., she had this dream:
When she awoke from her sleep, she could remember the details of the dream clearly, but could not recall anyone by the name of Emily whom she knew. And so she soon forgot the episode.
Several days later, she went to a house where she does outreach work, serving as a medium to help parents with cerebral-palsy children converse with each other telepathically. As she entered the house, a bulletin board had been set up in the foyer with the names of the parents and children who were there that day. The names were written in colourful cut-outs, but there was one that caught her eye; it had the name "Emily" written on it.
It looked familiar but she couldn't think of why; even after she met the mother whose name it was, she still drew a blank. Later, bridging messages between the woman and her daughter, the child told Jinky that there was another "Emily" who was not her mother and that she could see lots of flowers with the name.
This time, Jinky remembered the dream she'd had. And later, she also remembered that she'd had a session with someone just before she left for the U.S .; she called home to ask what my first name was, and finally pieced it together.
"And so Emily, I am now fulfilling my promise to Caloy, to tell you that he had made for you this beautiful magnolia bouquet," Jinky said with a smile.
We were silent for a few minutes. How is it possible to not love this man, in this life and throughout the next?
I have recounted only some of the events of the first three months after Caloy moved on. There are many more stories⦠and they still keep happening.
Life is a continuously evolving, wondrous journey. There will be many joyful as well as sad events, moments that seem to make no sense, trials that test us to the core, but the value of each of those turning points is in how we respond to them, rather than in the situations themselves. This much I have learned, that if I can keep my heart and mind open, train myself to listen and see beyond the surface, then more will be revealed, and the greater the opportunity to serve others.
Eternity begins in this life, whether we can see that far or not yet. In truth, life is too long for us to not make our sojourn in this first phase as beautiful and uplifting as possible. And as Caloy reminds us, love will carry us there each time.
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Part 1: Article for Mr. & Ms.
25 May 2005
Saturdays are tough for me.
Although they continue to represent what I treasure most --- the break from the workweek and time at home with family --- Saturdays have been a spiritual hurdle for me since a year ago, when my life partner met a fatal accident and in the blink of an eye, our world was altered forever.
It sounds presumptuous to say "our world" or "forever", but the thing is, I know without a doubt that for both of us, life has taken on a dramatically different and expanded meaning.
Anyway, Eggy happened to call me two Saturdays ago, to chat about her ideas for her magazine relaunch. Then a week later she calls again, this time to ask that I write this story and I agree, thinking, "Yes, it is time."
And so not surprisingly, SATURDAY is back, smack in the center of my thoughts all week.
It is market day for many of us in the village. As Caloy and I used to do, I still rise early to walk the two blocks to the FTI Aani market just outside the back entrance to United Hills, where we live.
Nothing has changed. At the market are not only fresh produce, cut flowers, plants, handicrafts and regional specialties, but a steady stream of friends and sukis, all of whom radiate that happy-lazy kind of Saturday energy. The exchange of smiles, mimed greetings and bits of conversation are all part of what I imagine are ancient rituals that attend to the preparation of food, and they subtly weave together, making the weekend market a catchbasin of simple, undiscriminating grace and so I go faithfully to restore and replenish my spirit; to "carry on", as one often urges those who have experienced the loss of a loved one.
Reflecting on it now, I realize that Saturdays are when we have long breakfasts, the kind that become brunch and sometimes even linger into lunch, depending on which friends drop by, or how late our grandchildren have stayed up the night before.
On Saturdays the house is happy, bright with flowers that Caloy used to expertly arrange (only one of many things he enjoyed and did beautifully). Although I am far less skilled at it, I like fixing flowers and hence have taken over that task; it is good meditation.
On Saturdays, after the flurry of putting away the finds of the day, we would often postpone other chores; do nothing more than just sit in the living room, marvel at the perfect proportions of our home, listen to the streams of sound and quiet that mark our living space, feel the blessedness of our life together.
Even now, as I write this, a Saturday moment is recreated like a hologram: I am seated across from my husband; our feet are up on the center chair, sole touching sole, and not a word needs to be spoken; we have everything we could possible ask for.
I suppose that's why he went on a Saturday, after we'd done the marketing, after the long breakfast, after the flowers had been fixed, after he'd dropped me off for a short meeting, after we had kissed goodbye, after all the precious everyday things we'd done a thousand times before. Caloy is the most thoughtful and loving person I have ever known, and it's not farfetched to believe that if he had any influence in picking the day of his accident, he would have picked a Saturday.
We had spent the Easter holiday together with our children and grandchildren and my brother's family, happily, at Mount Makiling, where we'd gone for the last three years. He had taken the opportunity to shoot footage, do a couple of interviews that would go into the production of a short documentary about how people and mountains can live together. Easter Sunday we were back home, and I asked Caloy to be the one to write our greetings to the kids, in Easter cards I had bought for the occasion. Later that day, Paolo and Suzi broke to us the good news that they were expecting their second child, and it was perfect Easter news.
The rest of the week was full for both of us. On April 17, Saturday, we had a couple of commitments that needed attending to in the morning, and Caloy offered to bring me to mine.
I received the first call less than an hour after we'd parted, and was at first told that I should go home immediately, that Caloy had had an accident, something to do with a train. I began to pray that it was not true. Thankfully I was among kind people at that meeting and right away a car was provided. A close friend came along, and I was thankful that she was there, and that I had a hand to hold. From the moment the call came, my body had turned cold and I had started to chill.
As I contacted my daughter and told her to head home, I tried to keep calm, tried to breathe in and out slowly. Suddenly, just like that, I knew in my heart with certainty that he had died. I could feel him near me, and I talked to Caloy continuously as we approached the familiar East Service Road, asking him to stay by me and help me be strong through the next few hours for the kids. I did not ask why, I only asked that God help us both to accept whatever this unexpected tragedy was.
In the ten or fifteen minutes that it took to reach the garden where Caloy's truck was parked peacefully as though nothing had happened, our life together flashed before me. It was as if Caloy was telling me to remember that I had so much to fall back on; there was so much love in that life and that nothing had changed, he had simply moved to the next phase a little ahead of me.
I do not know how I lived through that day but I did. Many friends were there in those first few most difficult hours, as we waited in a bahay-kubo in the midst of a garden, waiting for the ambulance service. Our helpers had covered Caloy's body with his favorite blanket and made a shelter over it from the noonday sun, and they hovered around him, guarding his body, and weeping the whole while.
I asked my son-in-law to bring me Caloy's wedding ring and I slipped it on, next to mine. I felt suspended, as though I could see everything that was happening from a distance, all the shocked and grief-stricken faces of people who loved us. I felt an overwhelming desire to comfort them, to reach out and embrace each one, to assure them that we were alright, that things would be alright.
The time seemed to stretch out; nothing seemed to bother me anymore. I seemed to be both outside the event and also right inside it. I can remember countless details, decisions I had to make, calls to family, and all throughout it, friends offering this and that and making available everything we needed. Messages poured in; I dutifully read them. I marveled at our surroundings; if one had to die in an accident, what better place than in the midst of lush greenery? And the sheer kindness of having that little bamboo shelter was not lost on me. How very like Caloy!
Later, friends confessed that I was so calm it frightened them and they worried that perhaps I was in denial of what had just transpired. I wasn't; in fact I was so keenly aware of all that was going on, but I was experiencing it from some place that was shielded from the storm, a sanctuary. I was with Caloy; his steady hand held mine; he was present, fully with me, and it allowed me to draw from the timelessness of our love and our life and for that first day, it was enough to keep me composed.
Our son Paolo and his family flew back immediately from Cebu, where they had gone, just the day before, for a holiday. We made arrangements for cremation, and around midnight, finally brought Caloy's ashes home. After a brief visit to the chapel nearby, our friends took leave; Paolo and wife Suzi went next door to their home to get some rest; Joanna, husband Marty and family camped in our bedroom to keep me company. Julio, our second oldest grandson, asked to sleep beside me, in his Nonesy's place. (Nones, or Nonesy, is what the grandchildren call Caloy. Altlhough we are officially Nonno and Nonna, Italian for grandpa and grandma, our grandchildren have taken liberties with our titles and evolved pet names for us.) I placed his urn, a favorite stoneware jar, on my bedside table, but exhausted as I was, I found it impossible to sleep for the remainder of that night.
By five, the sky began to lighten and I got ready to bring the urn to the chapel. Throughout the day, visitors came to pay their respects. Sometime in the early afternoon, a young woman arrived who introduced herself as M., someone who had worked with my husband some years before. I liked her instantly. When she asked if I was willing to listen to a message from Caloy through a clairvoyant friend, I naturally said yes. She seemed relieved, and explained that she was unsure how I would respond to her suggestion, but since Caloy had died so suddenly, she thought that he may want to send a message to me. Her friend could "channel" such a message.
A few moments later, she relayed what she had apparently received by text from her friend. "Tell Emily I love her and the kids. I'm sorry I didn't hear the train; she should process the papers soon." It was the second line that told me it was indeed Caloy who was coming through. He would say something like that.
I asked if her friend was a medium and was told no, but that she could channel. M. offered to arrange a visit with her friend.
Later that evening, I met K. I had no idea what to expect, but felt this was meant to happen. Slipping away from the chapel, I found K. waiting at our home with M., who had kindly returned to introduce us. Whereas M. had struck me as a quiet introspective person, K.'s first impression on me was almost the opposite: here was a cheerful, outgoing personality with an open, almost child-like curiosity.
K. remarked that from the moment she had contacted him to ask if he had a message for me, Caloy had been urging her to come meet me. "You will like Emily; please see her; go to our house. I want to talk to her."
I took them upstairs to our bedroom where we could have more privacy; M. offered to take notes. Except for reading a news article that afternoon about Caloy's accident, K. did not know much about him, nor about any of us, his family. To the best of my recollection, and with the help of M.'s notes, here is how part of the session went. She began, almost as soon as we were seated, by describing what she "saw."
K : I see him. He is sort of wide-eyed; I think he's still somewhat in shock. He's wearing a pair of earth-colored shorts, sort of up to here (she motioned to her knees), with large pockets low on the two sides, and a white collared shirt⦠a golf shirt but it's big, and loose. He has nothing on his feet. Oh! he was wearing sandals, he says, but they came off in the accident.
She was accurate on every count. I could not help it; I wept as I spoke to Caloy.
Me: I love you. Are you alright? Please do not worry about me; I just need to know how you are. Where are you?
K : He says he loves you, "I'm in some sort of waiting place. It's very bright, and colorful. I can see angels around here." His parents are there; they met him, and his brother's there, too.
Me : Did you pass through the light?
K : Not yet, he says. He has been told that he will, but only after the initial shock has subsided for both you and him. But where he is now is comforting. Very bright. He has been asking why he had to die so young; he was told that his life was already fulfilled.
Me : How do you feel?
K : He is alright, he says. He wants to tell you what happened. He did not sleep well on Friday night; he kept dreaming. There were so many scenes in his dreams that he couldn't remember them all. It was happening very fast. He dreamt of water several times; at one point he felt like he was drowning.
He thought he was overwhelmed by everything that he still needed to do for his work. He is saying, "I was trying to figure out what it meant, but I couldn't quite get it. I knew there was a message that was eluding me."
Me: That's why you were so quiet yesterday?
K : Yes, he had a lot on his mind. On the way home, he stopped by that garden to buy some plants. He says he walked out to the side of the railroad tracks. He was crouched down, and there were two palmeras to his left. He doesn't think the train driver saw him. He was so intent on selecting the plants he wanted and arranging them that he says he was oblivious to everything else.
"I stood up and took a half step back to see the effect and I guess that's when the train hit me. I did not even feel the impact. One moment I was looking at the plants, the next moment I looked down, and saw my body and I realized that I had died!"
He is sorry that he went so suddenly, there are still so many things he wants to do.
Me : It doesn't matter, Love. I accept God's will. I am grateful to be talking to you now. I need to tell you how much I love and respect you⦠you know that, don't you?
K : He says, "I don't just love you. I adore you."
This made me weep even more.
K : He will always be near you. He says, "I will kiss you on the forehead each morning like always. When you cry, I shall kiss your tears away. Remember, death has no meaning for us; we were married for eternal life. You are my eternal wife."
(Caloy and I were married in a civil ceremony but never in church. I never wanted to say 'till death do us part.')
Me : You gave me so much happiness. I learned so much from you; I could not have wished for a better husband.
K : He thanks you for your life together. He asks that you continue the work he left.
He says he will not stop doing what he can, and that in fact, he can do so much more from where he is now than when he was on earth. You will still work together in this way.
We continued the conversation for a few more minutes, then K. stopped suddenly and asked me whether Caloy wore pajamas. I had to say no, and wondered why she had asked.
She said that she could now see him in what appeared to be long white pants and a long-sleeved white shirt with no collar. The shirt was long, almost to his knees. With a start, I realized that she was describing him in his cotton kurta!
Caloy had adopted cotton kurtas as his regulation pambahay since our first visit to India many years before. As soon as he got home, he would shower and change into his kurta, and settle into his favorite chair downstairs with a book or a magazine.
K. told me that he seemed now much more relaxed and that she could see him smiling. She closed her eyes for a second and said, "Wait, there's something more. He is also wearing what looks like a white malong? It has a dark red border on the edgeâ¦"
Of course I recognized the malong. It was his prayer shawl; we had identical ones, gifted to us during a retreat we had attended in Mount Abu in India. He never traveled anywhere without his, and he used it each morning in meditation on the sofa in our room. I was amazed and cried out with joy. I knew what that meant: Caloy was feeling less disoriented, and more at home on the other side.
TO BE CONTINUED
Part 2: Mr. & Ms Article
June 30, 2005
A few moments later, I was smiling through my tears, thankful that this opportunity to communicate with Caloy had presented itself. (that's merely a turn of phrase; I don't really believe anything just presents itself. Rather, a Higher Power puts these graces at our disposal when we need them most.) It was barely 30 hours since he had died, and I had been given a direct line to Caloy! M. and K. were like a pair of angels sent to comfort me and ensure that I would not slip into despair over such a tragic turn of events.
Me : Love, you can't imagine how many people have come to pay their respects. I do not know them all; I recognize some faces but can't remember their names!
You're the one who's good with this sort of thing.
Caloy has a talent for "working a crowd". I, on the other hand, have always felt lost and claustrophobic in large groups, preferring more intimate conversations with individuals whom I'd like to get to know better.
K. : He says now that he isn't around, you will have to be nicer, to everyone; he is laughing. I think he is teasing you.
Me : Did you see the flowers? We have run out of space for them. They've spilled out into the park and the street.
K. : He has a nice laugh. Caloy says, "I'll bet you didn't realize I was so sikat, no?"
And in this way, some of the burden of sadness was lifted that Sunday evening. He asked that I look after the company he had left behind. He promised that he would continue working with me for the success of the channel that had just been launched. Friends would help me, he said.
Me : I always thought I would be the first to go, because I cannot imagine a life without you. I always prayed that I be taken ahead.
K. : He says, "That was not possible. If God had granted your wish, I would have died anyway the following day. What then would happen to our children, and our dreams? There are still things you have to accomplish. You will write a book, you know." Caloy says that you must tell others (especially our close friends) about this experience, and about how it is possible to make a marriage last, about how love can keep growing.
Me : Can I talk to you again?
K. : "Yes of course. Just look around the house; you will see signs of my love everywhere. I know you must be very tired. Tonight you will sleep, because now we have spoken."
We talked for a few more minutes and then I returned to the chapel for that evening's mass. It is hard to describe how I felt. Relieved and comforted, and excited to share what I had just experienced with the rest of our family. I felt as if I had just come from a lover's tryst, and could still feel Caloy's embrace. M.'s notes were in my pocket as a reminder, but I could remember almost every word of our conversation. We had talked for about 45 minutes.
M. and K. promised to come over again after the final mass on Tuesday, which was to be celebrated by Father James Reuter who had offered to do so. I was touched and grateful. Later, after I had shared what had transpired, the children and I gave thanks for the happiness of our years together as a family, for the joy of having had Caloy in our lives, and for the strength it had given us. And that night, just seconds after I had stretched out in bed, I was asleep.
I was up with the sunrise, feeling peaceful and rested. I showered and got ready to bring the urn to the chapel. While dressing, I felt a sudden strange sensation: as though I was weightless and my body had lifted a few inches from the floor. It lasted only for a fraction of a second, and I could not help but think it had something to do with Caloy. (On Tuesday, K. told me that a few hours after our talk, Caloy had gone from the waiting place and towards the Light. Our conversation had been good for both of us.)
That afternoon, the head of Forestry at Mount Makiling came to condole with us and to bring two saplings which he said Caloy had requested the week before when we were up there for Easter break. He'd been shocked to hear the news of Caloy's passing when he had called earlier to tell us that he would deliver the plants.
The two flowering trees that had caught Caloy's fancy were the Amherstia, also known as the Queen of Trees, and the Siracca, also referred to as the King of Trees. Originally from Indonesia, one has yellow-orange flowers and the other red. The Forestry Chief said Caloy had inquired how far from each other they had to be planted in order that their branches might touch when they were fully grown, and this made me think that Caloy had probably planned to surprise me with the trees (this was exactly the sort of gift he would come up with from time to time). I imagined he wanted to plant them at the entrance to the farmhouse we wanted to build in Candelaria, Quezon. But that wasn't all. Before he left, the Forestry Chief said, "Oh, by the way, Mrs Abrera, Siracca means 'tree of no sorrows,' because it flowers all year round."
On Tuesday afternoon, friends joined us for the final blessing at the church. It was a warm day; yellow sunlight bathed the flowers, the altar, and all who had come to celebrate Caloy's life. Again, I could sense him standing beside me, his presence almost palpable.
Later, I was told that many people were under the impression that Father Reuter was probably the priest who had married usâ¦for in his homily that afternoon, he spoke as though he'd known us a long time, and our work as well. The way Father Reuter chose to address the gathering that day was truly uncanny; he described Caloy and his advocacy with great familiarity, and his words soothed our spirits. Strangely enough, I felt like we were being married in church finally, after all those years.
After the mass, I went to thank Father Reuter. I tried to express to him how moved I was by his being there and by what he had said, only to find that the tears had begun streaming down my cheeks again and I could do nothing to stop my weeping. He then did a strange thing: without uttering a single word, he looked straight into my eyes for the longest time⦠then he reached up slowly, held my face in his two hands, and slowly and lovingly planted a kiss on my forehead, and on each of my eyelids. I remembered what Caloy said to me when we talked, and I knew it was him, reaching across from the Other Side, making good his promise through this wonderful man of God.
We stayed there for the rest of that afternoon in remembrance of Caloy, with friends and family who delivered beautiful and funny stories about him. As the day came to a close, friends we had known since our college days walked home with us. I had prepared pasta and salad for them, which was what I thought Caloy would have wanted.
True to their word, M. and K. made time to be with us that evening. The couples that had become our barkada through decades of friendship gathered at home, their usual chatter only slightly subdued. One dear friend who was supposed to leave that afternoon for the U..S. had missed his flight (something that had never happened to him before) and came straight over, sure that Caloy wanted him to be there.
Although I thought it might be too distracting to get through to Caloy under those circumstances, K. seemed to have no trouble connecting. This time, I recorded the exchange.
K. relayed that Caloy was happy that all our friends were there, and he wanted us to know that he, too, was present. She said he was looking well; younger now than when she last saw him, with a fuller head of hair and a darker beard.
K : Caloy says, "It's hard to explain, but I am not in some far away place. I'm actually here. I'm everywhere I used to be; it's just that I'm on a different plane, that's all."
Me : What's it like where you are, Love? And how are you feeling now?
K. : He says it's very beautiful, especially the gardens. He says, "I am bigger than I thought I was! And I can be in more than one place at one time. I have learned so much since I got here, it's so amazing. I'm just trying to get used to the fact that there's no floor under my feet."
Our friends asked all sorts of questions, about celebrities, saints; had he come across St. Peter yet? He responded respectfully.
K. : Yes, Caloy says he has seen some of them. But it's not in the way they are depicted, although he says St. Michael is so big; he is really a warrior; that's sort of his job.
There were so many more things he shared that evening. Among the most precious to me were the following:
"No one is turned away; everyone continues life on this plane. The choice is up to the individual. After reading so much and theorizing about it all when I was still there, it turns out that the answer to life's biggest question is so simple! It's LOVE. Yes, I know it sounds like a cliche, but it's true. That's all we need to have and to give. It's so incredibly simple!"
I could almost picture him snapping his fingers, shaking his head and laughing. And knowing how much Caloy loved to read and learn new things, I could just imagine his excitement and eagerness to grow, to master the new aspects of his existence on the other side. He even tried to describe to me what kind of sounds he could hear, and how he perceived all other living things.
The evening did not end without his taking time to greet two of the quietest people who were there, women friends of ours, whom he reassured that he was fine, and had not suffered any pain when the accident happened.
The whole time this was happening, I was listening intently and also trying to discern the accuracy of what was being relayed. After all, a "channel" receives impressions, and tries to relay these as faithfully as possible but can only do so with words and concepts familiar to her own experience. As M. and K. stood up to leave, I was wondering how I might be able to ascertain what had just come through that night. At the door, K. turned to me and said, "You may want to consult another channel or medium to check out what Caloy has shared, and that's okay. You should do that."
I smiled. Nothing could surprise me anymore after all that had happened in the last four days. But I did not know any other mediums; K. herself had practically been delivered to my doorstep by an unseen power. We promised to stay in touch.
The following week, I decided to go visit my office to restore a sense of normalcy to my life. The first person I met at the elevator was one of our creative directors who, out of the blue, offered to put me in touch with her cousin, who, she said, was therapist and a clairvoyant, and might be able to help me adjust. I did not even have to look; here was the "other medium" I was probably meant to see. I agreed, which is how I happened to meet Jinky Amores.
Although she was busy preparing for a trip to the U.S. the next day, Jinky was kind enough to give me an appointment. This time, I asked our daughter Joanna and our son Paolo to come along. We waited in the waning afternoon in a beautiful Zen garden, beside which Jinky held office, not quite sure what we would do or even exactly why we were there. I only knew that it was where we were supposed to be.
She arrived a little late, apologizing for the Bulacan traffic that had caused her delay. She is a diminutive woman, of a brisk and sober demeanor, and it was obvious that she had had a very busy day. I suddenly felt embarrassed that we were imposing on her but she smiled and invited us into the room, which was softly lit and welcoming.
I introduced myself and the kids, told her briefly about Caloy's accident and requested that she try to reach him if she could. She explained that since it was only 11 days since his departure, she was not sure that we could communicate with him. Although she would try, she cautioned us not to expect too much, as he could still be adjusting to his new circumstances, and not yet ready to connect to the earth life he had left just recently.
After explaining the process, and a short prayer, she requested for him to come through. He immediately responded, to her surprise, and agreed. As I spoke to Caloy, she wrote his responses in her notebook. Every few minutes, she would pause and read out her notes to me. It was a short session, but what she wrote down was so accurate that I did not doubt it was indeed Caloy I had talked to. Not only did he address me in the way he always did, but the humor and his usual gentle banter were all thereâ¦and once again we were deeply comforted and reassured. If K.'s channelling needed corroboration, this most certainly did it.
I proposed to see Jinky again when she returned from her trip and she agreed. Many weeks passed, though, before we met again.
In the meantime, on numerous occasions, Caloy was sending us messages: in dreams, through friends, in strange and unexpected signs and always when I was conversing with him in my mind. For instance, when we brought the trees to the farm to be planted, I was in our son's car, wondering to myself if Caloy was making the trip with us on that day. I looked up to see a line of election posters for some local candidate whose first name was Caloy. Everything on the poster was black and white, except for name "Caloy", which was in yellow, and hence easily visible.
It was too much of a coincidence, but my skeptical mind remained unconvinced. I started to relate the situation to Paolo, when across the street came another long line of streamers, this time with the word "Nones" in red, the family name of some other candidate. We had to burst out laughing, for that is what the grandchildren call Caloy. ("Nones" is their pet name for their Nonno.) Right then, my celphone received a text message from a friend, suggesting that I read Gilda Cordero Fernando's article about serendipity which was in that Sunday's paper. As soon as we got home, I did look it up and it was so apropos what had transpired that morning. There were so many more instances like these.
When I did see Jinky again, she, too, had something to tell me. On the fifth day after she arrived in the U.S., she had this dream:
She is walking along a road in the countryside, and she meets a tall man in white, carrying a big basket . She does not know this man, but she offers to help. He tells her it's not really heavy and they talk awhile as he shows her the basket's contents. They seem to be small bundles of potpourri, but are made of colorful flowers and gold coins beautifully wrapped and be-ribboned.
He tells her that he made them all himself, selecting flowers from the garden, and that they are for his friends. As he names each one, he lets her smell the combination of fragrances in each bouquet. There are so many of these little potpourri packages.
Then he selects a bouquet larger than all the rest, saying, "Ah⦠but this one is special. I made this one for the love of my life." He holds it out to her and she sees that there is a large white flower in the center, and she recognizes the scent, "That's a magnolia, isn't it?" He smiles and asks if she will do him the favor of telling his love that he made her this bouquet, and Jinky says she will. He thanks her and takes his leave.
As they continue along their separate ways, she calls out to him, "Wait! You forgot to tell me her name!" He takes the bouquet, turns it over and shows her its underside, where, written on a ribbon is the name "Emily".
The man smiles and says, "You won't forget?" She replies, "No, I won't. I promise."
When she awoke from her sleep, she could remember the details of the dream clearly, but could not recall anyone by the name of Emily whom she knew. And so she soon forgot the episode.
Several days later, she went to a house where she does outreach work, serving as a medium to help parents with cerebral-palsy children converse with each other telepathically. As she entered the house, a bulletin board had been set up in the foyer with the names of the parents and children who were there that day. The names were written in colourful cut-outs, but there was one that caught her eye; it had the name "Emily" written on it.
It looked familiar but she couldn't think of why; even after she met the mother whose name it was, she still drew a blank. Later, bridging messages between the woman and her daughter, the child told Jinky that there was another "Emily" who was not her mother and that she could see lots of flowers with the name.
This time, Jinky remembered the dream she'd had. And later, she also remembered that she'd had a session with someone just before she left for the U.S .; she called home to ask what my first name was, and finally pieced it together.
"And so Emily, I am now fulfilling my promise to Caloy, to tell you that he had made for you this beautiful magnolia bouquet," Jinky said with a smile.
We were silent for a few minutes. How is it possible to not love this man, in this life and throughout the next?
I have recounted only some of the events of the first three months after Caloy moved on. There are many more stories⦠and they still keep happening.
Life is a continuously evolving, wondrous journey. There will be many joyful as well as sad events, moments that seem to make no sense, trials that test us to the core, but the value of each of those turning points is in how we respond to them, rather than in the situations themselves. This much I have learned, that if I can keep my heart and mind open, train myself to listen and see beyond the surface, then more will be revealed, and the greater the opportunity to serve others.
Eternity begins in this life, whether we can see that far or not yet. In truth, life is too long for us to not make our sojourn in this first phase as beautiful and uplifting as possible. And as Caloy reminds us, love will carry us there each time.
posted by montalut @ 9:42 PM
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