I am writing this ahead of a sad eventuality that will happen sooner or later to our family. You see, my younger brother, Eric, is dying of cancer.
Diagnosed to have terminal stage liver cancer in January, Eric has been brought home to spend his final days with us and his family.
It’s an agonizing wait for us, but more so for him—I can’t even bear to imagine the physical as well as the mental pain that he will have to face and endure in the uncertain days ahead. Yet, armed with prayer books and novenas to St. Peregrine and surrounded by a loving wife and kids, he continues to fight for survival.
When one thinks about it, the moment Eric was born, he was already fighting to survive. He was a blue baby, and I remember him sleeping under a warm light to incubate his premature body. I have very few memories of him as a boy, 9 years separated us, so we barely bonded. There is one memorable picture of young Eric and me though, showing him sticking out his tongue in jest as I fight to restrain him from running from my clutch as we walked along a Baguio road.
Eric, the best looking in our brood, pretty much kept a low profile as a kid, often deferring to our youngest smart-ass, more gregarious brother, Froilan, whom he preceded. He asserted his individuality by becoming a non-conformist, often making choices that left us shaking our heads. While most of us chose regular careers, Eric fought family convention by joining the military. When we voted Laban, he voted KBL. When we stuck to our Catholic faith, he joined the Mormons. I now know that his random acts of alienation served to draw attention to his need to be fully accepted and to belong.
Even then, Eric naturally had a soft spot. In our dialect, we describe him as “mapanatindi”--one who was always sensitive to other people’s feelings . In the hospital where he was briefly confined, Eric would subtly suggest to his koya who had come to visit him, to go home instead as he might have other chores to do. When it was my turn to sleep over in the cold, unfriendly hospital room, Eric would often remind his wife to “keep the lights closed so as not to waken Kong Alex”. He was forever saying “pasensya na ka”; in fact, when first told about his illness, the first thing he said to me was “sorry, ha?”-- as if he had let us down again.
I just wished now that he cared more for himself.
What started as social drinking became binges, that became a vice, then an addiction, and now this fatal disease. My mother prevailed on him to take a regular job, which he did, becoming an employee of Casino Filipino. I took him in my Makati apartment, even drove him to work, but he couldn’t hold a job. I had him detoxified once, but he kept on relapsing, until annoyance took the better of me. So we pretty much left him alone with stern warnings that never seemed to work. He was a time bomb waiting to explode, that, at the back of my mind, I knew. But even that knowledge doesn’t quite prepare you when the blast hits. Who would think that 41 years after his initial fight for survival, Eric would again be engaged in his biggest battle yet?
In the face of a fatal illness, you automatically look for some semblance of sense, and when there is none, you look for something good. And yes, inconceivable as it may sound, I have seen some good brought about by his sickness. Put to test by pain almost every day, I have seen Eric’s courageous spirit rise triumphant. In long waits at the hospital lounge, I have seen his patience and resilience grow. Every day, I feel the deepening of his love for his family, alongside his faith. I have also seen how our family has come together as one, rallying around Eric, reassuring him with our presence, inspiring him to fight on, with all the heartaches of the past forgotten. It is just sad that the only time you begin realizing the fullness of a person’s worth is when he starts slipping away from you.
So now we spend Saturday early evening weekends with Eric, right after mass.
We spend more time talking, chitchatting, taking videos and pictures.
It’s like playing catch-up, but I know time is running out.
Putting on a brave face has become very difficult these past days, especially when you see him doubled up in relentless pain.
But for now, Eric is holding on.
There is still a fighter left in him, with his renewed faith carrying him through the day. First thing I did when his grave illness was confirmed was to contact a priest friend to give him an anointment of the sick. I also gave him a novena to St. Peregrine, to which he now prays for healing regularly. And, in my last visit, he told me he has been avoiding fried fatty foods and all those bad stuff.
Every day that he survives, we give thanks.
Every rare moment he is without pain, we rejoice.
Maybe that’s the miracle we’ve been waiting for.
(18 April 2007)
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UPDATE: Christopher Eric R. Castro passed away on 23 April, 2007 at age 41 years, 6 months. He leaves behind a loving wife, Cynthia and three lovely daughters, Trisha (16), Hershey (14) and Tracy (4). Mama Ester and his 7 remaining siblings will miss him.
