Rendezvous In Dreams…

No, I will not talk about the infuriating things happening today in the Philippines. I will not even talk about the infuriating things that happened to me this month. It’s just too infuriating that to write more about it will just make me more infuriated, you know? And I don’t want my middle name to be Mr. Infurious. I already have a middle name. And it’s Mr. U.

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Last week - or perhaps, the other week before that, there’s a special documentary I watched on ESPN. It’s about a young man who died of an accident who became an organ donor to a lot of people. A choice he made when he was still alive. What made it unique was that his parents were willing to follow his wishes. As asked by the reporter who interviewed the parents, they could’ve refused to follow his wishes, being the legal guardians of his body (him being unmarried), the parents answered: yes we could’ve. But we know that wouldn’t have made him happy, wherever he is now. We wanted to follow his wishes because that is the best way to cherish him.

Because this young man’s death was widely reported in the papers, his beneficiaries easily figured out where their donated organs came from (donor information is strictly confidential). And it all started from there. These beneficiaries contacted his parents and asked to meet them. Media got wind of the story and the rest is history.

–

The other week before that, I saw another ESPN special, this time about a father and son. The son had Down’s Syndrome, but unlike other kids with Down’s Syndrome, the boy exhibited extraordinary talent in music. In short, he was a musical genius. Not only that, but because his mother exposed him to swimming in his early years, he had muscular strength unlike most kids with Down’s syndrome. Except his muscular strength was concentrated only on his upper body, his lower extremeties remained flaccid. Thus the boy remained wheelchair-bound.

His musical talent was easily recognized in his school and he became part of the school band. But because being in the band entailed marching and doing formations, his family had to find a way for him to be able to participate in the band.

His father became his feet for him. During band practice and competitions, his father would wheel him around, follow band formations, and march his wheelchair for him. This became their daily routine. The father switched to a night job and would come home just as his son was waking up to get ready for school.

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Dead Poet’s Society, 50 First Dates, Naruto, Click, Braveheart, Dance Drill.

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Those two ESPN specials, and these movies - yes, you got it, made me ALMOST cry. Well, Dead Poets had me bawling (Oh Captain, my Captain!) and Braveheart (Freedom!) had me in silent tears, but to ALMOST cry, well that’s an achievement for me. There are only few instances in my life when I can remember I truly cried (barring my crybaby years in childhood and spanking days). Twice, in fact. Both times with Days of the Lord. First was when I received the letters, and I read kambal and Sir Xave’s letters to me. It was then that I realized I had missed kambal’s growing up, and was just surprised to learn that they could already write. It was also then I realized someone recognizing my strengths and putting so much belief in me. Belief without tied expectations. Second was on the last day of DWTL. This day is sacred, and I will not talk about it.

I saw Dead Poets when I was fifteen. That poem’s line immediately had me bawling. I saw 50 First Dates last year. It didn’t make me cry. But it made me almost cry. (sa Tagalog, nangilid ang luha) My heart felt a mixture of sadness, inspiration, and heartbreak - and that’s almost the same as crying for me, without tears. Two episodes of Naruto made me almost cry. The first one when Naruto was saved by Iruka, and the second one when Chouji battled Jiroubo. Click didn’t even make me almost cry, but the story did touched me deeply. Braveheart didn’t make me cry the first time I watched it, or even the second, third or fourth. But the last time (just last month), I don’t know what came over me, but I just found myself in tears at the end of the movie. Dance Drill is an easy tear-jerker.

They say only people in their old age become this emotional. Crying over things they don’t usually cry about. I’m a stone cold-hearted SOB, and I hardly even show emotion at the worst of times. Even at times when I want to cry because my chest hurts and feels like it’s going to explode, I am unable to shed tears. The most I could do is swear.

Yes, I didn’t cry both times I died.

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Why’d I write about the organ donor guy? Yes the story touched me, but I wrote about him because like him, I want my whole body to be donated when I die. Yes. My whole body. Any parts or organs that can still be used, (even skin and bone marrow, anything) I am giving up for donation. Take this essay now as an explicit permission for such donation. In fact, I should start carrying around my wallet a pledge of some sort. The rest of my body that can’t be used, I leave for cremation.

Why?

Because with this act, I become immortal. I live on in those who receive my organs and body parts. Hell, if I could even attach the condition that all my beneficiaries also put up the organs and/or body parts they received from me for donation when they die, I’d be a happy man. That’d ensure that parts of me will live on and on until they are kept being donated.

At least if my life didn’t have meaning now, it’d have meaning then.

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Why’d I write about the father and son?

Simple. The love this father has for his son is the same love I have for my son. It may be hard to believe, but you have to be me to understand it.

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Yes. I’m accepting I’m human and sheds tears. I am now an emotional, tear-jerking fellow who ingested too many estrogen pills. I now cry at retreats, or at least will cry in them if I ever attend one. I now allow my feet to touch ground and shed my devil wings and horns. Heck, if there’s a born-again Christian, call me a born-again human.

I’m still the cold-hearted SOB that I am. Except my heart now breaks at cat deaths and animal suffering.

Surely, if ever jail wardens want to reform their inmates, they only have to let them own pets, and force them to care for these pets, and I’m sure each of them will come out all bleeding-hearts convicts. I know I only became this emotional when I got Ming-ming. And I haven’t even gotten over his death.

That blog post I wrote about him? I’m still unable to read again till now. So fuck any edits for that post for a while.

I’m now officially changing my middle name to Mr. S. I pretty much destroyed my Mr. U image.

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*ending song of 50 First Dates plays*
*voice over of my shout out*
*readers bawl shamelessly*
*i wait for kingdom come for reader comments*
*i bawl shamelessly when no one does*
*my wife puts a token comment to comfort me*
*i bawl even harder and swear off the estrogen pills*
*i feel ok. that is, until my next cat death*

This entry was posted on Saturday, October 27th, 2007 at 9:33 am and is filed under Crazy, Beautiful, Jao. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.