She was pure white, half mischievous-half gentle, and 100% cute, cuddly and furry. My landlady’s son’s new pet kitten was probably just a few weeks old. Someone named her Cathy and it stuck, so we called her that every time we wanted her to appear from her endless exploration of some nook and cranny. But the name never stuck with her, she seldom heeded our call and would go her own merry way searching for some new adventure like meeting her feline “frenemy”–the stray alpha cat in the boarding house–if there is such a thing. And tossing pebbles, probably in practice of a bigger catch. Everyone at the house were very fond of her.
Come December 31, 6:00pm, a Pajero backed into the parking area, ready for a night of celebrating. Cathy never knew what hit her. She never saw the New Year either. She died in the arms of her “yaya.” Awash in a mixture of her blood and her caretaker’s tears, they put her in a plastic bag, buried her and bid their goodbyes to such a short life.
The first day of the year came and went. By January 2nd I was lying flat in a stretcher, which of course comes with an ambulance complete with flashing lights and wailing signals. Banned from running, walking, sitting up, or even so much as moving any part of my back muscle.
“Slipped disc.” they said.
“Is she about to die?” asked my 3-year old friend.
One instant you can be up and running and the next you can be laying as still as you can because even a twitch would hurt too much. From the active and festive holidays to a spoon-fed, Pampers wearing weekend, in just an instant. Life is short.
It is too short to just watch soap operas every night wondering who will fall for whom and in what way the guy gets the girl. Too short for wishing and hoping and wondering if our lives will ever be like a fairy tale/love story like the teleseryes that we watch.
Too short for waiting for what others would call lady luck to drop in our doorstep to grant 3 wishes.
Too short to simply hope on winning the 1 million pesos lottery or a game show, transfixed with number combinations and word games even when at work.
Too short for eating all the porky pigs and all the oily and sweet “scrumptious” life shorteners. Someone once said that cholesterol is the animals’ revenge.
Too short for holding a festering hurt and anger that like cancer rots the body from the inside and choking soul’s hope from the outside.
Too short for banking on tomorrow to accomplish something that has annually been in your new year’s resolution list…
I’m up and running again like a well-oiled machine, only I can no longer salsa nor go wall climbing, or even jog. Well, not that I’ve been doing those things but they were probably number 32 on my bucket list. There are just some things you find you can no longer do because your time has passed.
Good if you’re one of the Chatty stories–that’s my name–the one who gets a second chance at doing things right. Right food, right exercise, right attitude–it needs a lot of humility to always have to ask someone to carry things for me, even if it’s just a bag.
But what if you’re the Cathy story. The one who never knew what hit her. The one who was 6 hours short of seeing the dawning of a new day. The one who has stayed long but have not yet really lived.
If Julia Robert’s mantra is “Eat. Pray. Love.” Then mine would be “Live. Live. Live.”
Because tomorrow is not a promise.
