Death is always difficult when it comes like a thief in the night, or when it hits close to home, or when it takes a person who was once so animated and full of life.
I lost my cousin Allen (known to everyone as “Pongky”) to heart attack last Saturday. He was 40.
I lost my cousin Allen (known to everyone as “Pongky”) to heart attack last Saturday. He was 40.
Having lived in our grandmother’s house all our lives, in a living space separated only by walls, Pongky and I practically grew up together. As young kids, we were the butt of jokes as both of us are buck-toothed; the reason why around the same time I was being teased Bugs Bunny, he earned the nickname “Pongky” (from the PBA basketball player, Ponky Alolor).
Older by almost three years (He would have been 41 on April 24), I can’t recall a time when we fought even while growing up. You can say that the kinship of the buck-toothed was that strong — or maybe because we simply get along. We watched each other grow up and became adults together. There was even a point that we share the same set of friends.
I no longer remember when and why, but he calls me his “ganda” cousin (to which I reciprocated by calling him “pogi” cousin). It was never actively encouraged and for all I know might only be a gibe, but that became some “term of endearment” between us.
I no longer remember when and why, but he calls me his “ganda” cousin (to which I reciprocated by calling him “pogi” cousin). It was never actively encouraged and for all I know might only be a gibe, but that became some “term of endearment” between us.
To say that Pongky was funny would be an understatement; his jokes were so hilarious it’ll leave you with a bad case of stomach cramps. Anyone who knew him can tell you that he had this loud, high-pitched distinct laugh that sounded like a combination of a hyena cackling and a revving motorcycle. He had a laugh that was funnier than the joke itself. The silly things he does to make us all crack up has always been the life of whatever group he’s in.
Like most of us from this side of the family, we share the same love on many things especially music. We were both child of the '80s and teenager of the '90s so the songs I knew, he knew too. Videoke sessions with him were especially hysterical; being blessed with a good singing voice, a graceful body, and a jocular, uncensored wit. When I think of it now, our memories of him are mostly of his crazy antics.
Pongky hardly turns down any favor you ask of him and would sometimes go out of his way to help, sometimes to a fault.
With all the fun and laughter he selflessly brought other people, Pongky kept his heart condition, something he knew of since 2006, a secret. It was only when he was rushed to the ER last Thursday that he finally admitted it to the doctor. When they asked him why, he simply said that he doesn’t want to be a burden to his family.
But we knew him too well. We believe he kept us in the dark so he can go on without functional limitations and lifestyle adjustments. Pongky was stubborn as a mule; even with the diagnosis, he subjected his body to unimaginable abuse over the years from smoking, drinking, having a poor diet and a sedentary lifestyle. He’s not even on any maintenance medications in the face of such long-term, debilitating disease.
We also found out that not only that he’s T2 diabetic, he already had a serious case of pleural effusion (buildup of fluid on the lungs), the reason why Pongky suffered so much on his last days.
My funny cousin probably thought he can laugh his way out of it eventually, just as what he’d usually do on everything else.
I went to see him that morning of Saturday in the ICU. Even then I knew that he’s in a very critical condition, having been revived after an attack the day before. It was too hard to look at him with all the medical apparatuses attached to his body, but there was a glimmer of hope in me because he was awake — even making gestures to let me know that he could hear me.
With his hands tied to the frame of his bed, I can see him wincing in pain. He had been twitching and motioning to have the EI (Endotracheal intubation) removed. It’s hard to see a once-happy person in such a sad, helpless state.
“Laban lang Pongky, ha?” (Keep fighting) was the last thing I said to him.
Deep inside, I was really cheering for him to pull through. Within the family, we were already talking about what to do once he’s transferred to a regular room.
But then that afternoon, my older brother texted me to come to the hospital. There was a tone of grim and sadness in his message and instinct tells me that something bad has happened. On my way there, it felt like my heart is lodged on my throat the whole time.
When I got to the ICU, he was being revived. Yet unlike the day before, he was unresponsive. After several minutes of chest compression and defibrillation, he finally lost his battle. It was one of the saddest days of my life.
Pongky’s sudden passing was devastating to us who knew him and loved him best. We are still trying to grapple with the fact that he’s now gone. For sure, things will never be the same; holidays and special occasions and eat-outs will feel different now without him.
I will miss Pongky suddenly letting out a boisterous guffaw that’s so contagious we’d find ourselves laughing so hard with him. I will miss him barging through the door asking mom for extra rice. I will miss how he was with my nephews, buying them toys and goodies every payday. I will miss talking to him about our mutual admiration for Freddie Mercury. I will miss him spewing expletives when amused or angry. I will miss seeing him by the gate with his majhong buddies every afternoon when I come home from work. I will miss him bugging me to sing Boney M’s Rasputin with him on our next videoke session.
I will miss Pongky for many, many other things. He truly left a big void that nobody else could fill. During the wake when everyone was there — for a moment I was looking for him on the sea of faces, forgetting that it was his wake.
But we are somehow consoled by the thought that he’s no longer in pain. That we wouldn’t hear him hacking with that nasty cough of his that hounded him for years. That he is now free from all the earthly worries that once troubled him.
And most of all, he’s finally reunited with his mom, our Tita Baby, who died five years ago. Thinking about that puts a faint smile on our faces.
Rest easy, pogi cousin. Your ganda cousin will miss you forever.
Pongky hardly turns down any favor you ask of him and would sometimes go out of his way to help, sometimes to a fault.
With all the fun and laughter he selflessly brought other people, Pongky kept his heart condition, something he knew of since 2006, a secret. It was only when he was rushed to the ER last Thursday that he finally admitted it to the doctor. When they asked him why, he simply said that he doesn’t want to be a burden to his family.
But we knew him too well. We believe he kept us in the dark so he can go on without functional limitations and lifestyle adjustments. Pongky was stubborn as a mule; even with the diagnosis, he subjected his body to unimaginable abuse over the years from smoking, drinking, having a poor diet and a sedentary lifestyle. He’s not even on any maintenance medications in the face of such long-term, debilitating disease.
We also found out that not only that he’s T2 diabetic, he already had a serious case of pleural effusion (buildup of fluid on the lungs), the reason why Pongky suffered so much on his last days.
My funny cousin probably thought he can laugh his way out of it eventually, just as what he’d usually do on everything else.
I went to see him that morning of Saturday in the ICU. Even then I knew that he’s in a very critical condition, having been revived after an attack the day before. It was too hard to look at him with all the medical apparatuses attached to his body, but there was a glimmer of hope in me because he was awake — even making gestures to let me know that he could hear me.
With his hands tied to the frame of his bed, I can see him wincing in pain. He had been twitching and motioning to have the EI (Endotracheal intubation) removed. It’s hard to see a once-happy person in such a sad, helpless state.
“Laban lang Pongky, ha?” (Keep fighting) was the last thing I said to him.
Deep inside, I was really cheering for him to pull through. Within the family, we were already talking about what to do once he’s transferred to a regular room.
But then that afternoon, my older brother texted me to come to the hospital. There was a tone of grim and sadness in his message and instinct tells me that something bad has happened. On my way there, it felt like my heart is lodged on my throat the whole time.
When I got to the ICU, he was being revived. Yet unlike the day before, he was unresponsive. After several minutes of chest compression and defibrillation, he finally lost his battle. It was one of the saddest days of my life.
Pongky’s sudden passing was devastating to us who knew him and loved him best. We are still trying to grapple with the fact that he’s now gone. For sure, things will never be the same; holidays and special occasions and eat-outs will feel different now without him.
I will miss Pongky suddenly letting out a boisterous guffaw that’s so contagious we’d find ourselves laughing so hard with him. I will miss him barging through the door asking mom for extra rice. I will miss how he was with my nephews, buying them toys and goodies every payday. I will miss talking to him about our mutual admiration for Freddie Mercury. I will miss him spewing expletives when amused or angry. I will miss seeing him by the gate with his majhong buddies every afternoon when I come home from work. I will miss him bugging me to sing Boney M’s Rasputin with him on our next videoke session.
I will miss Pongky for many, many other things. He truly left a big void that nobody else could fill. During the wake when everyone was there — for a moment I was looking for him on the sea of faces, forgetting that it was his wake.
But we are somehow consoled by the thought that he’s no longer in pain. That we wouldn’t hear him hacking with that nasty cough of his that hounded him for years. That he is now free from all the earthly worries that once troubled him.
And most of all, he’s finally reunited with his mom, our Tita Baby, who died five years ago. Thinking about that puts a faint smile on our faces.
Rest easy, pogi cousin. Your ganda cousin will miss you forever.
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