Asuncion Garces Sarte

Siony was not your average grandma. She was a glamour puss, elegant, stylish, and smelled of expensive perfumes and cosmetics. Yet totally accessible and real; nothing was off limits. I recall her bathroom, with the double sinks, shag carpet, and the long mirror with perfect lighting; playing with the contents of her vanity cabinet. Dabbing indelicately and likely wasting precious drops of her youth elixirs and powdering my cheeks with Guerlain highlighter. But she never scolded me and she was a keeper of all my secrets.

She had a beauty routine known only to those close to her, but a fierce secret to outsiders. Grandma was gorgeous, but if you asked her, she was the ugly duckling compared to her older sisters. I used to flip through her black and white photo albums- the ones with the magnetic backing and plastic film to cover and hold the photos in place- and think she was crazy to not consider herself a beauty. The trick was to appear like her youth was effortless. Her first layer of scent was Jean Nate. Such a throwback to the 70s and 80s, fresh out of her shower. I can smell it now even as I type. I'm transported to my childhood home, where my grandparents lived with us and my mom's brother too. The epicenter of most holidays until my early teens when we all moved. 

A clear sign her Alzheimers was advancing quickly was when Grandpa started dressing her. He picked her outfits every day, and often head to toe in a single color. All pink. All red. All brown. All yellow. Never combinations she would have chosen herself, but the monochromatic color scheme was how he ensured she matched and therefore she couldn't be mad at him, even if she didn't actually register what she wore. And hats. Big hats to protect her face because Grams had porcelain skin that belied her age. Not that she'd ever tell you the exact number, as she revelled in being mistaken for our mothers' sister, or our mother, when we went out. Sarte women always travel in packs, so this was a common occurrence. 

I used to rummage through her walk-in closet. Opening all her shoe boxes and trying them on. I had surprisingly big feet for my age, so I tottered around in her heels from around 9-10 years old. My first pair of heels were borrowed from her and worn for my 8th grade graduation. She was somewhat of a socialite in the Philippines. I recall stories of her involvement as a Blue Lady of Imelda Marcos. What that means in reality, I have no clue as these were just casual references from my youth but perhaps that's why she had so many shoes. 

I vividly remember one of her last lucid moments with me. Spring of 2010 and I was about to move to Boston, 3000 miles from home and farther than anyone else in my family a thousand times over. Sheer luck that my brother ended up in dental school mere weeks after my move. Grandpa drove me to John Wayne airport, with Grams buckled into the back seat, smiling and chatting with us both. I was so stressed as of course I was running late. I was impatient and wanted to just get there and through security to relax. I underestimated the nerves of moving so far away, with less than 2 weeks between getting the promotion and my actual flight. We arrived at the terminal and I was flying about, getting the luggage from the trunk, fidgeting. Grandpa was fretting and lecturing as he is prone to do, but Grandma was serene. She wrapped me in a hug so tight and said she loved me and to come home soon. My biggest regret is I didn't savour this moment, her embrace, her lucidity as I should have. I rushed the hug and was off. I didn't even look back. Impatient like only a 20 something can be. Rushing off to sit and wait. So stupid. 

The next time I saw her was that winter. My brother and I took emergency flights back to California because she had deteriorated so rapidly through summer and fall that she was admitted into hospice. We thought her time had come. She was no longer mobile and frozen in position due to the Parkinsons triggered by her Alzheimer's. Clarity of mind, even for a moment, was a thing of the distant past. We had to turn her to prevent bed sores and put washcloths in her clenched fists to protect her delicate skin. I changed her diaper the way she changed mine as a baby. But my god, despite how this disease ravished her, she was still luminous. Beautiful. Every care worker and nurse always commented and Grandpa would beam with pride. Grandma is his one true love, together since they were 19 and inseparable. 

I never imagined she would linger in this state for another 7 years. She used to visit me in my dreams, the woman of my youth, and I would wake up sobbing and clutching at her. I often wished she would pass to end her suffering then feel tremendous guilt at the thought. She could hear, she could see, but couldn't move. I know she felt pain and fear. I hope she felt our love even if she didn't recognise us. Sometimes she spoke in her native childhood dialects and sometimes her eyes flickered at your voice, at your name. But that wasn't really her. That's not how I want to remember her, though those memories are burned into my brain as if branded with an iron. I am lucky compared to my mom, her siblings, my grandpa. I was protected by distance and did not often have to face her reality like they did. 

Instead I will think about her dancing in the kitchen. Playing mah-jong at the parties she and Grandpa threw, where the men were banished to play poker in the garage. Singing in the church choir where the director clearly adored her as she was often front and center, impeccably dressed, standing out in a sea of other ladies. 

I've inherited her love of all things luxurious and decadent. I have my own perfume collection on my bathroom vanity, modelled after her tray of proudly displayed scents in sensuous bottles. Each carefully curated for my mood, season, vibe. But I hope most of all that I take after her generous heart and spirit by making those I love feel safe, unjudged, unique and special, because that's how Grandma made me feel. 

Sleep well, Grandma. Please visit me still in my dreams. I miss you. 

33

Happy Birthday to me! I am the happiest I have been in a really long time. It is with the benefit of hindsight that I can compare my emotional and mental state to this time last year and unequivocally state that I am back to my carefree, give no fucks, positive outlook. I didn't realise how much of myself I had lost until very recently.

The major change was ridding myself of toxic, draining energy (and people) and embracing that it is ok- in fact, it's my responsibility- to put myself first and acknowledge when my needs and core values aren't being fulfilled. And more importantly, to do something about it! Reminds me of the airplane oxygen mask instructions; you help yourself before you try to save someone else. I habitually teetered on the edge between caring and martyrdom/self-sacrifice, thinking this is the expression of love, forgetting that it should be a two way exchange. Reciprocal sacrifice, and only where it doesn't cause friction with your true self.

As a woman, there is part of my nature that instinctively is a caretaker. Particularly my upbringing in a matriarchal family, surrounded by beautiful, strong women who regularly take on the world and win; it is in my blood to take charge and show my love for those around me through acts of service. However the older I get, the more I feel the pull of the wild woman inside me. The one who yearns for adventure, variety, action, and adrenaline. My yin and yang. No obligations other than to myself.

The older I get, the less I want to hold back the wildness. I want to embrace it; push farther and farther from shore to discover who I am really am and what truly makes me tick. My quest for happiness, freedom, and self-acceptance.

My 33rd birthday wish will not be wasted. I will wish for the strength and conviction to continue on my road to self-discovery, even when it's raw and daunting, to maximise every precious moment with those I love (both in my life and yet to come), and to take more pictures. Because I am happy. I am glowing. And I am seeing the world through shining eyes again.

The Sound of Silence

The house is quiet. I come home to silence. I hear the lambs in the neighbouring fields. I'm used to the white noise of the TV; he used it like a security blanket. A layer of separation between us that negated the need to speak to one another. To interact. It drowned out even your thoughts. It was easy.

I missed the conversation of our early days. Our dreams, our hopes, our musings and wonderings. My initial attraction was in part because he asked good questions. I can't recall them now, but I distinctly remember that was my first impression the night we met. The art of conversation. The kind of questions that made me think; not on auto-pilot, not small talk, and not mere flirting. His interest in me seemed endless and genuine. I was interesting and vibrant as the object of his laser focus.

I never imagined it would fade away. Perhaps its intensity should have been my warning. Of course it would burn off and evaporate to be replaced with new obsessions regularly. I wanted to be as captivating as golf or Sky Sports.

We rarely watched the same TV programmes. Sat side by side, each engrossed in our respective media of choice. His programme, my phone. My show, his Facebook. Maybe some bits during commercial break, but with DVR, commercials are obsolete. The TV was on when company was over for dinner, turned off only on special occasions like an anniversary. These dinners were not the lingering affairs like in the spring of our relationship. Instead, long silences punctuated by small talk against the flickering candlelight.

He is gone now and I talk to myself. I talk to my dog. Spotify. My DVR is full with unwatched shows. Sometimes I feel alone, but never as lonely as when we were actually together.

All You Need is Love, Right?

*originally posted August 10, 2015 on my old Wordpress blog of the same title.

I’m getting married in exactly 60 days. This still surprises, bemuses, and bewilders me. I don’t really know how this happened.

Our early romance was a whirlwind of cocktails, music, dancing, and late night smokes. Within days of our first kiss, he had pretty much moved in. A month later and I was telling my friends, “I think I’m in love.” No one was more surprised than I was at how quickly everything moved; how right it all seemed.

He proposed on a trip back to my family home in California, after a year and a half together. My friends had whispered, “Do you think you’re getting engaged?” to which I confidently replied “No way. It’s too soon. Maybe next year.” Yet there I was, standing on the beach, windswept hair, custom-designed ring on my finger, with a stone each from my great-grandmother, grandma, and mom, watching the sunset over the Pacific with my new fiancé.

Sounds magical, and it was, but reality has smacked me in the face pretty fucking hard.

The quirks of my now-fiance slowly became a cause for concern and frustration. Like an old but much beloved sweater, he was unravelling in front of me. He was stripping down to his true self. Or maybe I was only now acknowledging the darker parts of him as the echoes of “now and forever, through good times and especially through bad” were ringing through my brain.

The impulsivity that I so loved translated to over-spending on his budget. I’ve discovered that when he says “Yes” it sometimes means “I’m agreeing so you’ll shut up” or “Yeah, sure, I eventually will”. His puppy-like excitement and innocence is often the flip-side of extreme emotional and mental immaturity. We could push each other’s buttons as easily as calling for the elevator in our apartment block.

Yet I love him. The one thing that doesn’t frustrate me is how much we truly, madly, deeply love each other. Even though sometimes I want to fucking throttle him. Even though sometimes I don’t want to look at him or can't bear his touch. Even though sometimes I wonder, can I (we) really do this? Our love is a yin and yang; love and hate, passion and fury, coldness and cuddles.

I’m getting married in exactly 60 days and it is terrifying. Is our love enough to carry through the darkest nights and longest hours? Will we both continue to stubbornly fight to make this work? What if one of us wants to give up? Should I be having these thoughts and fears 60 days before I marry my best friend?