Over laughs at our merry end of the banquet table Bunny shared, “I’m so happy that I remember my daughter who passed away.” Unlike us who were stunned, Bunny’s husband Reli nudged her to go on. So we learned the story of their eldest Anna Elisa, nicknamed Chinot, who while dueling with cancer, had inspired others to celebrate life.
Chinot was 45 in 2010 when informed that her breast lump was malignant. At once she determined to not let it ruin her British husband and three growing children’s life in London. From siblings she sought advice how to break the news to mom. She knew it would break her heart. “And it did. I ended up consoling her as she was absolutely distraught,” Chinot wrote in her blog about fighting the dreaded disease.
The blog became a counseling clinic of sorts. Chinot narrated the outpouring of messages and acts of love. A brother researched on cures, a sister stormed the heavens with prayers, another bro buzzed positive vibes from New York, and another sis arrived with spouse and toddlers to help out during the treatments. In-laws were very supportive: “loving husband Al’s mom,” a cancer survivor, visited often to do house chores. Neighbors dropped off food and notes, some anonymously just to let Chinot know people cared. She described the healing power of joy. Emboldened, two pals had mammograms: one was clear, the other turned out to need timely chemotherapy. It was to Chinot that a bosom friend in America turned upon confirming that she too had carcinoma.
By 2012 the Big C had spread to Chinot’s brain, lungs and liver. She decided to spend her remaining time with persons she loved most. Al lost no time resettling them in Manila. Bunny and Reli got to see her almost daily. Chinot busied herself with normal activities, including in her children’s school PTA. She needed more drastic radiation therapy. “Maybe I’d glow in the dark,” she quipped.
But Bunny found it “the most horrible.” She could only watch from outside through a little glass window. Chinot’s arms and legs were strapped down, her head and neck clamped immobile, Bunny recounted. “Her eyes bulged as the bad cells were being zapped. I prayed, ‘Dear God, if it be Your will, release her from any more suffering.’” Chinot made them all know how happy she was being with them.
Visiting one morning in Oct. 2014, Bunny overheard the doctor tell brave Chinot on her sickbed that nothing more could be done. “I wept, she was calm,” Bunny said. As they chatted, Chinot went limp and dropped the tablet she was typing on. Bunny called the family to the room. Al cradled Chinot in his arms and asked her to call out their children’s names. She did. “And me, what’s my name?” She whispered it, puckered her lips for a kiss, and breathed her last.
Chinot had written down her last wishes. She was to be dressed in white, have a happy wake, then cremated. Her ashes were to be strewn into the sea fronting her vacation house. To mom she assured, “So you know I’m with God, I’ll send a butterfly and a rainbow.”
Not by coincidence do butterflies and rainbows appear in burials. Butterflies symbolize rebirth, metamorphosis from a crawler to a beautiful creature that flutters, a reassurance to grievers of continued life. Rainbows show hope after the storm.
On the day of Chinot’s cremation a large moth landed on the front door for days, Bunny marveled. As they sailed out to sea the next sunny morning they spotted a rainbow by the island. They were crying and laughing at the same time as the white flowers that Chinot had wanted them to toss into the water followed the boat back to shore.
On the drive home Reli turned on the car radio on Bunny’s request. And what would be playing if not one of Chinot’s favorite songs that goes:
If I die young bury me in satin
Lay me down on a bed of roses
Sink me in the river at dawn
Send me away with the words
of a love song.
Lord make me a rainbow,
I’ll shine down on my mother
She’ll know I’m safe with You when
She stands under my colours, oh and....
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I last talked to Rico J. Puno one afternoon years ago at a Davao City bistro. He was having late lunch with fellow performers at a concert that night. “You can’t sing on a full stomach,” he said about his last meal for that day. He urged me to have a beer and brief him on national events. I complied only after he acceded to my request to sing at the table one stanza from any of his hits. The other diners loved it. He was ebullient as always. His infectious laughter and ribald jokes are what fans will miss aside from his inimitable crooning. My condolences to his bereaved family.
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