Lolocopter
By Rhoderiezl, when she was fourteen years old
Written as an article for the school magazine she was part of

When my cousin’s grandfather died, she told me how lucky I was to have both sets of grandparents alive. I thought, “Yeah, lucky me.” I have a grandmother who refuses to be called Lola (She wants to be called Mimi) and still lives in the 20th century, and a futile grandfather (Lolo Aga) whom I haven’t seen for six years.

My Lolo Aga used to be very handsome, as seen in his black and white photos and according to Mimi. He was a successful dentist, having his own clinic in Manila and Cabanatuan, Nueva Ecija, his hometown. Life was going great for him until he started smoking and drinking, vices that damaged the family.

When he started smoking and drinking, the first thing I noticed was that he and Mimi did not sleep beside each other anymore. He moved his stuff to the downstairs guestroom, where he would smoke for hours on end. I didn’t like going there because I would have coughing fits. Lolo Aga would also come home late, and then he and Mimi would have a fight. The house would be filled with shouting and screaming and smashing.

Because of his bad habits, he was operated on the lungs and liver. My aunts were amazed on how he survived. He had these huge stitches on the back and abdomen. One of my aunts even joked that he just refused to die.

I remember waking up one morning to yelling and breaking. My mother ushered me to Mimi’s room where everybody was gathered. Their eyes were scared and so was I. What was going on? Then Mama said that Lolo Aga was sick, and that it was dangerous to go out of the room. After a while the shattering stopped. I peeked below the terrace and saw batteries and figurines on the garage. I was terrified. “What if Lolo Aga would harm us?”, I thought.

When I was eight years old, the family moved to Canada except for us**. I thought Lolo Aga would be cured, but I was wrong. He asked us to send him his favourite brand of cigarettes and his beloved beer. Of course my mother didn’t send any, and slowly but surely, he became a hopeless case that everybody gave up on him. Nobody took care of him, and it was even considered that he be put in an institution, sort of like Golden Acres***. He wouldn’t take a bath, drink his medicine, or sleep early. He would justy sit like a dead fish washed up on the shore.

So he had cancer of the lungs. Right now he’s in Canada, fighting for dear life. I can imagine his snow-white hair, wrinkled face, and tall, lanky frame. There is only one good memory imprinted on my memory about my Lolo Aga. He used to hold me up until my fingertips could brush the ceiling. Then he would turn me several times and I would shriek with delight. He would say, “Helicopter!” When he put me down, I would raise my arms and scream “Helicopter!” I would go for this adventure ride over and over and over again.

I want my grandfather to reach Christmas, his favorite time of the year. It would be sad if he died this Yuletide season. Then again, he was considered spiritually dead already, this is more like his physical death. It would be good for him to reflect upon his tragic life. This Christmas season is the birth of a new hope for my family, a lesson learned, and a time that can never be brought back.

By the time you read this, my Lolo Aga would probably be dead. But every time I see a helicopter, I remember my helicopter ride with my Lolo Aga and promise myself that I would never allow vices and bad habits to conquer my being. I will be just like my helicopter ride, soaring and free.

~
My grandfather did reach Christmas and died the following month in January 2001. His body now lies beside one Michael Jackson–no kidding, that’s his grave-neighbour’s name.

*Lolo means grandfather; Lola, grandmother.
**Us - my mother, brother, and me.
***Golden Acres - a home for the aged. In the Philippines, allowing senior family members to live in such an institution is considered abandonment, lack of respect and duty, and taboo.