Essay of Kay Yang
I walked through the white, musty corridors of Makati Medical Center with a heart filled with the naiveté of a child. I was told that Patrick’s condition had worsened, but I shrouded my mind with clouds of optimism. It was a mechanism I had always propped up in myself over the years, in defense of fear. Patrick would pull through; he did for the past three years. He had to.
But as I opened the hospital door to room 654, I felt my stomach lurch. A doctor and two nurses flocked around the area opposite his hospital bed, and I saw only a face I could not recognize. A shrunken boy lay in between sheets of white, his face crumpled in pain. His eyes were a dull black, and I could no longer see the sparkle of hope I always sought to find. I only saw the gaunt shadow of a boy who once brimmed with life. “The tumors in his spine are causing the seizures of pain. We have to give him a double dosage of painkillers,” the doctor said, painfully blunt. I felt the clouds I shrouded myself in dissolve, and I could only feel the onset of fear. My eyes watered. For the very first time, I realized I was helpless.
I sat in the corner of the room and waited for the painkillers to kick into his system. He opened his eyes and smiled weakly, apologizing that I had to see him in his current state, and asked me how my life was- how my art was. I shook my head. It was so typical of Patrick to worry about the emotions of others before himself. But then I realized, perhaps it was to distract himself from the pain. It was on the same day that I told him I wanted to paint a portrait of him, and I did not realize that such a simple proposal would give him such joy. As I saw the glimmer of hope in his eyes, and the crooked smile that I thought had been lost, I felt a sense of security revive in myself. I was not helpless. I left room 654 determined to alleviate the suffering of Patrick Zaldarriaga, through the only means I could – my art.
Two weeks later, however, my lifelong friend passed away due to organ failure. I found myself numb; the sadness – always underlying the death of a loved one – stifled itself to a temporary stupor. There was only this aching desire in me to recreate a life that had been lost – through my own, simple means – with a paintbrush. I clung onto his life with my promise. I placed my brush down as the outline of his face began to emerge on the canvass. “I miss you Pat,” I whispered, closing my eyes. I was left breathless by the intensity I still felt.
Suddenly, all I could think about were all the things I didn’t know about him- the things I never had time to learn. I didn’t know what his favorite book was, nor the last thought that occupied his mind as his heart came to a final stop. I didn’t know what nightmares he had as a child. I didn’t know what he truly feared. I didn’t know… I never will.
But perhaps the memories were enough: his childish smile as I taught him how to play the piano for the very first time, the way he was bent on repeating the sounds I created as my hands glided over the plastic keyboard I brought over to his house, our laughter as we used his crutches in sword fights and the reprimand we received from our alarmed parents afterwards, that last day in the hospital as we talked about life in all its humor, in all its painful beauty. Armed with only his will, he fought. “I have to put up a brave front”, he told me, while slowing to a pause. “Because this battle will be a long and hard one.”
The light in his eyes slowly came through as I dabbed the canvass with strokes of linseed oil and a blur of white. The twinkle of hope I was so fond of – the twinkle of hope I always strive to find in myself- glistened once more. It was then that I realized what Patrick’s life gave me. His thoughtfulness taught me selflessness. His strength showed me perseverance. His life- brought abruptly to an end by an untimely illness- left an eternal imprint on my character. As I go through my own battles, I often think back to Patrick’s struggle and remember his voice, which always contained dashes of optimism. But most of all, I remember his fighting spirit- something I could not see in a physical sense, but something I felt imbued in my own nature. He will always be my source of inspiration, and as I walk through this life with all its joyt and pains, I can only hope to be half the person he had already become.
