Tell My Parents I’ll Be Late
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A traveler at Ninoy Aquino International Airport (Source: New York Times)
After the coronavirus spread and countries started to shut down their borders, I’ve been worried for them. We’ve all heard the oft-repeated line from the health agencies: Those who are elderly and have underlying health conditions are affected more severely.
My parents are way past their prime. Both of them are already in their 70s. My dad had tuberculosis, and Mama has diabetes. They’re definitely high risk and vulnerable.
We’ve had uncomfortable conversations about what might happen to them. “Well,” Dad began nonchalantly, “Alam naman natin na pag nagkasakit ako, yun na.” (We both know that if I get sick [with coronavirus], that’s it for me).
I can say nothing to refute this.
I should be there with them. The thought weighs heavily on my mind.
I’m an only child. Though we do have relatives scattered around Metro Manila, the strict prohibition of travel meant that there was little those relatives could do. Besides, they have their own families.
My parents require more immediate assistance since they do not go out. They buy from the vegetable peddlers who pass by pushing their carts. Local barangay workers distribute relief packets of de lata (canned goods) that replenish their stock. For other items, they ask their neighbors to add on items when they go out for their own groceries too.
“We are getting by,” my dad reassures me. “Don’t worry about us. Think of your own family first.”
He’s right. The UK has the highest death toll out of all the other European countries. I’ve stopped keeping track after COVID-19 related deaths passed 50,000 people.
***
Once, my parents and I were driving back to Manila from Ilocos, visiting relatives. Because there was no Google Maps, Waze, Twitter and what-have-you-with-a-live feed that could have warned us of the traffic situation, we got stuck somewhere in Pampanga due to lahar (volcanic ash) flows blocking the main route back home.
I didn’t understand what was happening at the time. I just knew that we were stuck in the car, along with hundreds of other cars in the middle of nowhere. All engines were turned off. We had to spend the night there.
Some vivid memories from that time remain.
I remember watching tall cogon grasses on the side of the road. Endless tall stalks with wasps of white-brown flowers, swayed feather-like in the wind. I remember picking up one that had fallen and being delighted to discover that its where “wishes” came from. There were hundreds of little grass seeds, surrounded by thin white threads ready to be carried by the wind.
Cogon grasses are ubiquitous by the roadside
I remember my dad, calm and reassured during the long hours of waiting. He never lost his patience no matter how many times I asked, “Kailan ba tayo makaka-uwi? Malayo pa ba tayo? Kailan tayo darating sa bahay?” (When are we ever gonna move? Are we still far? When are we reaching home?)
Dad never worries.
But recently in our phone conversations, his voice betrays a change. He watches the news and sees the same alarming headlines that I see. He feels the distance between us. He says nothing, but I wonder if he wants me to come back?
I’ve tried to work out the logistics of going back to the Philippines. There are currently only very limited, prohibitively expensive flights from London to Manila. For the whole month of June, Philippine Airlines only had three flights available; the next available one on 26 June was selling for around GBP 2,000 for one person, one way. That’s a small fortune at about PhP120,000. By comparison, when I was checking the ticket prices last year I’d seen tickets that cost GBP 800 roundtrip.
I have a four-month-old son and a two-year old-daughter. I cannot take them with me; nor would it be easy to leave them with my husband, who still has to work even during lockdown. We certainly cannot afford the trip for all of us, and neither would I want to expose them by traveling as a family.
Filipino migrant workers are stranded due to the pandemic
Even if I somehow make it back by myself, I will be quarantined as soon as I land. Officially, it is a 14-day wait period. But the news about the arrival and handling of the returning OFWs is not encouraging. They are stuck in their quarantine holding sites long past the quarantine period, mired by bureaucratic red tape and the inept handling of test results. They are viewed with suspicion and are rarely welcomed by their home communities.
***
I know that if either of my parents catches the virus, with the current situation being what it is, I may not be able to reach their side in time.
All that would be left to do would be to bury them.
So I lie awake at night and prepare my heart to say goodbye to my parents in one form or another. When would that be? In the next few months, or in the next few years?
***
Maybe it will be alright somehow. Eventually, the world will change once again. There are already signs of a return to normality. The lockdown rules are being relaxed. More and more people are able to travel across borders.
I think of that road trip again. At the time, the wait never seemed to end.
But it did. No matter how it felt, we weren’t stuck there forever. The roads opened up. We were able to move again.
It was just that travel had stalled for a while, that’s all. We got home eventually.
***
So the next time I talk to Dad and Mama, I’ll ask if they can recall that day when traffic stopped in Pampanga. How much did they remember? Did they doubt at that moment, if we could ever come back home?
I’ll tell them that just like that day, I might be late.
But I’ll reach home, too, in the end.
Katherine Doctolero-Bandanwal
Katherine Doctolero-Bandanwal writes creative and scholarly articles to understand the world within and around her. She lives in the UK with her husband and their young children.