I don't know where Ernie is now. He must have gone back to his province in the north. Or maybe he's still around in the mad city somewhere. Maybe he's in some foreign land. I just hope he's not back in the dark, smoky, dimly-lit square room where he worked before.
The last time I saw him, he was puffing his cigarette. It was around ten in the evening and it was dark, but this unusual way of smoking was visible that night. He would breathe heavily, each time filling his chest with as much air and burned tobacco. He was restless but grieving at the same time, tired but hated rest and sleep. All of us there understood. Ernie has just been out from the hospital after several months of taking care our friend R., who, by then, was laid in a modest wooden coffin and placed in the middle of the room where we were.
All of us there that night who really knew Ernie's story silently sat and fought back tears. We were humbled by what he has done. It was ironic that he, of all people and all of 23 years old that time, would teach us the ultimate lesson on selfless giving and unconditional love.
Our friend R. met Ernie in some very unusual circumstances. They met one night because Ernie had what R. needed. They became friends soon after and Ernie would be regular in our Sunday lunches and afternoon coffees and sometimes, Friday dinner and drinks. We felt awkward initially because we didn't know exactly what he was. Was he there to run errands for us? Was he there as the butler, concierge? In one of those parties, R. suddenly felt that piercing jolt in the chest and had our doctor friend who was in that party do an outright check up. A visit to the hospital first hour tomorrow morning was non-negotiable, our doctor friend said. R obliged.
And that was the start of several months of practically living in the hospital. In each of these months that followed, it was only Ernie who was there all the time all the way. He would be shy to reveal, but we found out he practically lived like a patient making the hospital his home. He never left R.'s hospital room. He did all that a private nurse would normally do, and more: bathe, handle medicines, story tell.
It was during these times that they naturally became very close. So close that their lives were touched. Ernie, without the slightest tinge of feeling embarrassed, was deeply touched with R.'s gesture of teaching him how to speak English. It was in one of those long nights that R asked Ernie to lead in praying the rosary. He was too shy to admit that he didn't know how it was done. So R. very patiently went through each mystery teaching Ernie the correct way of saying the prayer. And every night they would do the same until such time that Ernie mastered it so perfectly. Ernie didn't know any other English up until that time. I don't know if it was a joke. Be he insisted he was being truthful.
Two nights before he died, Ernie disclosed, R. made two unusual requests. First, he asked that his first-born son, if ever he'd have one, be named after our friend. No explanation was given. Secondly, R. asked Ernie to send for somebody who knows how to cut hair. R. wanted that Ernie fashioned his hairstyle similar to the short cut that R. was sporting that time. Ernie had a hard time looking for one, but he managed in the end. So soon after, the nurses were joking around, they were having a hard time distinguishing one from the other. But Ernie and R. were happy in their newfound connection.
R. died a day after they had their haircut. Ernie was the only one in the room as usual and he panicked when he saw the flatlines in the monitor. His screams calling for the nurses filled the quiet hospital hallways. All the nurses, who have become their friends, rushed to the room and tried to revive R. Tubes were drawn, R.'s chests were pumped, every monitor observed. Ernie was inconsolable. He cried like he had never cried before. Their nurse friends took turns trying to comfort Ernie since they too were teary-eyed and didn't want to show Ernie. Finally, Rose, Ernie's closest nurse friend, hugged him and whispered, "Let R. go. R deserves to rest." Only then did Ernie calm down.
During the wake, I was happy to see that R.'s family acknowledged Ernie's selfless service. All those times that R. needed round-the-clock attention and care, this young guy who didn't even finish high school and who wasn't even related to R. offered himself. It was the ultimate example of selfless giving. That's why, all throughout the wake, we would have this quiet admiration and respect for R. I personally was so humbled that I never even bothered to ask myself if I can do the same. I am not sure.
R. was interred in a city south of Manila. R.'s family was gracious enough to pay for Ernie's plane fare so he can attend the funeral service. To this day, I refuse to know what exactly happened that time. I don't know how Ernie said goodbye to R., but that's not important.
What matters to me, and what I hold dear to this day, is the lesson Ernie taught me how to be selfless in giving. And how love, when genuine and sincere, doesn't care if the object of our affection is a man or a woman. Love is love, relationship is relationship regardless of whether it's between a man or a woman, one woman and another woman, or one man and another man.
Like in Rudy's story.
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