“Jenny accomplished things, not because of certain advantages, but despite every road block imaginable”
My last memory of my friend Jenny Ortuoste was her small, slight figure waving at me from her gate while the tricycle I was on was driving away, her outdoor cats at her feet.
I visited her at her Dasmarinas, Cavite home the Sunday before she passed. We spent two hours catching up – a bit like old times, but not quite.
I saw that our conversation had tired her out even though she said she was grateful to be talking to somebody.
As my ride pulled away a brief thought flashed in my mind: “Remember this moment as much as you can. This might be the last time.”
But I scolded myself for such a silly thought. Didn’t she just say “see you soon”?
Didn’t I promise her I’d come in the morning next time so I could stay longer and not worry about making it back to QC too late? Heck, didn’t she point to the flooring of her house and say she’d get around to fixing it when she was better?
I met Jenny at a corporate job in February 2005, long before she was the professor, writer, and critic she is known to be now.
She was just rebuilding her life after being left with two daughters to raise. I was then 29 – a young, restless, conflicted wife and mother.
We bonded instantly and became notorious for our extended lunch breaks. In her I had the big sister I never had. She was “take charge!” personified.
We were only officemates for two months, but remained close in the years that followed.
We normally met up for late dinner and then coffee, after my work at the newspaper, and we would always be so shocked that it was past midnight and the coffee shop was closing.
We talked about many things – our children, our workplaces, men, things we wanted to write and why things were the way they were, or weren’t.
We toasted her acceptance to an MBA program, and then PhD where she enjoyed her creative writing classes.
I was standing in a crammed MRT coach when she called me to say she had won a Palanca.
When I told her I had struck out on my own, she treated me to a feast in Malate.
When she thought she was leaving for the US for good, she gave me entire boxes of books she had had from her childhood and teenage years.
Those, and a pink-and-white quilt she had made with her own hands.
She asked me to read aloud an excerpt of her short story at her book launch.
During the pandemic, she sent me coasters, pink and white again, and a rainbow-colored blanket she had knitted.
She sent my family an entire Max’s meal after I spoke to her students on Zoom for just one hour (the food delivery took longer than my lecture).
In January, along with a handwritten recommendation for a workshop I had wanted to attend, she sent me two jars of Dipolog sardines, as if she were the one thanking me for a favor.
All these she did while trying to afford living in Manila on school days, on a teacher’s salary.
Life was not easy for Jenny and because of this she developed a certain wariness about people and their intentions. I sometimes felt she was too jaded — angry, even — while I went about being optimistic, naive, and foolish.
Then again, that is how it is with sisters. You’re different, but you have each other’s backs.
Or had.
Prior to this third illness, cancer of the pancreas (she had earlier beaten cancer of the colon and of the breast, that’s how spunky she was), we thought Jenny was in the clear for good.
When she visited me at my home in December — bearing books, as always — I suggested a Filipino lunch and I was careful to order the healthier-sounding dishes but she insisted she could eat anything.
“I was extremely careful with my food before, but look what happened…I still got sick!” she said. And then we went to Dapitan to shop for Christmas trimmings.
On social media there is a flood of tributes about Jenny’s awards and professional accomplishments. I am proud of those, of course, but prouder still that this giant of a woman was my longtime friend, first and foremost.
I’m writing this with my coffee cup resting on her coaster, confusing the past tense with the present.
When we spoke last Sunday, Jenny talked about her dread of the coming aggressive chemo, being “done,” and going on one’s terms.
She had no energy to write these days, she said, and all she wanted to do was sleep. It is a consolation that Jenny did pass in her sleep and was likely not in pain as she went.
She had had too much pain elsewhere, anyway.
Her precious gift to me was her valiant attempt to rise above all adversity.
She accomplished things, not because of certain advantages, but despite every road block imaginable. What a life. What a woman. adellechua@gmail.com
(The author is former Opinion Editor of Manila Srandard.)
