Why I Continue To Wear Yellow

I like Lance Armstrong mainly for his efforts towards cancer awareness. But I never was an avid follower. I never knew why. Maybe because he is still a roadie and I am a mountain biker? Maybe because he is more concerned about draft while I more of that next drop? Maybe because he rides Trek and I ride generic?

There is a chasm that exists between being a roadie and a mountain biker which, for some of us, is a divide that is difficult to cross. For this mountain biker in particular, he finds the equipment on that side of the ridge more expensive; where size is inversely proportional to cost. He can not comprehend, for the life of him, how some tiny thing, merely because it came from the land of pizza and spaghetti, can be more expensive than his Romanian made wheelset.

Going back to Lance, I knew little of the man. If not for friends who spoke about his exploits in Leadville over our usual post-bike beer fest, I would have not known he actually ride mountainbikes and can be pretty good at it. In fact, he won that event beating a Leadville icon.

But what really stood out in my view was he had cancer and had beaten it. For one who is familiar with this illness, that introduction to the man was enough. My purpose has been defined.

So I put on the band, not for the personality who started it but because of his victory over the disease. Indeed, I wear this band for more profound reasons.

I wear this band because of the noise it made about cancer and its quest to find a cure.

I wear this band for the father who will never get to experience how to walk his daughter on her wedding day or the mother who will never know how it is to beam with pride on her son's college graduation because they lost their children to cancer.

I wear this band for the son who will never know how it is to feel his dad's enduring compassion specially on moments when all things seems lost or the daughter who will forever miss her mom's laughter while she prepares breakfast because they lost their parents to cancer.

I wear this band for those who now journey on in life with a limp because the person that gives them true strength is now gone, taken by cancer.

I wear this band for Cecille and Carmella and those like them who have gone through, some still going through, this dreadful experience called cancer.

Until cancer is finally beaten, I will wear my yellow Livestrong band.

Yes, I wear this band for more profound reasons.

Valentine Stories

Valentine Story 1:

The other night, I found myself huddled with the significant other while she was watching her favorite telenovela. No, I have not changed my mind about them. As I have written a few blogs earlier, I am not one for telenovelas. I think they dwell heavily on the sad and then insidiously package it as something entertaining. How can sad be entertaining remains a conundrum for this writer. 

Back to the cuddling. On the screen was, for my wife, the “kilig-King,” the young actor Xian Lim. I impishly asked her if she prefers I was as good looking. Turning to me and with a tight hug she said: “I will always choose this one, for he takes care of me.” 

I never saw myself as the caring husband but more of the debating type. Cecille loves to rebut any thought I would verbalize. These days, however, she would just remain quiet. She probably thinks it is dangerous to argue with a fool for people listening will not know who among us is. There is virtue in silence. 

But that evening something beautiful was said and with it, I have become more of a man that I imagined myself to be.

Valentine Story 2:

Fairly recently, even if it lasted only for two paydays, I was able to give Cecille a little allowance. Literally little. As in 200 Philippine Pesos little. Or at the current exchange rate US$5. My power, honestly, can not go beyond that.

To give an idea how little is little: no one goes on a date on Php200 unless they are intent on sharing a balut (fertilized duck egg) and a Coke sakto as their date's highlight. There should be enough left for a packet of Mentos to mask the balut aftermath.  

For someone who already receives a modest 5-figure salary, Php200 is hardly significant. It will not buy her that bag she has been wanting for decades or even that shoe or a Double Burger at Army Navy. It may bring her to Greenhills or Divisoria where she can get a good made-in-China imitation but she will not, for a good portion of that Php200 will be spent on fare alone. There is no indulging on Php200. 

But while most would find Php200 pitiful (others might even decide to give me another Php200 as a sign they sympathize with my predicament), this woman was just happy to receive. It is not merely out of prudence, as I now understand it. Cecille's sense of joy is more profound, always defined by the condition of the giver's heart.

For her, it is not how much I have but who I am willing to be in our relationship. That I have this assurance from the woman of my dreams, this Php200 truly rewards me more than her.