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FAILED SUBMISSIONS

On cats and sparrows

On “The Cat That Was Left Behind” (1983), quarter life crisis, and why adulting sucks

Nobody told me that preparing for one’s own death, or for a relative’s, could be so depressing. Lately I found myself on the Internet browsing for insurance and funeral plans. Harmless, I thought. I now have the capacity to invest in a long-term installment. This should be easy.

Unsurprisingly, I’m finding it harder and harder to cleanse my mind of tedious legalese the more I wallow on these websites. Somewhere between the assurances of personalized customizable packages, illness and accidental coverage, casket material, and guarantees for my peace of mind is a quiet pulsating thrum of indecision. Do I really need this? Are they only out for my money? Is it too early to think about death?

My parents thought so, or so I thought. They don’t have any back up plans whatsoever, and as their first-born I will naturally take up the obligation, no questions asked. When I first raised the idea of getting them a funeral plan, I was met with laughter. “Don’t you want to see us live longer?” they asked. Well, I thought to myself, that’s besides the point.

It may be that, to them, the spirit of bayanihan is still very much alive in a country whose poor are fighting for scraps. In case of death, the local mayor might be so inclined as to provide the casket free of charge or, if the largesse of her pocket permits, donate even half the price of a plot in a cemetery. Relatives may help with organizing the wake et cetera, et cetera, and ultimately you’ll find yourself falling in the trap of utang na loob. Is that any better than shouldering the cost of mourning unceremoniously alone? Isn’t there a via media in all of this?

Growing up, the one piece of literature I’ve always come back to was The Cat That Was Left Behind, a coming-of-age novella by Carole S. Adler. My yellowing copy, salvaged from my old school library and was given to me by the kindly janitor who has since passed, is tucked in a corner somewhere in my room and has always been with me since high school through college.

Chad, our hero, befriends a stray cat while figuring out how to live after being disowned by his own mother. While a tearjerker, it taught me a lesson on independence and the vulnerability that inevitably comes along with it.

Dependency, the state of humiliating reliance on somebody or something else, is not a crutch to be ashamed of. This is old Mrs Saugerty’s triumphant retort when confronted with the rightful ownership of Chad’s cat. Meanwhile, this is a comfortable memory that the cranky fisherman Chester likes to reminisce about as he spends his old age alone at the marina.

It seems I’ll have no way out of my obligations, after all. Chores, however taxing they may be, give meaning to life one way or another, fleeting or permanent. I am not prepared to accept this realization. O, Lord, give me lots of money and strong organizational skills, but not yet!

Am I just lazy and selfish? Do I merely eschew responsibility because I’m a brat or do I fear, in my heart of hearts, that the purpose of life is a big blank canvas of nothing, that acting on the former for its sake is just like weightlifting at Sisyphus’ gym? I’m not entirely sure. What I do know is that both of them paralyze my will to act, which is funny considering how I oh so hyperfixate on other people’s wins with an obsession rivaling that of Lord Smaug the Impenetrable.

Everybody seems to have their own niche carved out conveniently for them. Everyone seems to be traveling out of country, going to grad school, planting businesses, or just thriving by themselves. Don’t get me wrong: I am genuinely happy for them. But envy is humanity’s oldest friend. This naturally translates to internal monologues of self-loathing, victim-blaming, and the never-ending cycle of demeaning myself for not reaching milestones people my age have no problem achieving. It’s a skill issue on my part. I think it’s time to mute some Instagram stories.

And that’s exactly what some friends told me to do. Delete my digital footprint. Go off the grid. The less I know about somebody else’s life, the better. Ignorance is bliss. My only complaint? This advice is no better than saying cyber bullying doesn’t exist if you just log off. Loneliness is at once a state of mind and an existential threat. It hounds you wherever you go.

Perhaps like good old Chester, I should also look for the “in-betweens,” the unadulterated moments of human kindness or the innocently impersonal transit of time and nature, so I could survive the cold reality of mornings, “the getting up for nothing.” Those insurance and funeral plans will have to wait a day or two. Let me first rest a while and smell the proverbial roses.

Yet another submission to a national daily that has not seen the light of day.