MANILA, Philippines – On the day they brought me to the hospital I dreamt of my dead son. He was at some door marked “Exit” and seemed to be managing traffic. “I’ll take care of this one,” he said officiously, referring to me. So I didn’t die. I wasn’t that sick. I was only meant to go to the hospital.

“Who, mommy? Not daddy??” The kids exclaimed when they got the emergency text. (He’s supposed to be sicker than I).

Since I have never been good at attending wakes or visiting the sick, I didn’t realize how comforting it was to have people fussing over you, storming heaven with prayers (medyo nakakahiya) and receiving so many flowers that you don’t deserve.

How come everybody knew! (The wonders of technology!) “Don’t leave us naman,” Babeth Lolarga wailed. Neil Garcia reportedly wept, and some gay designers too, that I hardly knew, because I was their “role model.” Cecile Z said that when she heard, tears rolled down her cheeks into her hamburger sandwich. It was hilarious. Danny Dalena texted a dirty joke. When she came by, I put green eyeshadow on Sylvia Ventura. Jimmy Laya texted me to get well because we were to go dancing with the gang.

In the hospital somebody called to ask, “Kumusta na si Gilda?” The maid who was holding my cellphone answered, “Mabuti naman po.” “Nasan siya?” the caller asked. “Nasa operating room po.”

Chit Roces sat and chanted Zen “ohms” and Edna Manlapaz lit a candle.

Of lepers and martyrs

Carmen Tiongco said she prayed to Damian, the saint of lepers (!?), and to “Maximilian Shaw,” the saint of desperate cases, “who witnessed a Jew about to be shot by a Nazi and offered to give up his life instead.” (Our resident ecclesiastical specialist, Lito B. Zulueta, says there’s no St. Maximilian Shaw, but there is a St. Maximilian Kolbe, a Franciscan conventual friar — Ed.)

Ishilta’s prayer read: Teyatha om, Bhekanze, Bhekanze Maha, Bhekanze Maha, Bhekanze Radza, Samung gate solra.

From Gigi D, my babaeng bakla pal in the West Indies, I got this e-mail: “O say mo, manash, welcome back to the land of the living! I will give you my salad recipe pero baka knowing mo na: Green papaya, grated, with vinaigrette; my vinaigrette is: crushed bawang, sibuyas na hiniwa-hiwa finely, put a bit of salt and grind them into the garlic and sibuyas, para may i come out ang juice. Bagis, lime juice i-join, meat or vegetable stock, a spoonful, pepper tapos olive oil. Whisk to death all the ingredients until well blended. I-join sa green papaya, toss well. Throw in finely sliced red and yellow pepper para sa color effectutay. Masarap and the bawang and sibuyas is good for circulation.

With so much love and prayers and incantations and voodoo, who would dare not get well?

Soon it was in Cecile Zamora’s blog (my illness and their visit). “Better than Inquirer,” someone said. “Everybody reads it.” Since I am a computer illit, it was left to my husband to access the site. So there he is, my old man with a cloud of white hair, hunched over the keyboard, eyebrows knit, trying to figure out where in heavensname “Chuvaness,” this very hip blog, can ever be found.

I told him “chuvaness” meant “Whatever.” But I wasn’t sure so I asked Manny Chaves. Manny said all he knew was what he had overheard at a party.

“Ano ba talaga ang chuva?”

“Pareho ng chever”

“E ano ang chever?”

“Same as chowa.” (Gee, thanks)

Fashion visit

The fashion girls had come to visit me at home. So what do 30s to 40s people talk about? A new cosmetic that will make the hair of your eyelashes “fat.” How to keep a skinny model figure without being anorexic: take a carbo blocker with every piece of pie and Senecal with every slice of meat. “So what do you do if you have to go?” (I will not pursue that one).

To impress them, I bragged that Satur Ocampo phoned to cheer me up. But they were more impressed when Celine said that it was Michael Bublé who called up a convalescing Pepper Teehankee.

Before you older readers throw your arms up in dismay, may I inform you that these girls, Cecile Zamora, Celine Lopez, Patty Eustaquio and Kate Torralba, are hardworking talented young clothes designers profitably selling their own labels. And Myrza Sison is the editorial director of Summit Media. (Sorry I can’t reply to that blog because my old man’s still looking for it).

It was such a fun visit that I had a relapse afterwards.

From now on I swear that everything I will eat is organic. Like the healthy chicharon of Ambeth Ocampo’s aunt which is fried in canola oil. And the organic lechon of Reimon Gutierrez whose pigs are fed discarded arugula leaves from his biodynamic farm.

Ballroomers’ visit

Another day it was my Friday group of ballroom dancers who came to the house. Rose Sison had expressed a wish to visit me and I had texted back “Take the dancers, I will prepare merienda.” But I forgot! When they trooped in, I had to scrounge the fridge and empty the Tupperwares. But Techi Velasquez graciously assured me that the leftovers were fine. They also affirmed that I was the worst ballroom dancing pupil of all time. In fact, Roger, the only DI who indulged me, had left for Argentina to teach tango to the Argentinians. Elma Dizon’s and Ben Chan’s flowers bloomed away on the table between Fe Fernandez, Sylvia Ventura, Mary Morato and DI Rod.

Rio Almario came with Karina Bolasco and Wendell Capili. Ning T asked him, “May I know your name?” The national artist at least knew who Ning was. Cheloy Dans came with Bencab and Annie, taking plate-size anthuriums he had grown in his garden in Baguio. I wore the Japanese clogs given by Shoko. I wore the jacket given by Patty. Tulingan was delivered by Lulu Malvar’s driver and tinapang tilapia from Bataan by Pepe Abueva (Ubos na, Pepe).

The Inner Dance healers came. Everyone had their eyes closed and were dancing their cosmic dance in our sunken sala when the scholarly, very political 87-year-old Letty Constantino arrived. Lagot! I thought. But Letty gamely closed her eyes and danced with her hands. The women’s libber, Anna Sarabia, slipped in and looked bewildered amid the wave of dancing healers, Bong, Troy, Justin, Lizette, Joy, Chato, Lyvia, Georgina. I had another relapse.

Long-lost friends

One thing about friends believing you’ve been snatched from the jaws of death, people you’ve not seen in a long, long time pop up. Like Bhen Cervantes, Rose Scott, Nic Tiongson and my favorite restaurateur, Jude, Amy and Angel Ylagan. From my own teenage years in Malate, Toto and Ellen Ocampo and Freddie Arrastia, all beginning to dodder like me. Close friends hug you and feed you—like Mariel Francisco, Cora Alvina, Peng Arriola, Edna Manlapaz, Ann Wizer and Steve de Leon. Julie Lluch, Norma Liongoren, Butch Santos and Sylvia Mayuga raved about Bob Feleo’s Basi Revolt exhibit. Vergel Santos sketched everybody around the table. Maria Abulencia had just launched her incredible biography “Agape,” and appeared with Rinna Soriano, Agnes Prieto and her Brigadier General friend who liked my champorado and tuyo. I almost felt guilty I didn’t die.

If this sounds like a shameless “Among Those Present” copy of Maurice Arcache, it is, palanggas. I promise never to do it again. Is it a roll call? Yes! All those who did not come are absolved. At least it frees me from having to visit you too when you’re sick, even if I love you.