Bad News Always Comes in the Morning

I was resting peacefully this morning when I heard my cell phone go off. It was odd, because a) who calls me at 8 in the morning? and b) I went to bed at 3:30 in the morning and the phone was on vibrate. How the hell do I manage even hearing the damn thing?

But anyway I pick up the phone and it's my mom. And she tells me, "Did you hear the news?"

Whenever someone starts a conversation with that, you know it's bad. Really bad. Especially if it comes from Mom.

"Badodong died."

Badodong is the nickname of Michael Glenn Macaraeg, a cousin and good friend of mine. Mom continued:

"I don't know what happened but he was coming home from work and he got into an accident... so young..."

Immediately I went into flashbacks. First trying to remember Mike, how he looked like, how he towered over most of the family at 5'10", but was skinny as a toothpick. I flashed back to 9 years ago, when his family first immigrated here in the Macaraeg Mass Exodus of '96. When the immigrant families had to pick which American Macaraeg family to stay with, his family ended up staying with us. I remember when he started going to school. He went to my old elementary school a few blocks down the road. And he would come home every afternoon and we'd watch afternoon cartoons. He was like a little brother I never had.

I then remembered my grandfather. And how I was sleeping comfortably, in the midst of an Oakland public school strike, when my father went into his room and exclaimed, "I think your grandfather's dead."

I remembered Cindy Rabuy. And how I walked into Kerckhoff Hall 2 years ago and oblivious greeted everyone with a "Good Morning!", completely unaware of the car accident on the 405 that had taken Cindy's life. And ironically enough, I met Cindy's cousin just this past Saturday at a dinner. I wonder how she felt that day.

As for me, it still hasn't hit me. My first instinct is to remember the deaths of the past, and how everything always turns out alright. Mike's in a better place, and we're reminded of how precious our own little lives are. The Macaraeg family has suffered its share of tragedy in its history, from my grandfather, to Rhonda, to Mike, and it's only served to strengthen our bonds and magnify the joy of our celebrations.

But I'll be expecting a lot of messages in the next 24 hours. It's never an easy way to start the day.