For Barbara ‘Tweetums’ Cruz Gonzalez (1944-2024)
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Barbara “Tweetums” Cruz Gonzalez with her husband, Atty. Loy Ventura (Source: Facebook)
The smile, bedimpled; the laugh, sincere and not nervous; and the writing simply glowed in its honesty and courage, irreverence and humor, sarcasm and self-deprecation. Refreshing from a woman descended from families of heroes, shocking to others, scandalous to a few.
The quality of freedom and vigor in her personal essays, which read to us almost like her personal diary, radiated, shone a light on the experiences of many other women — consoled them, made them understand better what attracted or repulsed them, empowered them to question social givens, made them feel like her, like all the other women.
And she was always there like a friend, whose life we followed and, in a way, she became our confidant as her Philippine Star column lasted a long time. The last she wrote came out this same month she passed on. She called it “Feeling Again.”
Her first book at Anvil, How Do You Know Your Pearls Are Real: On Single Parenthood and Other Ms.Adventures was one of our firsts—it came out in 1991. The second, We’re History: A Memoir on History and Culture, was published in 1998. Both her launches were great social gatherings, not grand but huge, attended by all her friends and advertising colleagues (She was after all President of J. Romero and Associates and Vice President of McCann Erickson, both legendary agencies). The books sold well and did not remain unread as most other books were, or still are.
When I was widowed in 1992, she was the first to arrange blind dates for me, and realizing I was not ready at all, gave up after three tries. I think Pearls encouraged other women to be as brave, to write with verve and candor, and always, precisely at the moment so as not to miss out on details, important to building camaraderie and warmth. Pearls dared women to publish what was truthful and forthright about being women in the ‘90s. After retirement, she painted and taught writing at Sunshine Place, her happy place, with many other older and wiser women. Yet, she continued to write. She loved being in groups, and with other humans, played mahjong, sang karaoke, danced, and talked a lot about memory, mindfulness, and grief, until she couldn’t anymore.
The quality of freedom and vigor in her personal essays, which read to us almost like her personal diary, radiated, shone a light on the experiences of many other women.
Her nickname was always a conversation piece. It was light, fun to carry, just sounded sweet and happy like a bird chirp — but I am sure it gave her strength through her own personal pains and misadventures as a single parent. At 73, after being a single parent for over forty years, she tried marriage for a third time. She told us how happy she was in that marriage. She took care of him when he got very sick, but she herself also got sick, and after a mastectomy, she simply professed preferring to join him sooner than later.
Tweetums’ bridal shower (Source: Facebook)
Tweetums and her husband, Loy
With children Sarri, Panjee, Gino and Risa
Left to right: grandsons Paolo and Niccolo, daughter Sarri and husband Richard, Loy and Tweetums, daughters Risa and Panjee, granddaughter Maxine, son Gino and wife Faye.
We bid you love and grace as you journey on, Tweetums. With the same courage and elegance in life, so shall you go.
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Barbara “Tweetums” Cruz Gonzalez posted this on her Facebook page on April 24, 2024. It was also her column in the Philippine Star:
A Widow’s Sorrow | Philstar.com
I write this on April 18, my husband Loy’s birthday. If he were still with me, what would we do? Maybe go out for lunch or dinner. Maybe invite our old friends to come over and sing with us. Maybe his children would host a birthday party for him. Whatever the plans, we would have a great time. But now he is gone, left me markedly alone, realizing belatedly that being with him had filled my life. Suddenly we had drivers, household help, then caregivers. I – who grew up an only child, an introvert – had to deal with so many people.
But was that a problem? When I was younger, I worked in advertising. Always with so many people of various characters. Always trying to conduct them in some symphony that guaranteed all of us outstanding work and friendship results. But I left all that when I was 57, lived alone, learned to be totally independent. I also was very happy then, swore never to get married again. From 2001 to 2018 I lived alone. No complaints at all. Then I met Loy, and my life was set to music.
He was a wonderful singer who led me to sing with him. I was nowhere as good as he but I sang anyway. Metaphorically, we made lovely music together. Then life took a sharp turn. He entered the hospital for surgery, then had a stroke when we got home. It was downhill for his health since then. But we all adjusted. His eldest son and I took excellent care of him until God decided to call him. We all accepted that with grace.
Now Loy has been gone for more than three months, and I feel carried and dashed by huge waves of grief. I can’t seem to move forward. Sometimes I feel paralyzed, can’t get out of bed without knowing that in less than five minutes I will be back and will stay there until the next morning. Into this period my childhood friends, now Canadian residents, come to visit, pull me out of my apartment. I move into their hotel, try my best to enjoy myself, and yes, I do but I couldn’t sleep because I wasn’t home. I am caught in a cocoon of missing. All the time whether alone or with others I miss my husband. So, I try to look at other scenes, to live in a hotel with old friends, then I miss home, miss my bed, miss my sleep.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I explain myself. Thank God, they understand! I go home and recover my lost sleep in three days.
But then through all this I seem to have also misplaced my appetite. I used to be a ravenous eater. I had an operation, I still ate well. But for one week now I’ve been eating so little. It feels like my stomach has shrunk with all the rest of me. A little bowl of oatmeal for breakfast and I feel so full. I don’t eat lunch until 3 p.m. and have hardly any dinner. I really don’t know what is wrong with me.
Last night I prayed to my husband. Help, please, help. After I turned off the reading light beside my bed, I noticed the fluorescent flashlight that my husband had bought once, had been turned on. He loved small flashlights and left three, which I kept beside my bed, which was his bed before but I decided to sleep on his side after he left. I turned it off.
I woke up at around midnight and found the flashlight on again. Is this you, darling? I asked. No answer, so I turned it off. It isn’t one of those flashlights that are easy to turn on and off. You have to press and push the switch. I woke up again at around 4 a.m. The flashlight was on again. OK, it’s you, darling, I said. Thank you for letting me feel you this way. Any other way I might have died of surprise and fear.
I decided to get out of bed at 7 a.m. The light was still on, but as I looked at it, it turned off. Thank you, my love, I said out loud. Thank you for looking after me. Then, since I live all alone and there’s technically no one around to think I must be going crazy, I sang him the Happy Birthday song.
I hope that made him happy.
Why did I write this? Not to indulge myself. To let people know that becoming a widow – even if you knew it was coming – is not easy. It’s very difficult. Your sorrow lies in the pit of your stomach hard as a rock. Your tears don’t fall. You are sad, sorrowful, you want to get out of it but can’t. You simply wish one day to be saved.
