The family secret to longevity

Ididn’t know I could live without coffee until I had to. I loved coffee! My day began with coffee, my every meal ended with coffee. Now it’s on the list of foods to avoid.

I’ve been told it’s too hyperacidic for me, and warned I’m a candidate for serious gastroesophageal reflux. Quitting coffee can be quite a struggle since coffee goes well with just about everything. Merienda can mean all kinds of light fare, but coffee completes it.

I must have picked up the coffee habit when we lived in the United States, in my late 20s. At that time, nothing beat American coffee, although since then coffee has gotten so much better everywhere—and so has my appreciation of it.

For many years my husband and I were hooked on Starbucks coffee, particularly the French or Italian roast, since we like our coffee strong. We bought it in whole beans and had Starbucks grind them coarsely for us for our French press. Eventually, we bought our own grinder and found comparable, quality-wise, and less expensive coffee.

In Japan, we’d indulge in Blue Mountain, not grown there, but Japan somehow got exclusive importing and reexporting rights to it. It was undisputedly the best for us. Japanese coffee happens to have less acidic blends, and we’re happy they’re available locally, at UCC.

On European trips, I drank coffee more often, yet my hyperacidity never flared up. As coffee got better everywhere, so has our local brew—the barako from Batangas is a particular favorite.

In all my coffee-drinking years I only had two really bad episodes, way before the pandemic. Hyperacidity, we discovered, mimics a heart attack and, not taking any chances, my husband rushed me, with chest pains, to the ER. The first thing they did was rule out heart attack. I was prescribed medication and then sent home relaxed.

I’ve had no similar attacks since, but by then my esophagus and vocal chords have been affected by coffee-incited backwash from the stomach. My voice has changed, and, although, it’s no loss to the world, I can’t sing anymore. It was my eye, ear, nose and throat (EENT) specialist who gave me a list of 10 killjoy restrictions, but only one of them I lament—coffee.

Worst punishment

I don’t much care for the other nine. I never smoked or drank, except on special occasions. Chocolates, I also have to limit, although not so much for the caffeine and acidity as for the sugar. I don’t skip meals. I like spicy, sweet-sour foods, but there are substitutes on the menu. But with coffee, it’s the worst punishment.

When I think of what other people give up or go through to stay healthy, it does shame me to whine about a little thing like coffee. I’m never too strict with myself. Every visit to my internist-cardiologist, she reminds me to ease up, but within reason. “How old are you, Chit?” It’s a rhetorical question. She has my chart in front of her.

Perhaps I should look into my own chart of life and ask myself, how I got here? First hyperacidity, next two stents in my heart. Is this just about coffee? Whether I drink coffee or not isn’t going to determine how long I’ll live, that’s God’s call—but not yet. Is He trying to tell me something using coffee to get my attention? It didn’t take me long to realize I’ve become a worrywart. Where was my Roces sense of humor, badly needed in old age, and the family secret to longevity?

I was reminded of my dear uncles recently when, at another cousin’s birthday dinner, I sat across first-cousin Tony, who’s closer to my age and we started reminiscing.

Sense of humor

Tony is the only son of the eldest brother, Liling, our World War II martyr. Liling was even a bigger hero to his eight brothers. All brothers believed themselves to be his favorite. My dad who shared Liling’s love for journalism and writing was sure he was the one; the others were just as sure. We loved and watched our uncles all our lives, and they saw Liling in Tony, couldn’t wait for him to grow up. They took him into their confidence perhaps before he was ready.

Of the eight who survived the war, four were heavy drinkers and smokers; the other four neither drank nor smoked— they went for sweets instead. Dad belonged to this group. He lived to 91. Peping, two years younger than Dad, drank and smoked and lived to 100. Born two years after Peping was Pipo, who also drank and smoked. He will be 101 in March. Marquitos, 93 and Ding, 91, the two youngest, neither drank nor smoked.

By their cases apparently, longevity has nothing to do with whether one drank or smoked, but, rather, with one’s attitude in life, and, naturally, genetics, too, which must have cushioned the ill effects of their vices. They were also each other’s friend.

On one of their regular overseas phone conversations, Pipo told Peping his dentist had to pull out most of his teeth, on which Peping remarked in Spanish, the language they spoke to each other, even more and more as they got older, “Pipo, no te precupes, no necesitas dientes para beber (Not to worry, Pipo, you don’t need teeth to drink).”

Now, that’s it—a sense of humor! I’ve missed the whole point all along. It wasn’t about coffee, it was about taking things in stride and in good humor. That’s why when happily vacationing abroad, I’ve never had an acidic stomach. Further to the point of attitude: There are lessons all around, and one is never too old to learn.

My EENT specialist gave me a list of 10 killjoy restrictions, but only one of them I lament—coffee