My 53rd blog:  Eulogy for Rene Ocampo

Written by Beth Ocampo

 

Good morning, everyone.

 

Today, we gather to honor the life of Rene Ocampo—my brother, a man of contrasts, color, and quiet compassion. Rene’s story was not one of perfection, but of humanity. And in that humanity, we find the beauty of a life lived with laughter, creativity, and deep love.

 

In his younger days, Rene was full of energy and mischief. He loved being with his friends, staying out late, and testing boundaries—often earning a scolding from our parents. But that was Rene: spirited, social, and always chasing the joy of the moment.

 

He married young, and though that chapter ended in divorce, it shaped him in profound ways. His love for his son became his compass. He poured himself into securing a future for his child, often at the expense of his own well-being. Rene didn’t always prioritize himself—but he never stopped prioritizing those he loved.

 

Rene was the life of the party—funny, spontaneous, and full of charm. He had a way of lighting up a room, not with grandeur, but with wit and warmth. And behind that humor was a gifted artist. His eye for photography and graphic design revealed a sensitivity to beauty, to detail, and to emotion.

 

He and I weren’t always close, but he had a quiet compassion for his siblings. He didn’t always say it, but he showed it—in small gestures, in thoughtful acts, in the way he remembered what mattered to each of us.

 

Although Rene and I lived under the same roof, I didn’t visit him as often as I should have. I stayed on the fourth floor; he stayed on the third. At times, I purposely avoided visiting him because, on several occasions, he would be critical of my weight. He’d say, “Uy, tumataba ka ha.” I didn’t want to hear anything negative about how I looked, so my defense mechanism was to keep my distance.

 

He was also very opinionated when it came to medicines. He would tell me what I should or shouldn’t take, even though he never got prescriptions from a doctor. In fact, he would use our cook’s prescription to buy his amlodipine for his hypertension. I, on the other hand, followed my doctor’s advice to the dot. Looking back now, I realize that even in his stubbornness, there was concern—his own way of caring, though it didn’t always come across gently.

 

Rene’s life reminds us that love doesn’t always come wrapped in perfect words or flawless choices. Sometimes, it comes in laughter shared, in sacrifices made, and in the quiet, steady ways we show up for one another.

 

To my brother: thank you for your light, your humor, and your heart. We will carry your memory with tenderness and pride. Rest now, Rene. You are deeply loved, and you will always be my dearest Kuya.