“AT TIME panic creeps in — that fear that there might be no point in all these, that unless I have the capacity to breathe for two, I cannot save her.” (in “Ramblings in Melancholy”)

Part of the reason I went back to feature writing was my Mama. Some time last summer she remembered my writing “talent” and sulked that I no longer harnessed my “gift” ever since I became a lawyer and had a family. 

Since I started this column, Mama was my number one fan, eagerly awaiting Sun.Star Baguio’s Thursday editions like a child waits for her pasalubong. It’s a good thing I did not wait too long to start “living the dream”. It would have been too late. 

Mama breathed her last at 12:45 a.m., September 14. After my classes that Saturday night, I went back to the hospital to check on her as I always did the past three weeks. She was sleeping so very soundly, and for the first time, she did not respond when I told her good night and I love her. I hope she still heard it. 

Over the three weeks and two days that she stayed at the hospital, I have told her “I love you” more than I ever did these past 33 years. Until a month ago, I have been wondering if I was giving her enough time, enough attention, or showing her enough love. It felt like I was always too busy — making ends meet, working eight or 11-hour days, taking care of my own family — to give her enough. But on her second day of confinement, while her frail body could still manage a long conversation, she told me she thinks that is the end, and that she has lived a full, beautiful life. She told me that she loves us, and that she is really grateful for our love and how much we gave her. The Friday before her death, she held my hand tightly and lovingly, asked for a pen and paper, and wrote: “Hindi mo na sana ginagawa ito. Alam ko mahal ninyo ako at mahal ko kayong lahat.” As always, my Mama never left things unfinished. With that conversation and note, she spared me from a lifetime of wondering if she ever felt how much I love her. 

But there will always that word left unsaid, that deed left undone.

It feels that what I’ve given and shown her is not even a good percentage of what I could, to show how much I really, really love her. 

During her wake I have heard so many times that I should be happy that she is in a much better place, and that she is no longer in suffering. I told them we have been ready for a long time, and that Mama considered surviving for 38 years — with only one lung — a grand bonus. But I am now painfully discovering that no one ever be ready for the death of someone dearly loved and treasured. People said that when Mama’s soul decided to go, she spared me a life of burden and suffering, and that I can now rest. That maybe true, but the thing is, I was willing and ready to take care of her even for the next 20 years. My life, especially since she moved in last December, primarily focused on the love and care of my family — her, most especially. And now I suddenly do not know where to begin, with this sudden jolt I’m at a terrible loss. 

They say my mourning may not allow her to cross over. I don’t think so. I think that when she breathed her last, her angel immediately flew her to the heavens. Her cleansing process is done, and she is ready to meet our Creator. 

At her burial last Thursday, the 18th, an overwhelming number of people took time out of their busy schedules to celebrate her life and homecoming. Mama’s life — and her death — is a testament of love, faith, friendship, forgiveness and selflessness. 

The morning of her death, I found two precious things on her bedside at home: a newspaper clipping featuring the “Hopi Prayer” which is a poem written by Janelle Davis, whose sister died in an Alaska Airlines crash in January 2000 (Mama’s epitaph bears the last 2 lines); and a wish list in a letter addressed to God which she wrote way back September 1991. 

The wish list contained 5 things she asked for, 4 of which with tick marks as they have been fulfilled.

Four out of five, Ma, that’s not so bad. Instead of that one wish, you got long afternoon naps with Nadine, reading sessions with Gelai, singing and Bible study sessions with Kayla, picnics at John Hay, dining out at Max’s (you ate so much camote fries that last time), long Sunday afternoon chats with me…and in your book, I know that meant much more. 

“Hopi Prayer” 

Do not stand at my grave and weep. 
I am not there, I do not sleep. 
I am a thousand winds that blow. 
I am the diamond glints on snow. 
I am the gentle Autumn’s rain. 
When you awaken in the morning hush, 
I am the sweet uplifting rush 
of quiet birds in circled flight. 
I am the soft stars that shine at night. 
Do not stand at my grave and cry: 
I am not there, I did not die. 

I love you very much, Ma. You are so terribly missed. Kindly whisper to God that I may be needing more help recovering, because there are times when the pain can be really crippling. But I will be alright, Ma. Just allow me to mourn a little more. My healing process has to begin with mourning.