MAMU

My mom’s story is simple. Very simple.


She came from an upright family and was raised according to strict Christian values. She studied hard, worked even harder, studied some more, married her first and only boyfriend, raised a wooly trip of seven, was always on time and never tried to hurt anyone. And when the final call came, she bowed out gracefully.

Fancy things did not impress her. Although she was always content and grateful for what she had, she practically stopped at nothing to give a little more to the ones she loved.

But like any other simple life, hers also had its share of drama and conflict. For years, she had been hobbled sporadically by bad health. I remember her undergoing operations and treatment for a variety of illnesses that were supposed to be debilitating. Also, she had been a victim of gross discrimination in the workplace, an unspeakable injustice that would have broken anybody else’s spirit. And yes, she suffered “periodic heartaches”, which came as regularly as the end the end of every semester when my grades would arrive (which is an entirely different story, however).

But in the face of all these trials and tribulations, she exhibited tremendous resilience. And every time, she found a way to come on top. Up to the end.

When the doctors said she had a brain tumor, six months before she passed away, my knees buckled. I was so shocked that for several moments, I was unable to say anything. On the other hand, she who was the direct recipient of that harrowing blow was still as positive as any proton. But then she was not really the type who got easily rattled and intimidated by adversity.

I recall when I was about 8, I asked her, trustingly and with all the naivete of a third grader, what my motto in life should be. She replied without batting an eyelash: “Success lies not in never falling, but in rising every time you fall.” I guess she lived this all her life and that she saw this new episode, scary as it was to us, as nothing more than a speed bump.

And we knew it was not for a show. Her positive demeanor did not stem from a desire to display outward strength for the rest of the family to emulate. Rather, it came from a real will to survive—a strong determination to continue life and living.

So for six months, the family was trapped in a very unusual emotional zone. Everyone tried to act normal and take everything in stride, but inside we were gearing for a war. After all, this is the first time a crisis of this magnitude had hit us. There was no time to mull and find rationale for such a fate. Simply, everything said and done were centered on mom’s well being.

Visits to the hospital, both of the scheduled and rushed varieties, appointments (and disappointments) with her doctors, scouting around for other possible medication, being scouted in return by bearers of alternative medicine, shifting hours as hospital bantay, entertaining well-wishers, basking in the overwhelming show of love and support from family and friends—all these became ordinary fare for us. We quickly got attuned to that kind of set-up an no one minded giving other things up just so Mamu’s condition improved.

For her part, mom responded with inspiring gallantry. Though the pain at times became so overpowering, she always had that toothy, reassuring grin that told us she was giving the beast a run for its money.

Despite the perfunctory assurances from her army of doctors that “there is still hope”, the gradual deterioration of her internal functions and the physical manifestation of the disease indicated that the end was approaching. And so we had to, really tightly this time, embrace the reality facing us. This was a full-blown case of brain cancer, and the statistics were not in our favor.

Hope was never lost but to be in denial would have been a lot more painful and devastating. We had to be strong for her, and for ourselves. No one was to show a sign of weakness. Not in front of this woman, from whose strength we gather our own. Not in front of this lady, in whose gentleness we so joyfully and willingly drowned. Hanging tears were only allowed to fall during silent prayers before sleep.

My tears poured by the bucket as my prayers tripled in frequency and intensity. Not only did it hurt to see mom slowly and seemingly systematically being ravaged by the illness, it was also uncool for her to leave at that moment. I didn’t know when it’s cool for any loved one to leave, but I knew it wasn’t right time for her to go away.

How it could be cool when she was singing “Indigo Girls” and “10,000 Maniacs” with me in the car? How could it be right when we were all set to launch our partnership in a fertilizer business we had decided to call Chicken Shit for the Soil? How could it be okay when the late-bloomer that I am, I was just beginning to understand her simple joys and her inner pains, and, she too, was beginning to appreciate that I truly, deeply cared? Indeed it was a bad time for her to go.

But she went away anyway. She went after she had made peace with everyone she might have offended and everyone who might have hurt her. She went after she had assured everyone she was ready to ride into the sunset and face her Creator. And in a final act of courage and love, she went only when we were ready to let her go, and after she had stage-directed her own wake and funeral.

When the moment arrived, of course there was grief, but there also was celebration. Sure there were tears, but more radiant were the smiles. Sure it was her death, but what loomed largest over everything else was her life. Clichés are clichés because they always ring so true.

It has been three years. A lot of big things have happened in the family and bigger ones are still to unfold. It would be a blast if she were still here to share and make pakialam in all these. Of course, we all have somehow snapped out of the emptiness brought about by her absence. But I really miss her.

I miss the way she’d flip when I held open the refrigerator door longer than necessary. I miss her gladly coming down for seconds when I arrive late for dinner so I wouldn’t have to eat alone. I still blow kisses at her picture before going to bed. I still look up to the night sky and acknowledge her presence somewhere beyond cosmic boundaries.

I still look at the untouched crossword puzzles in the papers and acknowledge her presence just within mortal reach. I wish our plans to engage in business still stood. I wish she had met Amanda.

I am grateful for everything she gave me and everything she didn’t let me have. I thank her that everyone of us turned out to be a little like her: a little more caring, a little more understanding, a little more tolerant, a little more kind and a whole lot stronger.

When Mamu died, she bore all the scars of that painful ordeal. It is indeed humbling to witness the vulnerability of the human body. But for us, it came not without the fortune and the honor of realizing the triumph of the human spirit. And the mother’s heart.



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As published in Youngblood of the Philippine Daily Inquirer, May 10, 2001.