I have finally written it... MOTHER’S PASSING Mother passed away on November 20, 2012, two weeks before my first book of memoirs came out. She had been bedridden for more than four years, afflicted with both Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s diseases. The night before she breathed her last, she was coughing relentlessly and I prayed to God, commending her spirit. I ceremoniously whispered that it was okay with me if she had to go. She had suffered tremendously during those four years and I prayed that she should go with dignity, the silent dignity that she had exuded in her eighty four years of existence. She had played both a mother and father to me and my three older siblings, never had a stable job, and never entertained a lover or a volunteer father for us. She was already having difficulty breathing for the last two weeks, and, although my tight schedule did not permit me to take her to the hospital, I promised to let her have her check-up that afternoon. I had to first attend the two-day seminar on management planning, because it was a paramount requirement for all UST administrators, as this would be of noble importance to plan our team building and operational planning for the coming academic year. After all these are carefully attended to, I thought, I would definitely have the time to have her check-up. That day, the second day of the seminar, I was feeling uncomfortable looking at the papers before me. It was a workshop and we were tasked to identify the objectives of our respective departments and relate it with our mission/vision for the next school year. I was edgy thinking about the voluminous tasks ahead of me. I couldn’t concentrate. I looked at my colleagues in the other tables. They were busy brainstorming their ideas and preparing their power point presentations. I thought about Mother and her check-up at the hospital. Distracted, I silently put my lap top in its bag and held my papers. I looked at my watch. It was quarter past three. I stood up and whispered to the usher that I would use the rest room. Without blinking and turning around, I hailed a cab and headed home. I was about to get off the cab when my phone rang. It was Marlon, my boy helper. “Kuya, bilisan mo. Hindi na yata humihinga si Lola,” he nervously cried. I dashed off to the lobby of our condominium and tensely ordered the guards to hail a cab immediately. I got all shook up that I wished that I could have told my cab driver to stay on. The ride in the elevator was a very slow climb. My neck was perspiring profusely that I felt a fellow in the elevator perfunctorily brushed the sweat that dripped on her blouse. She looked at me insipidly. I wished to tell her that if this is not only emergency, I would have given her the time of day. But no, not today. Not at this time when Mother needs me. When I opened the door, Glo, Marlon’s mom, who became Mother’s chief caregiver for almost seven years, was crying interminably. “Sabi ko naman sa iyo, wag ka nang papasok kasi masama na ang kalagayan ni Nanay, kagabi pa.” She was blaming me as she covered her face with her damp hankie. “Wala na si Nanay.” I wanted to punch her for her impertinence, but I restrained. I tried to wake up Mother, who was stiffly lying on the bed. “Ma, ma, naririnig mo ba ako?” I uncertainly placed her on the wheelchair and hollered at the guards, who were standing by the door, to help us. When we were at the taxi, Glo, in between sobs and in a shrill voice, was recounting what happened that afternoon. She said she had fed Mother with sopas and they had gone on to watch an afternoon program on TV. Moments later, Mother would bow her head. Just like that. I never paid much attention to the details anymore because my mind was whirling with thoughts – Is this what’s gonna be from now on? I am now a full-pledged orphan. Please God, I didn’t mean what I prayed for last night. Don’t take her yet. Not yet. I was sidetracked when the driver told us that it would be difficult to make it to the UST Hospital because the traffic was unbearable along Bonifacio street. It was almost five and this was an emergency. I instructed the driver to take us to the emergency room of the Mandaluyong Medical Center instead. I was carrying Mother when we banged the door open at the emergency room. Two nurses quickly rolled the stretcher and the doctor on duty pumped Mother’s chest as rapidly as she asked me multiple questions. When I lamely answered her, I realized that we were at the center of the room and all eyes of the people and their wards were on us. Several came closer and whispered to my helpers to ask what happened. They replied with grunts and bellows. I scanned the room. There was an unexplainable gloom in the faces of the people. One patient was complaining about her swollen leg, and her aide, presumably her daughter, was unwearyingly putting a pillow beneath it. The daughter was good-naturedly telling her that the doctor would be coming to see her any minute now. A kid, who was sitting on a wheelchair and whose head was bleeding, was given a cold compress by one of the nurse assistants. His parents were in a corner, arguing in hushed language. Across Mother’s bed, an old man, pale and unattended, was clutching a rosary. Two doctors, followed by a number of interns with their notes and stethoscopes, shifted from bed to bed, explaining the brief histories of why the patients were there. At this time, I felt no sentiment or reaction. I just stood there like a passive observer. I learned that we were supposed to be transferred to the ICU but there was still no space, and one patient had a serious illness, so the doctor requested if we are willing to stay at the emergency for a while longer. The nurses brought the ventilator and painstakingly set it up, despite the trifling space we had in the emergency room. I was advised to continue pumping the bag manually to inject air in Mother’s lungs. We had to stay in the emergency room for another three hours, and, I, my sister Ate Beth and nephew Christian, had to take turns in the manual pumping. Afterwards, we were moved to the ICU. Since it was a public hospital, I had to practically buy all the medicines outside the hospital, especially the boosters, to insert in Mother’s system. She still had no pulse yet and her blood pressure was dwindling. I was given a thick paper of prescriptions and was directed to specific drug stores where I could buy them. Eventually, the doctor happily told us that she had a pulse. They would still check on her blood pressure through the night. My sister told me to go home and get some rest and they would watch over her at the hospital. In the jeepney, I wondered whether my last prayer to God proved to be a strong one. Oh God, I’m taking it all back, I fervently whispered. Please, keep my mother alive. I am willing to do all I can just to have her back. Please, don’t take her yet. Thoughts of my kindergarten graduation came to me. I was six and I remember Mother, so excited that I was graduating valedictorian of the class, as she was fixing her hair in the mirror. “You are really special, Jack. I am so proud to be your mother. Even though you didn’t know your American father, and he doesn’t know this, I am sure he would also be proud of you if he did. Sayang at hindi kayo nagkakilala,” she said. I just stood there as she turned around and hugged me tightly. I wished I could’ve done more then. I wished I could’ve done more now. I slept with a splitting headache. I was roused by a telephone call early in the morning. It was Ate Beth. “Please come to the hospital, it’s urgent.” “I hope it’s nothing serious, Ate,” I fretfully responded. “Just come here, quick.” When I went to the ICU room, Ate Beth was already talking to the resident doctor. Her eyes were red and her cheeks, puffy. “Oh, it’s good that you are here,” the doctor said. “Listen, your mother had a seizure a few minutes ago. And since last night, her BP hasn’t gone up. I am made to believe that the reason why she had a pulse last night was because of the booster medicines that we injected in her. I am really sorry to tell you this but I am afraid you and your sister have to make a crucial decision about this now.” “What decision?” I blankly inquired. “That we have to pull the plugs off. Mother is not getting better,” Ate Beth sniffed. “But our brother is coming from San Diego,” I turned to the doctor. “Could this wait?” “Her blood is hardly beyond pressure. The machine is the only thing that is keeping her alive,” the doctor reacted. “In fact, I had already sensed this since yesterday, but I figured that you still didn’t want to give up. A patient could only survive without air for about five minutes. I saw your mother’s records and I learned that she collapsed and was only revived after almost thirty minutes. She must have been brain-dead since yesterday. I am sorry. It is still your choice.” Glo sobbed in the corner upon hearing this. The doctor went back inside the ICU. Tensely, I called my brother in the US. He was about to board the airplane coming here. Tin, my niece, arranged for the burial in Pampanga. In the hospital, we had to finally say goodbye to Mother. It took about four hours for the funeral people to arrive, who came all the way from Angeles City. The hospital personnel informed us that we had to use a different exit in taking off the body. It is hospital policy that people should not see a dead body in the common elevators and exits. So the funeral people covered Mother with a white linen blanket and was brought to the backdoor fire exit like some kind of spoiled delivery. Despite the disapproval of the hospital personnel, I decided to accompany Mother and the funeral men. In the fire exit, I lashed back at the funeral personnel to be very careful because the body was bouncing as they sloppily descended the stairs like they were dribbling a basketball. “This is my mother,” I told them, “and not some unknown cargo.” I thought about the difference between the treatment of the living and dying in hospitals. When Mother was still alive, we were warmly received in the emergency room. The doors had to be opened for us. Stretchers, wheelchairs and seats were offered. Everybody wanted to ask questions. Forms needed to be filled out. People were sympathetic. Now that Mother is dead, she was just considered wasted goods. Not even nurses and attendants would escort us out. We had to pass through a dimly lit walkway where unused hospital equipment were inattentively stored. I realized that we were walking out at the exact back door of the hospital. There were unused wood, defective hoses, and trash bins filled with dextrose bottles and used rubber gloves crowding the area. Puddles of water created by the leaks of the air conditioner drainers stood in the way. Moss had thrived in them and I almost slipped. Outside, I was looking for a decent hearse that would take Mother to the memorial chapel in Pampanga. Instead, I saw a white Tamaraw delivery van with clear windows and no air conditioner. The funeral director said that if they had opted to bring the hearse, we would be obliged to get a permit from every town that we will be passing through and pay the essential fees. It is necessary to use this kind of vehicle so people won’t suspect that there is a dead body in the van. I almost covered my ears upon hearing this. We agreed to meet at the funeral parlor because we still had to get burial clothes for Mother. On the way to Angeles City, nobody spoke a word inside the vehicle. Ate Beth and I agreed to use the elegant white dress worn by Tin during her high school graduation for Mother. I initially thought about the ecru outfit with lavender and rose designs that I bought Mother some months ago that she never got to wear, but found it too garish for her burial. The funeral people quickly arranged the room like skilled artisans anticipating a big exhibit. Lights were immediately turned on. Pews were arranged impeccably. The first flower arrangements were lined up near where the coffin was to be placed. An hour later, I was summoned by the embalmer to check on Mother’s make-up and appearance. I saw her lying peacefully on the drainer. Although she was neatly dressed and her make-up was all right, I realized that she had no eyebrows and her hair needed to be tissed. She was also wearing the wrong lipstick. She never loved red. She said it was vulgar and always catches attention. I requested the embalmer that I would re-do the hair, the eyebrows and the lips. He simply nodded his head. I started applying the dark brown eye brow pencil on her. When she was alive, I used to do this for her. “Don’t darken my brows too much. I don’t want people to see two fat leeches above my eyes,” she would always say. When she became sick and wheelchair-bound, she would just smile whenever I would give her the mirror. “Look, you are really beautiful with those brows, Ma,” I would tease her. “Wala na, matanda na talaga,” she would silently answer. I shaded her lips with the rose lipstick that I brought. It was her favorite color. Then I curled her thin hair and combed it sideways so as not to block her face. I looked at her once again. She was beautiful. “John Jack Wigley, valedictorian!” I remember climbing the stage with Mother when my name was announced. I was nervous and fidgety. I saw the principal and some of my teachers looking at our direction, smiling. Mother held my moist hand and brushed the stain off my white toga as we walked across the center of the stage. She removed my cap, flicked the sweaty hair off my forehead, and placed the medal over my head. “I am so proud of you, anak,” she whispered, almost like a prayer. It was like a send-off for me, a benediction certifying that in a few years, I would be in charge of my life, with her guiding me along the way. In a few minutes, relatives and condolers would soon be coming. I looked at her once again, for the last time, while holding her hands. I was glad that I could also do this for her many years later – sending her off.
Posted on: Mon, 10 Jun 2013 04:48:19 +0000
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