Letters to Mama
October 10, 2022 | 11:48 PM
I love passing by Iloilo Mission Hospital; it has been my home lately. I still remember watching the falling kalachuchi flowers under the watchful gaze of the stars and moon while sitting on the exact bench when Mama passed away at around three in the morning. It was three years ago. I was a 20-year-old confused, fresh graduate crying here after seeing seven medical professionals trying to revive her while my father was on his feet, weeping, and my two sisters bawling. And I was just there, standing. I was not crying. I could not even blink my eyes because during that exact moment, I was clutching on to that slender thread of hope that when I blink, there will be no flatline anymore.
But it still is there.
The doctor was already crying beside me, asking for my consent to cease the resuscitation. I knew it's already the end of it. As someone who does not want anybody to see me crying, I considered it as my last draw. I did not sign, and I ran, like the one in the movies I've watched except this time, it's reality. It was the first time that I was willing to trade anything just so God could bring her back. At the same time, it was also the last night that I knew tomorrow’s not going to be the same. And indeed, it was never the same.
I actually like passing by here, especially after pulling an all-nighter in a co-working space studying legal cases/books or just buying my favorite caramel sundae in McDo or after pabusog sa Katsilongga. It feels comfortable sitting or crying here at night. No one’s gonna judge you; it’s all just the sleeping guards, the falling kalachuchi flowers, the buzzing ambient of street lights, and the people who are passing by to buy medicine or leave/enter the premises.
When I passed by here last month, I usually shed a tear the moment I sit, but this time, I did not. I realized how fast I am growing, although the pain's still there and I still get hurt. It crushes my heart whenever I remember little details about her, like how she used to love wearing that violet dress I chose for her to wear in my high school graduation, like how she was a fanatic of Mang Inasal because it's relatively cheap and kabulusog. Last week, I bought my first shirt after she's gone, and it took me minutes to get out of the fitting room, crying, because the shirt does not fit me. Funny and maybe weird, but I was just used to the fact that I had someone to call outside to give me another size of the shirt. Little details that speak of how she was there for me all the time, and I didn't know how to survive life without her.
Perhaps, one thing that hurts the most is the fact that she was just there all the time, and suddenly gone. I had no choice but to "do life." I have to admit that it blows hit hard, leaving me reeling like a punch to the gut. It felt like the nerve-wracking first solo drive or the exhilarating leap into uncertainty when you're paragliding—each moment fraught with anticipation and fear. I still ask God every day, of why's and how's, but all I receive is profound silence, the one that echoes not with emptiness, but with a comforting presence.
Perhaps, God's silence holds its own wisdom.
I have so many dreams for her and Papa, and I hated myself I never got to share them with her. As I sit here on the exact bench, still watching the same tree shedding off its flowers under the watchful gaze of the stars and moon, I realize she would have been 57 today, and she could have witnessed me as a 2nd-year law student working in a job I love.
I hope when I pass by here next time, it will hurt less, and hurt no more.
March 10, 2022 | 10:43 PM
Happy birthday, Mama. I just realized it sucks I never got to use that "5 more minutes" card when you were a few seconds away from death. I guess it would have hurt less. It has been more than 2 years now, and it still gets sad when I suddenly remember that you'll never get to see me grow up.
December 29, 2019 | 9:48 PM
(Trying to find the letter. I deleted it last January 2024.)
