Tribute to My Mom:

My Mom died more than 10 years ago after a long illness. What started as an innocuous gall stone problem turned into a nasty sclerosis of the liver from which she never recovered resulting to her death. In between was a harrowing experience, difficult to erase from my mind as it fell on me, being the eldest male in a brood of seven, to decide whether to take her off the life-support system or allow her to linger a little longer hoping that a drop from a very expensive drug will vanquish the sepsis that was ravaging her body a little more each day.

Mom was a very garrulous person. She was always the life of a party, made everyone feel a little bit better with her easy and friendly ways. She never refused a dance when an opportunity came along and my children always looked forward to her weekly visit with us.

My fondest memories of my mother are, of course, my process of growing up. She taught me how to cook rice, fry fish, wash dishes, iron clothes, etc. I did not like it when she asked me to help her wind the thread she used in her crochets but I spent countless hours with her telling me stories about her adventures and misadventures with my father.

I never tired of Mom’s stories of me as an infant. Apparently I was a very sickly, asthmatic child, and was in near-death situations more times than she can count.  She told me of the sleepless nights she spent nursing me, feeling my pulse every now and then to assure her that I am still hanging on.

Mom had a hanging on to do herself. My father was very domineering leaving my Mom pretty much at home most of the time, tending to the kids and other housework. Being a homebody myself, this, fortunately allowed me to spend so much time with her. She encouraged me to read, and we sang songs together (though on of us was good at it). Then my father died making things a little bit looser and easier for my mother. My father’s death allowed my mother to find her real self; she started going out with friends and had fun with all sorts of people.

When her health started failing and weekly visits were all about her aches and pains, I brushed it aside as normal to aging people like her. Then she had he gall stone operation, which I thought would heal in a couple of weeks.  It did not and bad became worse.

It was May 9, two days after she was taken off the respirator and a day after my birthday. I was in the hospital’s chapel praying to God to spare the life of my mother. He had other plans. My cheeks were dry for my eyes had shed so much tears they could shed a tear no more. I went to my Mom’s room at noontime  and saw death over her face. I got scared and went downstairs to have lunch.

It was a futile act of disguising my state of denial. Not able to touch my food, I went back to my Mom. She was already dead.

I’d like to reminisce the happy moments of my life with my mother today, being Mother’s Day. I feel a twinge of shame however, to think that while she held me close to her breasts so her warmth may give life to a sickly child, I ran away, not being able to hold her hands when she breathed her last.

To my Mom – I loved you and always will.