Regrets
My mother died last month. She was 82 years old. She died of a heart attack, her second major one, after recovering from the first one she had in mid-May. Luckily, the fatal heart attack was apparently relatively painless, as she drifted off while her heart gradually gave up.
My sister called me late at night, crying "Hindi na magising ang nanay." I asked her if she was still alive, she said "Oo, may pulse pa." I urged her to call an ambulance from the nearest hospital. I jumped into my car and rushed to my mom's house. After 20 minutes of panicked driving, I arrived to find that no ambulance had arrived yet. I tried to put my cheek in front of her mouth, to detect some sort of respiration, but I failed to feel any. Nevertheless, my sister was insisting she was still alive, and I felt I should exhaust all means to save her. I decided to bring her to the hospital myself. While enroute to the hospital, I kept talking to my mom, that she should hold on, don't leave us, we're right about there.
After another 15 minutes of frantic driving, we finally arrived at the hospital (the frigging ambulance was still there -- it never left!). Nurses and attendants scrambled and rushed my mom to the ER.
During that crucial period, I was praying to God not to let her die. I even snapped at my sister for suggesting that we call a Catholic priest for the last rites, saying that she has no right to give up. I texted other people to pray for my mom's recovery. I went to the hospital chapel, but its doors were locked so I just sat on a stray stool and fervently prayed like I never did before. Some minutes later, my sister approached me with the terrible news, that my mom was gone.
I pride myself on being a person with admirable self-control. When my father died 10 years ago, I never broke down. I only cried once, when I saw my mom sitting all alone in front of my father's casket, as I realized the pain that she must be going through, to be left alone after over 40 years of marriage. But for the rest of my father's funeral I was a picture of rock-hard stability, compared to the rest of my siblings who were alternately somber and hysterical.
Not this time. I never cried as hard and as loud as I did on that fateful moment when my sister embraced me with the devastating news. I guess it was the finality of it, the realization that all your hopes, prayers and bargains with God were for naught, that despite all your efforts in an eleventh-hour attempt to avert the inevitable, the decision had been made and it was non-negotiable.
It was as if a thousand sorrows and regrets poured out of me, forgotten feelings bottled up for years finally escaping in a flood of anguish. My own sister was afraid that I would get a heart attack myself. After a few minutes, I regained my composure and went back to the ER.
While my sister was out talking to the nurse about the administrative paperwork, I had a little time alone with my mom, her body now increasingly getting cold. As I stroked her hair and held her hands I could only weep silently for all the missed opportunities and unsaid words that were forever gone.
My family members have never been demonstrative about our feelings for each other. I guess we were just brought up that way. For my entire life I have never told my mom that I loved her. For that, I felt immeasurable pain and guilt. Now she will never hear that from me. As I held her lifeless hand, I whispered to her, "I am so sorry for never having the courage to say this. I am so sorry for never acting on the need to tell you. I love you, inay."
Even now, 1 month after she passed on, I still feel a heavy heart whenever I remember that moment. Whenever I go to our ancestral house and see her room and her stuff, still as we left it that fateful night in June, I feel pain and sorrow at what could have been.
I last saw her 2 days before she died. I visited her at home and had lunch with her. We talked about light topics, fleeting matters that were worthless had anyone known she would be dying 54 hours later. I remember feeling harried because I wanted to leave earlier to catch a good parking space at the mall.
I said my goodbyes to her, and I sensed she didn't want me to go. I would have stayed longer but I rationalized to myself that I could visit her again next weekend. Normally after every visit I give her some cash to support the household expenses, as the pension she gets is woefully inadequate. But at that time I was a little short myself, because I had just settled her cardiologist's fees from her previous hospital confinement. So for this visit I was only able to give her a third of what I usually gave. I think that also compounded her sadness, as she contemplated that she was getting to be a burden to other people.
If I could rewind my life, I would have stayed the whole day and made her laugh, and maybe say that I loved her and that I was grateful to her for all her unconditional love towards her undeserving son.
To anyone reading this, I hope that you can avoid the painful lesson that I had to learn. Life is short and fleeting. In the next moment, everything can change, and everything you love and value can be gone in an instant. Be forthright with your loved ones. Show that you love and care for them. And not just in words, but by actions.
posted by Unknown @ 8:38 PM
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