A Mother's Love For A Son Defies Death

Fourteen days now after my mama died, I still refuse to talk or write about it. Somehow, I’ve always had this sense that I have the obligation to project strength before my sisters, and my cousins who look up to me, regardless of circumstances, to the point of feigning it. I thought if I talked about it, I would be soliciting sympathy; it looked to me like weakness. Mama knew I would never allow myself to grieve openly, even on personal problems, so she had to learn to read between the lines and body language.

When I learned that mama had this painful attack of some sort – we didn’t know at the time it was aortic aneurism – I froze at my seat. I prayed desperately that God give mama another lease in life: even just a little more time. It was more for me than for her.

I have been a lousy son. I may be am a lousy brother to my sisters. I seem to have lost my way in my family after having been away for 18 years, or it may just be my way, who knows. If I had been seen as tepid in the way I related with them, it does not mean that I had been, it’s just the way I am.

I had been quiet in my relationship with mama. Mama obliged and took me on. Our language was silence: we were eloquent and articulate in quietude. We traded so few words, but we never had misunderstandings.

Mama always made sure she took good care of what she had and held dear. For decades, mama had cleaned her humble little “nipa-roofed, bamboo-floored” home day in day out like it were new. She would know where nails protruded, where surfaces were uneven, and which staves of the floor needed replacement. She knew me like she knew every corner of her house. She knew when I was well, and when I was broken: when I was happy, and when I was pained.

I had planned, then I had put off; planned and put off… changing the way I related with mama. I wanted to be like my sisters who dealt with mama like they were friends; they talked and acted like they were friends. It’s a pity I even had to plan it; it’s a shame that I could not do it even after I had planned it.

I guess I took false comfort in the fact that mama was just there, that I could do it next time, if not now. I was oblivious of the reality of untimely death. I wish I were at her bedside before she died; I could have made use of the little window of time she was conscious to tell her all I had to tell her.

Now, even as I knew mama wanted us to grieve and move on FAST, I am burdened by regrets that I had not told her in words how much I loved her, how thankful I was to God to have her for a mother. I wish I had kissed and hugged her one more time before I left for Manila three days before she passed away. I have this nagging feelings of guilt, remorse, anger, doubt, and self-blame that I had been so lame, and stupid to have NOT done what everyone else does without thought.

I returned to Manila for my daughter’s college entrance exams. I know the challenges ahead as I prepare for two kids going to college at the same time, but I feel crippled, immobilized by these thoughts. I went out to respond to invitations for interview, but I found myself aimless at the office door that I could not even extend my arm to hand my resume to the receptionist, and simply had to excuse myself out.

I wanted someone to tell me I did okay; that mama understood; that she had forgiven me for whatever pain I may have caused her – I’m just human, I’m flawed and frail; sometimes I would quietly get impatient with mama for literally little things – but I wasn’t willing to talk to anyone or seek comfort. 

I wanted to go to sleep and hope mama would speak to me in a dream to tell me she understood and forgave me. I needed assurance that mama was okay; that she’s at peace; that she had forgiven me.     

Today, again, as I painstakingly endeavor to get back on my feet, I reluctantly decided to go over my employment papers in preparation for another attempt tomorrow. It was the same employment papers, neatly tucked in a folder, which I used in my recent job applications. I opened the folder and there sat an envelope on which a familiar handwriting had written my name as addressee and mama’s as sender. The envelope was post office stamp-dated Dec. 11, 2002.

I thought “what in the world is a ten-year old envelope doing in my folder of recent papers”? Mama’s handwriting is pointed and unmistakable. I suddenly had goose bumps, and felt the hair at the back of my head raise. I opened it, and mama spoke to answer my questions and doubts. It was the same letter mama sent me to comfort me when she knew I was pained like hell months after I had separated from my wife and into my first Christmas away from my children. It read:

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I read it like mama was just talking to me "Nac I have a beautiful prayer for you"; addressing all my anger,  pain, regrets, doubts, guilt, remorse, despair, sadness. She ends to assure me that she is okay for she is in eternal life. This is more poignant that having her talk to me in a dream. I guess mama is telling me it is alright to grieve openly, to talk about it, to seek comfort. Everyone is entitled to it.  

I just broke down in tears. Indeed, mama knew me the way only a mother would know her son. She knew my needs even in silence, and she made sure she found her way to me. As always, she would not make you guess. 

I LOVE YOU MAMA, AND I THANK YOU FOR ALL THE GREAT MOTHER THAT YOU HAVE BEEN TO ME.