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Nanay’s Tenth Death Anniversary

I wrote this article in 2004. This year, 2008, I am teaching in Singapore and couldn't go home as the semester starts in August. It was my brother Toto and sister-in-law Luz who kept the tradition alive.

“Rise and shine! It’s 3:45 a.m.!” Why in the world should one get up at 3:45 on a Saturday morning? It rained ‘cows and carabaos’ the night before. And so it was a chilly dawn on Saturday, August 7, 2004, and it was absolutely tempting to curl up in bed.

But it was Nanay’s tenth death anniversary. My siblings and I as well as our respective families had agreed to meet at the parish church of Nasugbu, Batangas to attend a memorial mass for both Nanay and Tatay.

It was Tatay’s birthday on August 4. He had a heart attack and passed away in 1978 at the age of 55. He didn’t have any complaints and we didn’t expect him to go so suddenly and so soon.

At 65, Nanay began to complain of old-age pains – headaches, poor vision, poor hearing, rheumatism, hypertension, insomnia, etc. We thought it was normal.

When Nanay turned 69 on June 23, 1993, all her children, children-in-law, and grandchildren came home for a family gathering in Nasugbu, Batangas. She was elated and exclaimed that she was ready to die.

Early in 1994, she complained that her vision was deteriorating fast. Thinking that she had cataract, I took her to Dr. Alberto C. Wonchai, an eye surgeon based in the University of Santo Tomas Hospital in Manila. The eye surgeon told me to take her to a neurologist, instead.

Dr. Ofelia Adapon, the neurologist, ordered an immediate MRI (magnetic resonance imaging). The good doctor asked the MRI department to accommodate my mother on the same day. Dr. Adapon also asked the MRI department to release the results the following morning.

My sister Carol and I stayed with our mother all throughout the consultations, the MRI procedure, and the final diagnosis. Nanay was scared, and so were we.

After getting the results from the MRI department, Dr. Adapon told Nanay that she had a benign brain tumor. Then she asked to speak with Carol and me in her inner office. She told the two of us that Nanay had brain cancer.

It could be operated on, but the chances for recovery were slim. She referred us to a reputable brain surgeon who happened to be abroad. She said it wasn’t an emergency, but we should have our mother hospitalized if she suffered any dizziness or nausea.

One morning in May 1994, Nanay got up at the crack of dawn as she usually did. She was staying with Carol in Manila. She went down to the kitchen and asked Carol to turn on the lights.

“The lights are on,” Carol said.

“But it’s dark,” Nanay said with a quiver in her normally strong and steady voice. “In fact, it’s completely dark. It’s absolutely dark…”

Nanay had gone blind. Suddenly. Totally.

Carol helped her sit down. Calmly, Carol said it was probably an effect of the tumor. She assured Nanay that as soon as it was taken out, everything would be just fine. Pretending that everything was fine, Carol offered Nanay a cup of coffee.

As Nanay began sipping coffee, she felt dizzy, dropped the cup, and lay crumpled on the floor. My brother-in-law, Jun, scooped her up in his arms. In no time, Nanay was admitted to a hospital.

Those were the days when there were no cell phones yet in the Philippines. My brother-in-law drove from Manila to Batangas to fetch me. When he pulled up in front of my mother’s house in Batangas, I knew that something was terribly wrong.

I took charge of caring for Nanay from that day on till she passed away. It was an ordeal for her, for our family, and for me.

After some time, double doses of tranquilizers had no more use and Nanay’s pain became unbearable. There were times when she begged to be shot to death.

Her sleep center had been disrupted by the tumor and so she remained awake most of the time. Sometimes, she dozed off for an hour or two from sheer exhaustion.

Everyone came to help, but I was the one who stayed with Nanay most of the time. I held her hand as she struggled between life and death. I didn’t realize that it was going to be the end.

It was a rainy and stormy August when Nanay went away. But as the lo-o-ng evening turned into dawn on August 7, 1994, the rains stopped. The winds hushed. Stars sparkled in the sky.

As she had told me on the first day that she was admitted to the hospital, she wore a beaded wedding gown on her final journey. A guitarist provided lively music and everybody was welcome to sing during the wake.

A marching band played bouncy tunes during the funeral procession to church and to the cemetery. The sun shone brightly when we laid her to rest on August 9 at high noon.

Ten years after, I am filled with gratitude that time has healed the indescribable pain. The members of our extended family are closer to one another. The memories that bind us are stronger as we try to keep the promises we made Nanay.

Life has been good to us in spite of our weaknesses and shortcomings. Our faith in God is deeper and we feel closer to home wherever we are. Truly, we understand that death is part of life. We trust that it is a new beginning…

Our Childhood Home

When we were small, there were three girls of us born one after another. Our mother sewed dresses for us. She would buy several yards of cloth from the wet market. She didn't wish to throw away cloth remnants, so she'd make curtains, table cloths, pillow cases, patched bedsheets, and what have you.

On special occasions like birthdays, town fiestas, All Saints' Day, or Christmas, our mother loved to dress us three sisters in identical dresses. Sometimes, our dresses were identical with our curtains and tablecloths!

Today, one of those three sisters has inherited our mother's love for sewing. She has been sewing as a hobby for many years. In fact, she has been sewing curtains, bedsheets, pillow cases, and what have you for some friends and family members.

Now that she has retired, she hopes to continue sewing beautiful home accessories with "threads drawn from her heart" (Kahlil Gibran). Truly, sewing for her is "love made visible!" (Kahlil Gibran)