by Tessa R. Salazar
“For one so small you seem so strong. My arms will hold you, keep you safe and warm. This bond between us can’t be broken” –“You’ll Be in My Heart,” Phil Collins
This year saw the first death in my family, which automatically makes 2024 the most difficult year in our lives. The unstoppable march of age and time took away our mother on Dec. 11, just over a month after she turned 86 on Oct. 28. I was there by her bedside when she breathed her last. When I saw her monitors flatline at 10:40 a.m., I felt all of my own personal troubles the past couple of years came back all at once, like an avalanche, burying and suffocating me.
I retired from my work as a motoring reporter for a newspaper in early 2023, the same paper to which I had spent 30 years of my life. Since then, I didn’t apply for any other regular job, opting instead to become a contributor and columnist to the paper, in order to devote most of my time towards my mom’s and my dad’s care. A couple of months after retiring, I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and underwent a major surgery in July. I kept my condition and the surgery a secret from my parents. They didn’t need the added stress. They were both bedridden—as a result of a massive stroke for mom, and for dad, heart problems and the onset of a degenerative neurological disease.
My world outside of caring for my mom stopped on Sept 27, 2024, when we had to rush mom to the hospital because she had difficulty breathing. It turned out she was suffering from pleural effusion, essentially a buildup of fluid in her lungs. That condition was the start of a chain reaction of other diseases and infections that effectively shut down most of her vital organs. Before noon on Wednesday, Dec. 11, the light of our home was gone.
For me, my mom was more than just the “ilaw ng tahanan.” She was my human “ADAS.” What we now fancifully call the advanced driver assistance systems in modern cars, well, my mom was that in my early years of driving. She constantly reminded me to check my temper and control my reckless impulses behind the wheel. She was my speed governess. I was driving a 1997 Honda Civic LXi for practically two decades, and every time mom rode shotgun, I felt like my basic Civic had extra layers of passive and active driver and passenger protection.
Since 2014, the year when she suffered a series of strokes, up to her passing this year, mom had been hospitalized a total of 9 months. Her longest period of confinement was 7 months, after suffering her third and most massive stroke in late 2014. In those 9 months, I stayed by her bedside for as long as I could, talking to her, reassuring her that we were okay, that everything would be alright. I did that again in the final days of her life. This time, I also thanked her and dad for raising us well.
Mothers carry their unborn children for 9 months in their womb, keeping the child safe, protected, and reassured before the journey of a new life begins in the outside world. I do hope that I somewhat returned the favor as I stayed by her side in her days and months of confinement. I embraced and kissed her for the last time that morning of Dec. 11, just as she was “born” into a new existence.
The word “passing,” I believe, is the word to perfectly describe death and the process of dying. Mom transitioned from being a mortal body to becoming pure energy and spirit at 10:40 a.m. of December 11.
A few hours before, I whispered that when she saw the light, do not lose sight of it and follow it. Her blood pressure was dropping steadily, her breathing slowed. Her open eyes gazed at something (or someplace) far above me–the gaze that seemed to me like she was about to take flight, just waiting for the light to turn green.
The laws of physics tell us that energy can neither be created nor destroyed. After breathing her last, she became part of everything, even though we couldn’t see it.
As we humans are so dependent on our five senses, not seeing or feeling someone with us makes it seem like that person has been lost, or absent from the present. Christmas Day, which came two weeks after mom’s passing, was naturally a bittersweet affair for the family. It felt like a very important part of our body was amputated. But I believe, and I think the rest of my family shares in this belief, that my mom received the ultimate gift of everlasting life—a life that is forever free from pain and suffering, a life now being joyfully spent in the company of loved ones who have gone before.
I know that coming to terms with my new reality will be a long process. The bedroom is now empty. A chair in the dining room will now be vacant. She will never again ride shotgun in my car. Her body was committed to the earth by fire. Her soul is now with our Creator. All we have are memories, a full lifetime of them. And that is enough for now, until we are all reunited in God’s merciful embrace.
Death is inevitable, but so is life. For every sentient being that undergoes the process of dying, two are undergoing the process of being born. And in every birth, there is a mother at the center. So yes, a mother represents life itself. Mothers willingly—and lovingly—allow their own bodies to replicate the creation of new life. And mothers will do all they can to nurture and protect every life that they have created, even to the point of risking their own lives.
My heart goes out to everyone who has lost their mothers. A mother is irreplaceable, her love immeasurable. But be reassured, as much as I am assured, that our mothers will be waiting for us on the other side. I think they’re just making sure the place is safe, spic and span.
Until then, goodbye, Ma. As Danny Wilson sings in “Mary’s Prayer,” leave a light on in heaven for me.