Maruss Sinsay © October 2015
They say, darkness and light co-exist; darkness occurs only in the absence of light. Sometimes the same phenomenon happens in our lives. One moment life is all bright and sunny, your eyes are dazzled that even when you shut them you still sense brightness. Everything glimmers in sight: all colors are screaming loud, eyes are sparkling, every thing living or not is glistening, and you are overwhelmed by the vividness of your surroundings. Then suddenly the light disappears and all is dark. You feel like a kid tricked to enter a horror house, you feel terrified, lost, and anxious. You cry in despair and frustration like a kid robbed of a precious toy. All colors turn gray, nothing’s sparkling. The once vibrant surrounding suddenly looked melancholic.
According to Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross (1969), there are five stages of grief that all people go through when mourning over a loss. They are: 1. Denial, 2. Anger, 3. Bargaining, 4. Depression, and 5. Acceptance. It is the most common process that people across cultures go through, although in psychological studies, it was shown that not all go through the same sequence and not everyone go through every stage, but for the majority, the 5 stages occur in that order.
Losing someone we love so dearly disrupts our whole life. Our dreams of the future with them, our daily routine with them by our side, and our whole life which they are a huge part of, is shattered, and we are left in despair.
3 hours had passed and everything is replaying in slow motion in my head. The strange sound of the machines, the muffled voices of the nurses, the alternate clicking and clanking, the hurrying footsteps, all sounds a blur echoing on the corridor as our door was open. I was sitting on the couch still in shock of what just happened. Everything was too much to comprehend. It was like being in a trance, hoping soon I’d hear the sound of the alarm and wake up in a better reality.
I called your phone. I am being irrational and desperate. Desperately hoping to talk to you one last time, pathetically in denial of your passing, trying to grasp the painful reality that you are gone. Why. Why did you stop breathing, was there something I should have done? This can’t be happening. We cannot lose you. No. NO.
And everything just fell dark.
Everything still won’t sink in. Like a puppet controlled by fate, I go on. I get up, get dressed in white, and meet people who come to pay their respects. Everything was on cue, and I feel numb, easily exhausted. It was a struggle to have to talk to people and retell your story for each of them about what happened, how everything went, and how you passed away. Everyone wanted to hear the story, but it was like rubbing salt onto the fresh wound in our hearts as we utter every word. Isn’t it very nonsensical and insensitive to ask the bereaved to narrate what happened as if they owe you an explanation amidst their grief?
Being stuck in traffic when you have an important family event to catch. Studying for an exam only to find out it will be postponed. Frustrating: I now feel every bit of its meaning. Wanting to defy the odds, turn back time, desperately hoping it would change things. Dealing with a loss of a loved one is like a dilemma without a solution, a craving that can never be satisfied, and an emptiness that can never be filled. To this point words can neither describe nor alleviate the pain, and to this moment you cannot grasp the meaning of the word acceptance.
You’ve always been a devotee of Mama Mary, and St. Therese. Roses were always special to you as they were symbolic for St. Therese. It was a beautiful coincidence that on your last day we had roses placed in a jar on the table at your bedside from a dear friend of yours. You died on September 8, the day Mama Mary’s birthday is celebrated. The bedsheet you had with you as we went to the hospital, and the same which was used to be wrapped around your body was printed with bright red roses. On your wake you were also surrounded by roses, and you looked like a sleeping angel amidst those.
Uncertainty always entail fear. It must be human nature to be afraid of anything uncertain, cautious of everything unfamiliar. This life is temporary, but this life is all we are familiar about. No one is really ready to drift away from this life as no one has a solid proof of the existence of an afterlife. All we know about the afterlife is all rooted in faith, but still that cannot take away our fear of the uncertain. How can we easily accept that you are gone, when you yourself managed to say “I don’t want to leave you, but my body is getting tired”? It is so unfair to not be able to fight even if you still wanted to.
I remember a story back in second grade about a mother bargaining with Death. It was entitled The Story of a Mother by Hans Christian Andersen. Death took away her child and she followed. She encountered creatures along the way, all asked for something in return, which the mother gave without hesitation. But in the end, upon meeting Death and learning that her child’s future is bound to be miserable, she let go and let Death take her child to God’s kingdom instead. And she wept. I was eight years old back then but I remember the sadness I felt upon reading that story, imagining that was me and my mother.
Truly, a mother’s love is the purest form, selfless and unconditional. The love on a mother’s bosom is overflowing for her children. It’s heart-wrenching that we were not even able to hug you tight and smell your bosom on your last days, because even that was taken away by your sickness. Those breasts who nursed us and gave us life, became the culprit as it hosted cancer, caused you tremendous pain, and slowly took you away.
I feel so pathetic while arranging the things you left at home. I felt like a scavenger, a street kid delighted by the sight of leftover food, as I gathered the clothes you’ve worn and smelled them as I recognized your scent. It is frustrating to know that I can only preserve that smell in memory, and to know that I can no longer go home to that smell. The smell of my mother, the smell of home.
Look ma, I have something home for you. It breaks my heart to buy something before going home and have no one to give it to. Yes, daddy and ate is here, but we know it is you I always buy things for. It’s funny and sad that it became part of my subconscious, of muscle memory, to have something home, and look forward to give it to you. I miss you, Mommy.
No place feels home for me now, ma. As I went down the bus and crossed the street last night, every step felt heavier as I came closer to our doorstep. I feel like a homeless child having nowhere to go, because as I’ve always said, my definition of home is wherever you are. And now I do not know where my heart will feel home, because when you passed away, it went with you.
How can we live on and be happy now? Any moment your memory comes back everything instantly turn gloomy. The phrase “moving on” feels like being a defeated boxer, still trying to get up despite all the blows received, blood and sweat falling, views all blur, every movement is a struggle, as if all the weight of the world was pressed on you.
We visited you at the cemetery.
I still cannot grasp the reality that your body is there, lifeless. I still cannot accept the fact that you are gone. I am filled with questions, doubts, and even anger, I cannot live by the fact that we have to live from now on, without you. I want to shout and release all the frustration, desperately hoping someone or something would hear me and bring you back.
You were a woman of great faith. Up to your last moments you held on to your beliefs. And now I cannot go to Church and not remember the last moments we had with your remains. I cannot go to Church and not question God if He ever listened to our prayers. To yours especially. I cannot help but feel a bit of anger on everything, in search of something or someone to blame for taking you away from me too soon. I cannot go to Church and feel happy, all I know is that it became a place for my tears to instantly well up in my eyes in memory of your passing. I am filled with doubts and anger, for being robbed of a very precious part of our lives that not even faith can console me. We prayed. We prayed hard and observed numerous religious practices hoping for a miracle. We lifted everything to faith, and we remained strong, believing we’ll get through. But no, no one listened.
While we were driving home, we passed by one of our favourite restaurants, Rodic’s, along Maginhawa Street, and first thought I had is to order and take home our favourite for you. For a split second I forgot you are gone, and of course it breaks my heart that my mind still denies the fact that you are no longer here. Funny how our memory works sometimes, like it has its own world and refuses to accept some things from reality.
Whenever we come home late from school or not reply instantly to your messages, it is a sure word war upon reaching home. You always told us we are insensitive not thinking of how worried you get, and we just shrug it off and cheer you up.
I miss you, Mommy. My heart feels like a kid having tantrums after being deprived of a candy or toy. The tears of that child felt like the candy meant everything, and that being taken away from her felt like the end of the world. I still cannot accept the fact that you are gone. I cannot understand and accept that “you are in a better place now” when I do not even have a proof of where you are now. It is hard to just hold on to faith that you are indeed in a better place now. I now feel your worry when we go out late and not respond to your calls or messages. But this is a different case, you are not coming back.
I lived my 21 years looking up to you, and I guess ate and I didn’t realize how dependent we are to you. Yes, you raised us well enough for us to be strong and independent as a person, but never strong and independent enough not to need you. You were our go-to person, from the clothes we’ll wear for the day, to what to color of shoes and bag to wear or buy, to what subjects to take, and to almost every decision we had to make. And now we lost you, we lost our one and only life coach, our guiding light, our dearest companion. Everything feels unorganized, unclear, and uncomfortable.
You will always be our home, mommy. And now, without you, we will always feel empty and “homeless”
Here in the same laboratory as we were nine months ago, to have our consultation. Nine months. The two of us were sitting here for your breast ultrasound, anxious for the results, which eventually brought you in tears. It was very selfless of you to weep not for yourself but for us. When you learned about the result of your examination, that you had breast cancer, you cried not in fear of your own sake, but for us. You told me “I am terrified”, as you smiled while crying, “I worry about you and your sister, and your father”.
I will always admire your selflessness, that even in the most challenging moments of your life you thought not of yourself but of us, your family. I cannot believe those results meant the start of your last battle. It breaks my heart to sit here now and remember how we waited here, and to think of how fast things happened for you. How abrupt you were taken away from us. For us it was very fast, but we know for you it felt like years, even just hours of the pain you went through surely felt like a lifetime.
I really hope you are resting well now. I am glad that your suffering is over, but I guess it will take us years and even a lifetime to accept the fact that you passed away too soon.
When babies are born, medical professionals assists in the Kangaroo Mother Care: a procedure placing the newborn on the mother’s chest, with a skin-to-skin contact. This is done to help regulate the newborn’s body temperature, and for physiological and psychological warmth and bond between the mother and the child. Truly, the bond between a mother and the newborn at that moment is solemn, and perhaps can be considered as one of the most wonderful moments of life.
You were there on all my firsts. My first cry in this world, my first step, first word, first day in school, first letter I wrote, first field trip, first pimple, first menstruation, first failure, first rejection, and everything. You were there every step of the way, and it was all precious, and it won’t be the same without you.
I will always treasure the fact that you were there on my first breath, and I was there with you when you held your last.
You are like a dream now. One I am always longing to have, but also one that makes me wish not to wake up. It is a struggle to face every day with the reality that we’ve lost you. My mind still refuses to comprehend the fact that you are gone. I always see you in my dreams, and they are all sweet reminders of your memory, but waking up after that is a heartache.
Every bedtime I always wish to see you in my dream, to be able to talk to you one last time, ask heavens for you to come back.
We went to St. Mary Magdalene Church. Every step approaching the church, every wind blow, reminds me of the Saturdays we spent here. As I walked along the corridor towards the adoration chapel, tears instantly fell from my eyes for I was used to walking along that way following you, and now you are out of sight. As I entered the empty chapel all I can remember is kneeling and praying with you. With all that in mind I failed to pray for my own intentions, but instead I talk to you and wonder if you can see and hear me, and tell you how miserable we are after losing you.
We went to attend the Sunday mass at the Most Holy Rosary Parish, where we also had your funeral Mass. It saddens me when we come to hold hands to sing the Our Father, and I cannot feel you grasping our hands, my sister’s hand a mine, in your one hand together. All I can ask for in prayer now is to see you again, and talk to you one last time, even if I know it seems impossible, but that is what our hearts wish for.
You went when we are old enough that we can stand on our feet, but also old enough to feel all the pain and not have the ability to forget someday just like children.
Everytime we see your photos around the house, we cannot help but feel saddened because you are not around anymore. I am still trying to grasp and understand that you stopped breathing, that you are dead-a word that now rings an alarm within my senses and then bring sudden emotional episodes that instantly drain all my energy.
When we were kids, you taught us to do household chores, and cook and bake, while making it seem like playtime. You always had your way of brightening things up. You were always very bubbly, witty, and humorous. We cannot help but miss you while we were doing graham balls, and remember how you’ll sneak and get some, and promise you will pay but you will not.
Happy memories turned heart-breaking. Memories that we desperately want to relive, and we’ll surely give anything in exchange of a minute with you now. But then we are faced with reality that those will remain memories, those we’ll reminisce with a smile on our faces, and tears in our eyes.
The least I know which makes sense is that your pain and suffering has already come to end. But at the end of the day, the fact that you are no longer with us, that I cannot hold you anymore, that we cannot talk, that I cannot even see you, still don’t make sense to me.
I felt cheated by fate the moment you held your last breath.
Planning for forty days. You were very youthful and lively, you had such a strong spirit. You were always very cheerful, dancing to Madonna and other 80s songs on your playlist. You were cool for your age, listening to Spotify on your iPod, sending people random stickers on Messenger, always up to date on trends, always fashionable. Even up to when you were diagnosed to have cancer, that vibrant spirit was not overshadowed. You were required to wear a mask when going outside, to protect you from pollution and viruses. You then asked me to buy a surgical mask that is color pink and yellow, and I also found a Mickey Mouse printed one, so you have choices when going out, depending on which matches your outfit. You were always very graceful, you managed to carry yourself well even in the middle of the hardest battle you went through.
I cannot help but feel sad and a bit envious when I see friends with their mothers and grandmothers. I cannot help but weep over the fact that we were not given that privilege, and I will surely give anything just to have that.
Passed by Centennial Road, Kawit, Cavite. Remember when I was in high school? We had a “paluwagan” and I chose the month of November to have my share. That is so I can finally give you a gift that is more “expensive.” When I had my share, I went to your favourite pastry store, Red Ribbon at Centennial, the nearest branch then. I was planning to buy your favorite Chocolate Marjolaine cake, but ended up buying a Smores cake, because the former was unavailable then. I think both are not anymore available at Red Ribbon.
I was not even able to fulfill my promise of us two going on a shopping spree on my first salary. That I will open a cash card for you to use whenever you want. Time was so short, we were not even able to get to our plans.
There was one time when I was not even going to school yet, and my mom was helping my sister with her homework. I remember having that dramatic moment as they were having arguments over the homework. I asked my mom that night why people have to die. It is funny how at that age I managed to become that deep and dramatic. That was because of the movie Land Before Time where some dinosaur characters died, leaving some baby dinosaurs behind.
I always had that fear of being left. I dread the moment when my dad has to leave at the airport- a witness to my childish tears that lingered up to now whenever we go there to say goodbyes.
I guess no one is really certain of what happens to a person after death. All beliefs we know is driven by faith .When death comes to a person very close to you I believe it is normal to question those beliefs and worry about them.
February 6, 2015 – The day of your operation
The waiting room for the patients’ relatives was suffocating. It felt like the room’s air was filled with anxiety, of pleas and prayers. Our hearts skipped a beat every time a patient is sent out from the operating room, anticipating it was our mother. After a few hours, it was your doctor who went out, and you followed, lying on a stretcher pushed by nurses. You were slightly conscious, although a bit groggy because of the anesthesia, and all you managed to say was, “It hurts so bad”. It broke our hearts seeing you in pain, but at that time we were hopeful that you will be recovering soon, having the cancerous cyst removed from your body. We were all filled with hope that since the cyst was removed, you will get better.
I insisted on staying with you at the post-anesthesia care room, and gladly, through some colleagues at the hospital, I was allowed to stay. I stayed with you and caressed your hair, as you cried like a baby and said it hurts so much, everything hurts. I was struck deeply to see you like that, helpless and a bit hallucinating.
Back at our hospital room, you were still hallucinating. Pointing at the door you said, “Stop Mochi’s (our cat) scratching at the door, it’s noisy”, but Mochi was back at home. You also repeatedly said “Your daddy will call later, it’s Friday”, and yes, it was Friday but our computer, and telephone, was at home, and we had no internet connection at the hospital too. It must be your subconscious speaking, and we just watched over you.
Days after the operation, you slowly got better. You were back to your normal self, although a bit restrained in movement. We were all filled with hope and we were all assured that slowly, you will be fine.
But then your post-operation report came, I received it from the attending nurse and signed. As I opened and read it, my knees weakened and I sat down. I felt like reading the coming of the world’s end, the sound of the television show as you watched slowly droned, and I felt like doomed and betrayed by time.
“Breast Cancer Stage III-C”, it read. Having a sister who is a nurse, and having worked in that hospital, I had a few knowledge about these terminologies, few compared to the medical professionals, but enough to understand what it said and what it implies. Cancer has four stages, depending on how far the cancer cells have spread, the higher the number, the worse the case, Stage 4 being the worst. Stage 3-C implies we are hanging on a thread as we are very close to the worst stage.
I suddenly felt time running was running out, and like trying to hold on to water with your hands, it can only slip away.
How powerful air and time is, to be intangible yet so important.
Air, to be life sustaining and to dictate life’s end.
Time, to be precious that sometimes you want it to stop,
Yet so torturous at times that you wish it would go fast.
Learning that your condition was close to a worst, filled my head with anxiety and desperation. How come it was this bad? It was like seeing the end, and you are consumed in terror as it comes near.
9:25PM September 8, 2015 Bautista Hospital, Cavite City, Philippines
All visitors were asked by the guards to leave, as per regulation of the hospital. We talked to them and asked if three of us, my dad, my sister, and I, can stay instead of the only two allowed, because Mommy’s condition is not good and the doctor already advised that she might go any moment. They granted our request. All of our relatives and family left, while my dad and sister also went out to buy food and other supplies needed, leaving only Mommy and I in the room.
I talked to her although she was already unresponsive, just as we did the whole time earlier that day. Her eyes were closed, breathing heavily with the oxygen mask attached to her.
Earlier that day, while we were still at the Emergency Room, she still managed to talk to us, she even requested me to fix her hair and her ponytail. She talked to us, but with some random words which may be part of her hallucinations brought by her pain medications. She told us “Don’t leave me, Shaylou, Maruss.” as she held us tight. Before she was sent to her room, she managed to look at daddy, to ate, and to me, and she said “Thank you. Thanks to you.” Then she closed her eyes. As we were transferred to our room, she became unconscious. She responded with her eyes and made some sounds whenever we asked her to but it obviously was a struggle for her. As the hours passed, and evening came, her pulse was fluctuating, her vital signs running flat, but then coming back after a while. We were all sending her off, and telling her to go and take her rest, as she is struggling very hard.
As we were left alone in the room I was given the chance to talk to you, and for that I will forever be grateful for.
“You can rest now, ma”, then you suddenly opened your eyes, looked at me and seemed to nod, pulled a long heavy breath, and your sight lost focus on me.
I was waiting for her to inhale again, but for some seconds she did not, my knees fell and increased weight, I gathered some strength to get back up and to press the emergency button to get the attention of the nurses.
The next moment, I remembered, they pronounced the time of death, 9:35PM. Just in time as my dad and sister approached the door which was open since the nurses were crowding our room.
Woke up seeing my sister in a pensive mood. When she saw me awake, she spoke and told me you talked to her in her dream, the two of us, daddy, our aunts and uncles, in a house with a staircase, where you were going down. You were wearing that same laced white, long-sleeve dress you wore in your coffin. She said she felt nervous seeing you in that dress, descending from the stairs so your feet and the hemline of your dress were first to be of sight. It looked creepy of course, but when she, and all of us saw your face smiling and so bright, without any trace of pain, we were all relieved. She went to you and talked to you, held your arms, told you “How have you been?” and you told her, “I am doing fine” then you smiled, “but I always miss you”, you added. She asked you if you are happy there, but you did not answer, and told us again that you are “okay” there, no more pain and sickness. Seeing you in your normal, lively look is such a relief to all of us.
After telling me her dream, Ate and I ended up crying. Yes, it was just a dream, and of course it may not be a solid proof to answer the questions in our minds regarding the after life, or if there really is. But to us, it is significant, and that dream can be a faint line from which we can hang on and move forward.
They say it is a privilege for me that I was with you when you passed away. I was there, talking and crying as I watched you slowly drift away from this life, your body slowly getting cold. I did not know what to feel and how to react, I did not know how to stop the moment, to freeze time so you won’t go. It was like chasing air and trying to catch it, useless, frustrating.
I will forever have that moment in my memory. I will always treasure the fact that you held me in your arms on my first moments here on Earth, and I held you in your last.
The four stages of cancer defines how far the cancer cells have spread in the patient’s body. My mother was diagnosed to have “Cancer In Situ” on January 2015, “in situ” means in place, meaning the cancer is controlled in the specific area, in her case, on her left breast. This cancer type is known to be highly curable through operation removing the affected body part, thus removing the cancer cells as well. In my mother’s case, she went fast through the stages, the doctor suggested that it was because of her weak body system and other conditions such as her congenital heart condition. It was on the fourth stage that we lost her, as her liver and other vital organs slowly failed.
The five stages of grief by Dr. Ross, is a psychology reference guide to understand the stages of grief. It holds true in our case as we went through the first four, but in my opinion, the five stages can overlap and can repeat. Even when you reach the last stage, acceptance, any trigger moment can make you go back to denial. For us, I guess we will never get to the last stage.
The human mind is complex and wonderful, but there are limitations to it too. For me, there are some things and ideas which I think I will never be open to, and one of those is accepting the early demise of my superhero, my mother.
On the fourth stage of cancer we lost our sunshine, and on the fourth stage of grief we stop and restart. We get by, we survive each day without you, but we are never close to accepting your passing.
I will always treasure the last moment I held you in my arms and witnessed your last breath. To when will I be able to recall that moment without shedding a tear or feeling a pain in my chest, I am not certain.
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