"Hush Now"

I am not used to seeing her like this. Wordlessly reclined on a chair, breathing with difficulty. It’s the quietness that unnerves me most. Her usual energy is now replaced by laborious movements. A few steps drains her so.

Her illness did not just take away from health; it took away from her whole person. She stopped talking to people and would decline even long distance phone calls from her siblings wishing to inquire of her wellbeing. How she loved to talk and to laugh. Laugh. Yes. Nieces and nephews would mimic her distinctly hearty laughter. And the way she ended her conversations with a melodious, “Okay, buh-bye!”

She never ran out of stories from her colorful life. And she never lacked of willing listeners. People sought her for her conversations, her lively company.

I see her now, frustrated at her own body. Seemingly angry at everything in this world because she couldn’t partake in the beauty of life as she used to.

I learned to speak to her in hushed tones. Without tension, alarm, or worry. To speak without sadness or impatience. Especially not sadness. I’ve mastered the art of monotone. Of having a calm bedside manner.

I learned how to get used to being woken up abruptly and acting as if I’ve been up for hours – no sleepiness in appearance, no hoarseness in voice, nor disorientation in behavior. On cue, I know her medication, from the milligrams, to the generic name, to the prescribing physician.

I learned to feign tiredness when I’m wide awake and she wants to turn in for the night; wakefulness when I’m sleepy and she wants someone to stay up with her. When it’s late at night and there’s nothing else on TV, “Ang Dating Daan” starts to become interesting.

I learned how to hold back my own tears whenever I ask her not to cry. To keep a steady voice despite of the creeping fear inside of me, while I assure her that everything will be all right.

I learned how to invoke in me enthusiasm for things that might cheer her up. I tell her funny anecdotes; watch her favorite soap operas with her; and plan vacations we’d take together. Her disposition seems to lighten up when I tell her we’d visit the province, go to the nearby beach, and eat freshly-baked warm bread by the shore just like we used to do on idle weekend afternoons when I was younger.

The thought makes her smile and it’s worth it.

This morning at the hospital while I was overwhelmed by the medical forms, the long queue, the insurance, and the bills, she tells me she needs to rest her head and catch her breath. I frantically look around for a waiting area, a couch, a seat, even considered the emergency room.

For a moment, I forget everything I’ve learned, and panic registers in my actions. She lays a hand on my arm and quietly tells me she’s sorry for burdening me with all these worries. Inside, I scold myself for causing the look of sad guilt on her face. I shrug off her needless apology and mumble something incoherent that I hope would pass off as a reply.

What I wanted to tell her, “I love you, Ma. I’m the grown up now. And I’ll take care of you.”

----

I wrote this a few months ago when my mother was still in and out of the hospital. She has been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. She has been confined in the hospital for almost a month, has been in depressed consciousness for a week, and has been in the ICU for four days.

Please help pray for my Mama.