This piece was first written in January 2013. It has been revisited and lightly edited, but the emotions and memories remain as they were.
Life has a way of surprising us. One day, everything feels steady. The next, something shifts without warning. Happiness can turn into grief. Love can change. Even the most beautiful moments can fade. Nothing stays the same for long. Sometimes, we are left trying to understand why things had to change at all. They say life is the hardest course we will ever take.
There are no lessons to review, no degrees to earn, no second chances to repeat what we failed to understand. We move through it once and learn as we go. Faith and experience are the only things that can guide us. And when it ends, we leave with nothing but the life we have lived and the memories we have created.
It is summertime again. I see wildflowers that bloom in the month of May. The air carries the familiar scent of hot chocolate, even in the heat. I am excited to taste my mother’s champorado and special ginataan with sago again. These are small things, but they make the season feel complete.
Summer means laughter, late nights, and carefree days with friends and family. I really anticipate this summer vacation. My mind and body are so exhausted from schoolwork. I can finally rest and forget my worries. The month of May, for many, is a time of festivals, outings, and celebration. But for me, it becomes something else starting this year.
I stand on the veranda, staring out at the meadow. The air is particularly hot, caressing my body while my hair sways freely as the wind blows. The land is dry, and the grass is brittle. It seems the rain keeps ignoring this part of the state as if it is mad at the citizens of this Barangay.
Five hours left before the sun hides its rays for the night and breathes out the steam of the day’s fever. I know that starting this year, May will feel different.
Visitors come and greet me, but I am too exhausted to greet them back. For six days, I feel like a robot operated by a great hand. I sleep when exhaustion forces me. I eat when I have to. I do tasks to ignore the feelings and smile to deny the pain.
Six days have passed, and I thought I could relax, go back to the old Alma that I used to be, and forget all that happened. I am wrong. Grief has its own way of showing up.
It has been six days. I thought I could be strong and wouldn’t cry anymore, but I am betrayed by myself. I look at the mirror. The person staring back at me looks unfamiliar. Even cosmetics can’t hide the dark circles, tired eyes, and a quiet sadness she’s feeling.
I force a small smile. Today is the day I can no longer avoid. Today is the day that I have to face my fear and accept the fact. Not next week. Not tomorrow. Today. I see those men in white who were with us when we came home.
Visitors start to leave our house. I get my umbrella, hold my sister’s hand, and take one last look around. It is only a matter of time. I know things will never be the same. This house, once filled with laughter, will feel different. The happy old house will definitely be empty. Those happy memories we shared will never be repeated. I close my eyes, letting the tears fall just to ease the pain. And just like that, I am taken back to the time when she was still here…
It was Friday, May 18. I was with my mother in the hospital. She had been admitted for a condition I did not fully understand. Not having any background in this field made me feel helpless. The doctor did not even bother to explain anything. The only thing I knew was that we came here for a check-up, but we ended up staying.
We had only one pair of clothes. No food and no toiletries. Thank God we had enough money. My mom asked me to go home to get some clothes and check on my two little sisters. When I came back to the hospital, my father was already there from work.
The next day, she had an ultrasound to diagnose why her tummy was getting bigger. The doctor said there was nothing wrong with her stomach. I still remember what she said after the doctor left.
“Mabuti pang hindi ako nagpa-ultrasound. Sayang pa ang three thousand.” I shook my head and said, “Pera lang ‘yan, ‘Ma. Mapapalitan ‘yan.”
On May 21, she asked me to go home again to check on my sisters. She also asked me to get a copy of her birth certificate from the Local Civil Registry Office. My father, at that time, was back in the city for work. So she was all alone in the hospital.
When I arrived home, my maternal grandmother asked how my mother was, and I replied that she was okay. I prepared our lunch and got some rest afterwards. I came back to the hospital at five o’ clock in the afternoon.
The first thing I noticed was that something felt different. She looked pale. I asked how she was. She said she was okay, as usual. She always said she was okay. That night, when her food arrived, she told me not to share it with her.
That was unusual. We had always shared meals for the past three days. I asked her why, but she answered in a very motherly tone. “‘Wag mong sanayin ang sarili mo na makisalo sa pagkain ko. Ibili mo ako ng mangga.” I didn’t understand what she meant, but I followed her request.
It was eight in the evening when she told me that her chest was aching. I called the nurse on duty. The nurse asked if she wanted to have oxygen, but she only shook her head. She always said she was fine. She has always been a hard-headed woman, and I got irritated.
I did not say much and only spoke when she asked me about random things. Scary thoughts were already running through my mind. I was afraid to speak because if I did, tears might burst out.
Hours later, my father arrived. I was surprised to see him because he did not inform us that he would be coming. When I asked, he simply said that he wanted to visit Mama. Nothing more, nothing less. He handed me his pasalubong and the rice porridge he bought for her.
Minutes later, Mama asked me to put her diaper on so that she would not have to walk when she needed to urinate. After that, she asked me to feed her. When I was doing this, I couldn’t look at her. I was afraid to show my feelings, and I did not want her to worry.
She once again felt her chest aching. She struggled to breathe. I quickly called the nurse again. Everything happened so fast. I found myself holding my mother’s hand while crying. She was moved to a private room and given oxygen. I kept holding her hand as she held mine. The doctor was talking to Papa.
When the door opened, I saw his sad face. He told me about my mother’s condition. Stage four liver cancer. If she survived, she would only have three to six months to live. That night, my father went home to get my sisters.
I looked at her again. Her lips were dry. Her face had grown older. She’s not the same mother that I used to know. She’s now fighting against stage four liver cancer. I closed my eyes and thought back to the time when she was not yet confined. Who would believe that this lady lying in this hospital bed had stage four cancer?
I stared at her. All this time, she kept her condition from us. She pretended to be okay, happy, and healthy. So, how could I believe that this man wearing a white shirt with a stethoscope was telling the truth? How could this be real? How could someone who gave so much life be the one fighting to hold on to hers?
I wiped my tears when Mama opened her eyes. She smiled at me. She held my hand and spoke softly,
“Nasaan na ang Papa mo? Ang tagal-tagal naman niya. Ang sabi niya aasikasuhin lang niya ‘yong sa Philhealth. Nasaan na si Arby? Bakit wala pa siya? Ang tagal-tagal naman nila. Bakit ka umiiyak? Alam mo, anak, mahal na mahal kita. Neng, pag-uwi natin, maglalaro tayo ng bingo. Neng, hindi ito ang goodbye. Halika nga. Payakap si Mama.”
I wept. My heart ached as she said those words.
At 1:25 AM, my father returned with my sisters. I tried to stay strong for them. I told myself that everything would be alright. Mama fell asleep. I was holding her hand tightly. I was drawing strength from her.
Minutes later, I felt her hand grow cold. A tear rolled down her left cheek. That was the only sign that she was gone. My Mama was gone without telling us her real condition.
The month of May has always been special to my heart, and it is one of my favorite months, along with January and December. It is filled with warmth, laughter, and simple joys.
But that Tuesday, 22 May 2012, became the most painful day in my life. I learned what loss truly felt like in the month of May. I also realized that time really goes by very fast.
One moment, she was with us, playing and talking. She was dancing and laughing freely during Christmas. This lady, who was always full of energy and smiled at everyone, is now lying in the coffin.
My thoughts fade into silence when the cat stops in front of the church. I can’t take a step. I need someone to hold on to so I won’t stumble. I want to scream. I want to blame the hospital and the doctor for not saving my mother. I want to be mad at God. Why, of all people, did He choose her? Why is life so unfair?
I feel worthless. If only I could have done something to save her. I feel like I am to blame because I was with her the whole time in the hospital, yet I had no clue about her condition. Is that really what life means? Is even time cheating on us?
Time goes fast when you are happy and slows down when you are in pain. Tell me that I am only dreaming, and if I wake up, her beautiful face will smile at me again. Everything will be okay. Tell me that she will come back again to ease the pain.
How I wish somebody would say, “Hey Alma, it’s just a joke. Get up and visit your Mom.” But I only kid myself. I witnessed when she was gone. She’s always in my dreams. Every time I see her, she’s always happy.
My friend tells me to let her go, but I can’t. There is something in me that can’t accept the fact that she’s gone. I am still hoping that she will come back. My mind gets tired of waiting, but my heart does not.
My heart will wait forever until the two of us meet again. I know…someday… I will see her again. I will keep waiting until we meet again. When that day comes, we will continue where we left off. Until then, I will carry her with me. In my memories. In my choices. In every quiet moment that reminds me of May.
PS: If this resonates with you, keep coming back to Shine Brightly for more gentle reminders, grounded insights, and stories that reflect the quiet parts of life.