firstsgtmike
12-10-03, 06:27 AM
By Edna Flor M. de los Santos
"TALK to me," she said in a half-whisper, her voice so soft and faint I could hardly hear it.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon and I was rushing out to meet a friend in 30 minutes. No, I did not have the time for idle conversation.
"Talk to me," she said again, this time a little louder, her tone betraying a sense of urgency.
I looked at my aunt, her shrunken body crumpled in bed, her bony hands outstretched, seemingly reaching out to me, to all of us she had cared for, who were nowhere in sight.
I looked at her and I saw a wasted woman-skin hanging loosely from her skeletal frame, gray hair in disarray, perhaps uncombed for weeks, deep lines crisscrossing her face stained with dried tears, sunken eyes without light or cheer. The traces of the strong, stubborn, brave young lady that she had been once were visible only to the eyes of memory that could see beyond seeing.
This was the same person called "Maestra" in reverential tone by simple folks in a remote barrio in Pampanga province, north of Manila, where she had taught all her life. The first professional in an obscure community of poor farmers, she was a teacher, arbitrator of family conflicts, judge, nurse and marriage counselor all rolled into one. Her parents' house, where I spent my childhood, was always filled with men and women who sat at her feet for instruction, comfort or inspiration. Or, sometimes, like those bitten by dogs, for injection.
In the household, she was "Ms Fix it." Anything that needed repair fell under her department. She was also the family's chief security officer. She made sure no one would bring harm to any one of us.
For 40 years, she had been a mother to thousands of children. Now, she was alone.
She was my mother, too. Because Mother (her sister) was widowed when I was barely a toddler, and because my aunt had opted to remain unmarried, she gave financial support and loving care to me and my younger sister, sent us through college, guided us to build a future for ourselves and taught us to live with honor and dignity. She spanked us whenever she caught us lying or asking for a favor from anyone. She taught us to be self-reliant and to live within our resources. Her relatives thought she had money, but I thought otherwise.
She always said, "There is not much money to go around. Be thrifty." With a small allowance, I had no choice but to follow her advice. However, I knew she gave us more than enough because there was never a time when I felt deprived of anything at all. My recurring dream of her was when I would cuddle up to her and she would run her fingers through my curly hair. I felt so loved and so at peace.
Being unmarried, she never had a child of her own. I was her daughter, born not of her womb but of her heart. But even with me, she was alone. Sometime in my college years, she lost me. I became so busy building my own world, pursuing my own ambitions, constructing bridges to other human beings that I hardly noticed her. My joys were my own to savor; my wounds were my own to bind. Neither my plans nor my dreams included her.
At the sunset of her life, she suffered a stroke. Not long after, Alzheimer's set in. Needing constant medical care, she started living with us in Manila. I would peep into her room once in a while and ask her perfunctorily, at times, how she was. I would bring her a gift or some nice things to eat on some occasions. But I rarely sat down to talk to her or listen to her old stories, told over and over again.
"Talk to me," she begged. My God, how insensitive had I become! Why didn't I find the time and the heart to hold her hand and reassure her that I was still here, that we all cared for her, that she had not totally lost us? How long had she been suffering from this isolation?
Constancia Supan gave us a lifetime of true caring. Now, in her senile years, she was alone.
I looked at my aunt and I saw myself in the future. When it's my time, would I be treated similarly? Would I be consigned to a corner to die alone? Would I be exiled in a world where people would be transformed into mere voices, thousands of them, but no one speaking to me?
Suddenly, a wave of pain seized me and jabbed my guts with its savagery.
I embraced my aunt, clasped her hand near my heart and poured into her gentle hand the tenderness that had been locked within me for so long, letting it flow through her fingers into her core, hoping to fill her with the forgotten joys of being loved and cherished.
I looked at my aunt. She was now smiling at me. I smiled back at her. Forgive me, forgive me, I said over and over again.
It was I who was now reaching out to her. It was I now who was lonely for her. I was the child again who sought comfort in her warm bosom.
She looked at me and asked, "Who are you? What is your name?"
It was then that I broke down. I knew I had lost her forever.
======================
Sometimes, I think that those who die a sudden death, no matter how untimely or how painful it is, are the lucky ones. As are their families.
For those of us, who are or have been forced to endure the sight of a deteriorating loved one, we live with a lifetime of " I should have....." "I could have......."
We never know. Tis better to be safe than sorry. I survived it once, and will forever carry the scars.
I have learned to cross the distance with a monthly phone call, an e-mail message to be delivered, a note, a memo, or a card ever week.
The most devastating words in the world from a loved one are:
"Who are you? What is your name?"
"TALK to me," she said in a half-whisper, her voice so soft and faint I could hardly hear it.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon and I was rushing out to meet a friend in 30 minutes. No, I did not have the time for idle conversation.
"Talk to me," she said again, this time a little louder, her tone betraying a sense of urgency.
I looked at my aunt, her shrunken body crumpled in bed, her bony hands outstretched, seemingly reaching out to me, to all of us she had cared for, who were nowhere in sight.
I looked at her and I saw a wasted woman-skin hanging loosely from her skeletal frame, gray hair in disarray, perhaps uncombed for weeks, deep lines crisscrossing her face stained with dried tears, sunken eyes without light or cheer. The traces of the strong, stubborn, brave young lady that she had been once were visible only to the eyes of memory that could see beyond seeing.
This was the same person called "Maestra" in reverential tone by simple folks in a remote barrio in Pampanga province, north of Manila, where she had taught all her life. The first professional in an obscure community of poor farmers, she was a teacher, arbitrator of family conflicts, judge, nurse and marriage counselor all rolled into one. Her parents' house, where I spent my childhood, was always filled with men and women who sat at her feet for instruction, comfort or inspiration. Or, sometimes, like those bitten by dogs, for injection.
In the household, she was "Ms Fix it." Anything that needed repair fell under her department. She was also the family's chief security officer. She made sure no one would bring harm to any one of us.
For 40 years, she had been a mother to thousands of children. Now, she was alone.
She was my mother, too. Because Mother (her sister) was widowed when I was barely a toddler, and because my aunt had opted to remain unmarried, she gave financial support and loving care to me and my younger sister, sent us through college, guided us to build a future for ourselves and taught us to live with honor and dignity. She spanked us whenever she caught us lying or asking for a favor from anyone. She taught us to be self-reliant and to live within our resources. Her relatives thought she had money, but I thought otherwise.
She always said, "There is not much money to go around. Be thrifty." With a small allowance, I had no choice but to follow her advice. However, I knew she gave us more than enough because there was never a time when I felt deprived of anything at all. My recurring dream of her was when I would cuddle up to her and she would run her fingers through my curly hair. I felt so loved and so at peace.
Being unmarried, she never had a child of her own. I was her daughter, born not of her womb but of her heart. But even with me, she was alone. Sometime in my college years, she lost me. I became so busy building my own world, pursuing my own ambitions, constructing bridges to other human beings that I hardly noticed her. My joys were my own to savor; my wounds were my own to bind. Neither my plans nor my dreams included her.
At the sunset of her life, she suffered a stroke. Not long after, Alzheimer's set in. Needing constant medical care, she started living with us in Manila. I would peep into her room once in a while and ask her perfunctorily, at times, how she was. I would bring her a gift or some nice things to eat on some occasions. But I rarely sat down to talk to her or listen to her old stories, told over and over again.
"Talk to me," she begged. My God, how insensitive had I become! Why didn't I find the time and the heart to hold her hand and reassure her that I was still here, that we all cared for her, that she had not totally lost us? How long had she been suffering from this isolation?
Constancia Supan gave us a lifetime of true caring. Now, in her senile years, she was alone.
I looked at my aunt and I saw myself in the future. When it's my time, would I be treated similarly? Would I be consigned to a corner to die alone? Would I be exiled in a world where people would be transformed into mere voices, thousands of them, but no one speaking to me?
Suddenly, a wave of pain seized me and jabbed my guts with its savagery.
I embraced my aunt, clasped her hand near my heart and poured into her gentle hand the tenderness that had been locked within me for so long, letting it flow through her fingers into her core, hoping to fill her with the forgotten joys of being loved and cherished.
I looked at my aunt. She was now smiling at me. I smiled back at her. Forgive me, forgive me, I said over and over again.
It was I who was now reaching out to her. It was I now who was lonely for her. I was the child again who sought comfort in her warm bosom.
She looked at me and asked, "Who are you? What is your name?"
It was then that I broke down. I knew I had lost her forever.
======================
Sometimes, I think that those who die a sudden death, no matter how untimely or how painful it is, are the lucky ones. As are their families.
For those of us, who are or have been forced to endure the sight of a deteriorating loved one, we live with a lifetime of " I should have....." "I could have......."
We never know. Tis better to be safe than sorry. I survived it once, and will forever carry the scars.
I have learned to cross the distance with a monthly phone call, an e-mail message to be delivered, a note, a memo, or a card ever week.
The most devastating words in the world from a loved one are:
"Who are you? What is your name?"