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| Photo by Feliphe Schiarolli on Unsplash |
Note: The following entry is part of a collection of memories I'm writing in line with my mother's passing. I have already posted some here, but I have forgotten to add this note. The plan is to compile everything in one long, chronological post.
During one afternoon class
Fritzie, my seatmate during 3rd year high School, handed me her Nokia phone and told me that my mother had responded to a text I sent earlier. Hoping to receive good news from my family in Pasay, I took Fritzie's phone and opened the message. I had asked, in my previous text, money from them.
A few years back, when I was in Manila and they were in Leyte, I remember asking specifically for a scooter and the latest Harry Potter book for my birthday. Over the phone, my mother promised she'd get me both. It did not occur to me how impossible it was. And being young and naive, I believed and clung to every promise spoken. A few years later, you would expect me to learn my lesson. But that's the thing with children, they have an endless supply of "trust" fund. When you're older, trust becomes a precious commodity, a scarce one to say the least. And when it's broken, it breaks you into pieces.
After reading her response, I noticed fat tears rolling down my face. Surprised and concerned, Fritzie consoled me while I buried my head on my chair and started heaving.
"Uy tobs, ngano man? Okay ra ba imo mama?"
My crying continued.
"Need ba nimo ug kwarta? Pahugmon taka. Ayaw ug kabalaka."
In my step-father's text, he told me that my mother was confined in the hospital and needed bags of blood. They needed the money they were supposed to send me. It was a combination of hopelessness and utter desperation that broke me. It had been two years since they left me in Baybay. Two years since my aunt and uncle took me into their home. I really missed my mother. And to know of her condition and my inability to be there to help made me sick in the stomach. I could borrow the money, nothing else mattered more. What I wanted was to be next to my mother.
The next day I received another text from my step-father:
Mama is now recovering.
She had received blood and is now resting.
That was the first time my mother was rushed to the hospital. Little did we know that this would mark the beginning of the progression of her mysterious illness. But I knew better than to be grateful for my mother's recovery, I started bargaining with God. It was more of a threat than a bargain: If something bad happened to my mother and sister, I would hurt myself. I kept repeating this line every chance I got. Such misguided arrangements did nothing to keep my family away from harm. If anything, it only kept my dire thoughts at bay. So all throughout high school, I included my mother and sister in my prayer before I went to sleep, hoping one day we could be reunited. Hoping one day it wouldn't be too late.
