this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on May 27, 1999.
When I was a child, Am-ma held my hand and took me places. As a young man, I took Am-ma’s hand and led the way for her. Dr. Francisco says it’s only a matter of days before Am-ma dies. I am about to go abroad, but I am ready to postpone or cancel my trip if she goes while I am still here. She is sleeping most of the time, not because of the medication, but because her liver is not functioning properly. I was present when Dr. Ty checked her the other day, and my hand felt the hard mass on her abdomen–the tumor.
When she is awake, Am-ma is not always lucid. She says things none of us can understand. Sometimes she asks for food or water, but she can’t take in too much. Amino acids keep her nourished. Several times she has asked to be taken home, but the doctors and the family think it’s better to keep her in the hospital where everything is convenient. I wonder, though, if Am-ma wants to die at home. Is she one of those people who want to go in familiar surroundings, not the cold, functional atmosphere of a hospital room? Or is it because she knows she is in that particular hospital, where Angkong died years ago after he was run over by a gasoline truck?
It is hard to tell. We are so sparing with words when it comes to expressing our feelings. I love Am-ma, but I’ve never told her so, and I don’t feel the need to. It is not the way we do things. I think my presence at her bedside counts for more. I have held her hand and stroked her head. I have spoken to her. I have tried to console her. It pains me to see her like this. On my first visit to the hospital, I was struck by the expression on her face. She had this pained look on her. She no longer wore dentures, so she looked a bit different. The doctor said she was grimacing, but she was not in pain. Maybe not, but she didn’t seem to be at peace either.
I’ve been told that days before she was brought to the hospital, she was in great pain, kicking and flailing her arms, calling out for Angkong. Why do bad things happen to good people? An aunt of mine asked why a tumor would grow on Am-ma, who is so kind-hearted. I mumbled something about these things not discriminating between good and bad people. Some members of our family wonder why a devout Buddhist like Am-ma should suffer like this. It is as if religion is supposed to take away all pain, all suffering, all problems. On Good Friday, I listened to a priest talking about God blessing darkness and death with His presence. He does not desire suffering for us, but He permits it. He allowed His Son to suffer the pain and humiliation of the cross, not to ransom our sins, but to make a way for us, to give us the chance to return to the Father for eternity. After Jesus, there is no more darkness so bleak, no more suffering so grave that they can separate us from the Father permanently. Christ has made a way for us, and that way is there to stay. Am-ma is heir to another way.
Still I am confident that she will enjoy God’s presence. I told Mommy we don’t need to let our born-again neighbor visit and tell Am-ma that she will not be received in heaven unless she accepts Jesus. I am actually a bit angry that she would say such a thing to my dying Am-ma. I wish I could take away Am-ma’s pain. We have spent so much time together, shared so many things, and it pains me to see her like this. I have memories of holding her hand whenever we went out together–to the supermarket, in Chinatown, in Hong Kong. It was a task assigned to me by my parents, but it was not a burden. It never was.
When I was in Grade 1, I would rush home for lunch and she would fuss over me. She would make me some orange juice in her personal, peach-colored cup. She told me stories while I ate. She told me to finish every grain of rice on my plate because each grain was needed to fill up a bowl. Now I cannot eat rice without remembering her with fondness. She bought me a firetruck. Only I could play with it in her air-conditioned room, away from my brothers. She brought me to eat at ”ang bo-a” (red hat’s)–her name for Pizza Hut. She prepared see boot and pigeon soup for me–to make me strong, to make me healthy. She gave me money. When I first saw her after she got sick, she gave me a red envelope. ”Tsiu be,” she called it, because she didn’t know when we would see each other again. That moved me very much. Not the money, but what it represented: all her benevolence, all her good wishes, all her virtues, symbolically passed on to me through ang pao. I wonder how Am-ma will finally die. Regardless of when and how, though, this much is clear: Death ends a life, not a relationship. She will live forever in me, as she does now. She will be part of all the people I encounter and all the things I do. Death ends a life, not a relationship. Morrie said that in ”Tuesdays with Morrie,” which I’ve just finished reading. I will qualify that by saying that death ends a body’s life, not life. Because Am-ma will always live in our memories, and because she will share in the everlasting life promised by God. You don’t have to be a Christian to partake of that. I have been praying ”Anima Christi” differently these days:
“Soul of Christ, sanctify Am-ma. Body of Christ, save Am-ma. Water from the side of Christ, wash Am-ma. Passion of Christ, give her strength. Hear her, Jesus, hide her in Your wounds that she may never leave Your side. From all the evil that surrounds her, defend her. And when the call of death arrives, bid her come to You, that she may praise You with Your saints, forever.”
I know that Jesus will do all these for Am-ma, even if she doesn’t know Him personally. In the Father’s house there are many dwelling places.
