must be taken in an empty stomach

One evening, I was sitting at your bedside. Nobody was there except for us. You were in chipper spirits, yet very pensive.

“Mi, how do you think it will be on the other side?”

“Um.. I’m not sure, mom. But maybe we’re not supposed to know? Because, like, if we all found out for sure that it was totally awesome on the other side, we would cheat, and….”

“… <mom laughs>… and we all would commit suicide! <laughs again. stops and ruminates some more.> You know…. I think so, huh!!”

You had another question. A hint of sadness was in your tone this time.

“Is it likely…  Will I still get better, you think?”

So many things raced through my head. I wanted you to get better. I wanted to tell you to keep fighting because you’d done it before, so why can’t you do it again? Then I realized I was being selfish. The human body is not perfect, and all of our bodies have their expiration dates. We can only handle so much sometimes. But I wasn’t ready to let you leave just yet. I had JUST become independent, and our family needed to travel around the world first. But there was something different in your tone of voice that held me back from chirping the usual “Fight! We can do this!” — our mantra.

I struggled hard to find the right words.

“I’m …. I’m not sure, mom. I would love for you to get better again like before. I don’t know anything, but I do know that God is the one who ultimately decides when it’s time to go home, right? Like you always say: cancer or none, young or old, ready or not, He will take us when He decides. Maybe it’ll be years, maybe tomorrow. But I think we should always be ready because we will never know.”

I felt like I had diarrhea mouth. I didn’t know if I was saying the right things, or if I was even coherent. Mom, I was terrified of telling you the wrong things. Terrified of pressuring you to keep fighting when you’d had enough, terrified of any blind optimism I may spill out that may end up causing you more unnecessary pain. I wasn’t sure if you were seeking encouragement to fight, or encouragement/comfort for the inevitable. Those were the most difficult questions I’d ever been asked.

After my jumbled response, I remember the calmness of your facial expression. You had a kind of soft, far-out look to your eyes, a sort of peacefulness that washed over you. My heart was beating in my throat because I was bracing myself for your reaction. But you seemed content with my partial answers.

I pray that you remain at peace in God’s presence. Even as a single mother, you had given so much of yourself to others in your 54 years on this earth, expecting absolutely nothing in return, even while concurrently battling cancer for 12. You deserve everything. I aspire to emulate your strength, determination, fortitude, grace, resourcefulness, sharp intellect, and big heart.

I look forward to seeing you again; but of course, not until I figure out my purpose here on earth and until I get it done. And don’t worry, there won’t be any “cheating” here. I love you.

I miss you, mom. A lot. It sounds incredibly lame when I type it out like this, though. Words don’t do ANY justice.

I wish I could just pick up the phone and text or call you. My only outlet is updating this tumblr account each time I want to reach you.

People say it’ll get easier to deal with the fact that you’re gone. But as I slowly regain my strength, it seems like it’s actually getting harder. Why is that? It feels like it is 10x more difficult on certain days. But on other days, it’s bearable.

I really, really, really miss your presence. Again, this sounds stupid as I type it out. Even if we were cities apart, I always took solace in the fact that you were physically somewhere and that I could always reach you. I didn’t always call you everyday, but I took for granted that you were somewhere. Now I won’t ever be able to drive over to give you a hug, or talk about random things, or share a tasty meal with you at Yen Du, Red Lobster, or ShoMi. For heaven’s sake; I can’t even text you and have it ACTUALLY REACH you.

I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that you’re no longer physically around. But I shouldn’t ignore the possibility that you may still be around; just not in physical form. As crazy as it sounds, I find comfort in the loud clicks I hear when I talk to you out loud, or when you appear in my dreams. I pray that your soul is at rest and that you are happy and at peace. I love you.

Mom, I dreamt that I asked you if you needed anything. But you said you were okay. I hope this is actually the case.

Everything is not fair, mom. Being left behind sucks. It’s just not right that it was just yesterday when we were moving into the house in Brookside. Now I’m packing it up. This is not fair.

I remember you got the house so that we “would always want to come home.” Even if you lived in the old house in Castle Oaks, mom, we still would have come. It wouldn’t matter. You were the sole reason we returned to Stockton when we did.

I cannot even put into words how ripped up I feel inside. I’m so tired that I feel like crying but nothing will come out. All I feel is immense, jabbing pain everywhere — in my head, my sides, my heart.

“You can always come home, here. You will always have your own room, your own bathroom. I will cook for you, and you have your space here.”

I avoid the thought of Christmas as much as possible. That always does me in. We would set up the fake Christmas tree together and then you’d do the decorating. I always brought out the heavy boxes so that you wouldn’t have to, and so you could look through the decorations.

This was home base, with mom on site. Mom went home to her real home, and so now the earthly base is being dismantled.

When I wake up from a nap, a tad sweaty, I wake up suddenly with a start. I look around disoriented.

No, this is not a dream. It’s real. My dearest mother is dead and the house is being packed up.

What a real-life nightmare.

Mom, tomorrow is your birthday. Well, I guess it would technically be today since you were born jn the philippines and if you account for the time zone adjustment. You would have been 55.

I feel so robbed, mom. Just when things were going well. I loved being able to have an income and then spoil you. I loved finding good quality shampoo like burts bees and non-itchy Bare Escentuals mineral makeup that you could use to cover the blemishes on your cheeks which you were so self conscious about. I was excited to bring you non-cancerous deodorant when I found some. Getting you the top of the line ipod nano in peridot green made me happy, and seeing you enjoy your music at work and wherever you went. Anytime I saw something that would help you pamper yourself I was excited to get it. Because then you wouldn’t have any excuse of why you’re not taking care of yourself. I liked to spoil you because you deserved it and so much more. As manong says: just when the party was getting started, you had to go. :( I want to throw a mad tantrum right about now.

You took aging gracefully. You knew how to dress, fix yourself up, hold yourself with poise and regard, and look very professional and respectable.

Pearl earrings, short hair, neck scarves, blazers. I remember you used to “color” your hair in your 40s. But I recall you asking me when I was younger about continuing your hair dyeing. Apparently I was for maintaining natural grey color. I said it was more natural, that silver looked good, that it made her look more respectable, and most of all … It just meant less hassle. You bought my argument and even used it as ammunition against the rain of criticism from your siblings about how old you look.

Whatever crap they said mom, you looked great. I said it when I was younger, and I still mean it today. I hope my greying pattern will be like yours when I, too, go grey.

Your smile was so bright in pictures of your youth. You were beaming. Radiant and vivacious. I can’t believe your smile never was the same after the thing with dad. It breaks my heart and makes me upset. My irrational side wants to make someone pay for your misfortune. :(

Thank you for building me up. For strengthening my nahkum. For being open minded and letting me pursue my dreams at UC Berkeley. For believing in me, and making me always strive higher.

“Grade A… that is good. Next time, make it A+.”

As far back as grade school, I can remember us sleeping “back-to-back.” This was the way I cuddled with you. Strange, yes. But not a bit less comforting.

Whenever there was an instance where we shared a bed, like at our Thanksgiving “getaway” in 2009 where we hung out at Redondo Beach, we always slept on our sides, with our backs pressed up against each other. You always said it kept your back nice and warm… especially now that you have a ton of metals in your spine. I think you came up with this system when I complained as a kid that you were breathing on me and I was breathing your used air, haha.

“Ag bahk-to-bahk kami man, nakkong?” you’d always request.

I remember when you’d hang out with me in SF and you’d crash at my California Steet apartment and we’d split the IKEA futon you bought for me when I left the dorms and into my own place in Berkeley. I even kept a pair of your pajamas in my armoire, ready for your next visit.

Always slept “back-to-back.” This position was very comforting to me. It was very intimate and close, but not suffocating. It was protective, like we covered and watched each other’s backs, like in scary movies when the survivors walked around, glocks in hand, backs pressed against each other. Even though we didn’t see each other face-to-face, in this formation we could still feel that someone is there and take comfort in that.

I remember complaining as an angsty teen when “maka iliw ka” and just simply wanted to snuggle in my bed. At that time, I wanted you to leave my room. I was such a freakin brat. I would give anything to be able to snuggle back-to-back with you again.