Your LCCian Community of Friends in the World Wide Web
Way to Go, Mama Mia (Aida Servando Lizares' last month)
We knew about Mom's cirrhosis in 2002. In 2006 she almost died and when we were told last September that she had primary liver cancer, all of us, Mom included, had fair warning. Mom grew weaker and more jaundiced as December flew by but we never saw in her any trace of fear, suffering, or reproach at our inability to help her. She enjoyed endless holiday feasts with the family (present were more than 40 children, in-laws, grandchildren, great-grandchildren), attended a big family reunion on my father's side, and had her 81st birthday party. January 2, first thing after the new year, we flew to Manila so she could be treated by her doctor in a hospital.
Unfortunately, the damage to her liver was irreversible and her kidneys also began to fail. We did have 4 days good days out of the hospital (Jan. 8-11), days during which Mom enjoyed rides on her sister's wheelchair, went shopping for red lipstick and blouses, ate in restaurants, and explored a new open air mall with spacious walks designed especially for wheelchairs. Twice, on the way home from mass, I also treated her to my favorite wheelchair fantasy, riding a speeding wheelchair. But Mom's creatinine kept rising and she was gaining 2 kilos of retained fluid daily. January 12 we returned to the hospital and heard the bad news from our doctors next day.
January 14 (Wednesday), Mom listened as her hepatologist, Dr. Eternity Labio, told her about liver and kidney failure and how an experimental drug might reverse kidney failure. "What if it doesn't work?" Mom asked. She received the doctor's revelations calmly and after her siesta, told me to ask her sister Ofelia to request the Carmelites for prayers. "So I won't need dialysis," she said. Then she instructed me to ask Bambi, Julie, and my other siblings in Bacolod to go to Manila.
Thursday, Ofelia, Mom's youngest sister flew to Manila and arrived in the hospital together with Nilda, eldest in Mom's family. Tita Nilda's son, a doctor practicing in the hospital where we were, called to ask how Mom was. His mother told him we were all enjoying a jolly good time at the Japanese restaurant in the food court. In the afternoon, Dr. Labio paid us a leisurely visit, more friend than doctor now. After she left, one of Mom's pharmacist colleagues arrived and the two friends had a good time talking about the places they'd been to together for pharmacy conventions in the Philippines, and as tourists in the U.S. and Canada. The day was so full, it wasn't until 6:00 p.m. that Mom was able to go to bed for a nap. I promised to wake her up at 8;30 so we could use the doctor's pass and leave hospital grounds for dinner at a nice restaurant outside.
Then the seer arrived with a nun friend of my sister Sophie (also a theologian). "Your mother has a sister?" she asked.
"She has two sisters," we volunteered.
"One of the sisters is already dead," the seer said.
"That's a third sister," I replied.
"The dead sister is already in the room with the angel who will fetch the angel of death."
The seer may or may not have been genuine. Most of us have sisters and at 81, a dead sister is a very good probability. I waited for her to mention that this sister died a violent death. Nothing about that for an hour and a half. The numbers she added to conclude that Mom would be gone by about 3:00, whether morning or afternoon of the next day (Friday) also added to my skepticism. Even then, I asked Sophie to stay and agreed to the visit of a priest that evening. Mom's time with us became more precious after that. Sophie and I were also able to spend 3 extraordinary early morning hours with our mother. Those hours we spent praying, singing (Mom sang as heartily as we did with a voice as loud), conversing with her about life, death, family, friends, last wishes, and laughing.
"Mom, has anyone come to fetch you?" I asked after we'd talked about family concerns.
"Before my mother died, her caregivers asked her if she'd go if her husband fetched her."
"Mom, I'm not asking about Lola, I'm asking about you, has anyone come to fetch you?"
"Nanay was fetched by her Nanay and Tatay."
"You're evading the issue, Mom." I gave up on that line of questioning.
"Mom are you afraid about being fetched?"
Sophie and I were happy to hear her say "No."
"Whom do you want to fetch you, Mom?" Sophie asked.
"Your Dad, of course, maybe Nanay and Tatay (Mother and Father) also."
"Has Daddy come to fetch you?"
"No."
"You promise you'll tell us when he comes."
"OK."
"Mom, why do you keep look up above?" The seer told us that when a person is dying, the pupils would be going up. "What are you looking at, Mommy?" "Nothing," but Sophie noticed a smile that said Mom wasn't quite telling us everything.
We decided it was safe to sleep when 3:00 a.m. passed. But several times, Sophie and I sat up because Mom was talking. "The puto (ricecake) is best with butter and cheese." "Has the cook arrived yet?" "Have the fruits been arranged?" Who were the guests she was expecting and what feast was she preparing? A number of times before daybreak of Friday, I saw her lifting up her rosary beads as if checking on where she was in her prayers.
Mom slept through Friday morning but Bambi and Julie, two of my sisters, arrived from Bacolod after lunch and Mom had fun with a number of us in the food court in the late afternoon. Evening, Mom was sitting on her chair and the room was filled with happy family noise when Dr. Labio arrived. To give her a report on Mom's day, I had to explain Mom's sleepless night. She complained about our calling in the seer then said, "This isn't doctor talk but when I entered your Mom's room, I smelled flowers though there were none in the room."
"Mom's not afraid of dying, Doc."
"I can see that you're ready, and your Mom's ready."
That Friday evening, for the first time after her re-admission in the hospital, Mom was too weak to answer when we prayed the rosary. I knew the end could come anytime but I had sisters who also needed to spend time with our mother. When my sister-in-law, Nurse Aux agreed to stay the night, I was relieved to be able to go home for much needed rest.
Saturday morning, I thought Mom would be so weak she'd be sleeping most of the day. Needing a well deserved break, I looked forward to a lot of solitary walking and wandering around a mall. Then Sophie called to ask about Mom's medicines. "She's awake and getting ready to go to the beauty parlor for a shampoo and to get her hair done!" Sophie said.
Mom was getting dressed and putting on lipstick and her pearl necklace when I arrived. My brother Matthew took pictures of her with us in the room and we also had full photo documentation of our time in the salon. Mom was weak but this was hard to tell when she was seated and talking. Even so, that day was Saturday, a day special to Marian devotees. Mom had been asking about the day of the week for several days. Saturday was the date she seemed to be waiting for. Now that it was Saturday and Julie and Bambi had arrived, her repeated question was, "What's the time?" As amused as we all were in the beauty salon, I suspected Mom really was getting ready for the biggest date of her life.
Matthew and my two sisters didn't leave until past 3:00 p.m., just in case. Earlier, Julie told me that when Mom went to the toilet at 2:30 that morning, she'd wondered, "Why is it so bright". "Remember the 3:00 prediction?" I reminded my siblings.
Mom was drifting in and out of sleep when her 2 sisters and my father's sister Tita Edie McKenzie, came to visit. Except for the heplock and the patient's i.d. bracelet, there was nothing that identified her as a patient. She looked like she was just resting and getting better.
"For three weeks before he died, your uncle was connected to IV lines and all kinds of tubes and wires," ?Tita Nilda, Mom's eldest sister said of her husband who died last November.
"Is that how you want to go, Tita? I'd rather go without all those attachments, definitely no respirator for me," I said.
About 9:30 that evening, Mom was sitting on her chair when two of my daughters arrived from the airport. "How are you, Lola?" Eva and Josephine asked. "Not too well." It was her first admission that she wasn't well but her smile for them was real. An hour later, something gave when she got up from bed and walked to the toilet. Fortunately, she collapsed while being supported by 3 people. Still fully awake, her speech was badly slurred, her body as limp as a ragdoll's. For a while, no one could detect her pulse and blood pressure. When the residents finally came, they said that Mom wasn't urinating enough so they'd insert a catheter to solve that problem. "The problem is, her kidneys aren't producing urine for the bladder to excrete. The fluid's everywhere except in her bladder so what's the use of a catheter?" I argued. The time it took for hospital staff to finally get her back in bed, the incompetence that we witnessed that night spoke much of what we're losing when thousands of our best nurses and doctors migrate to first world countries every year.
We prayed the rosary.
"Mom, are you saying something?"
She answered but we couldn't understand what she said.
"Mom are you praying?"
This time the "Yes" was clear. To the very end, she was showing us how to pray.
When he arrived, the nephrologist explained the situation and how we were going to deal with it. Mom was conscious and breathing on her own but she wasn't getting enough oxygen, even with the oxygen tubes in her nostrils. "Unless we attach her to a respirator, her heart will suffer," the doctor said. Two of my brothers were arriving in the morning and helping Mom to breathe seemed a good thing to do, even though she didn't seem to be in distress. We agreed to the respirator and to dialysis, something the doctor had earlier discouraged. "Mom, we've agreed to attach you to a respirator to help you breath, I hope that's all right with you." "Respirator," she said clearly but with no indication of yes or no. That was the last word I heard from her before the medical team sedated her.
After that, there was a conference with the doctor and when we returned my daughters told me that as soon as the tube for the respirator was inserted down Mom's throat, blood gushed out. Haemorrhage. In advanced cirrhosis, there is no stopping that. Our voices were choking as we prayed through our tears outside the room.
Mom was brought to the ICU around 12:30. At about 1:00 a.m., the Intensive Care Specialist met with us and told us that she was on full life support, her heart beat and blood pressure maintained artificially by drugs, her breathing possible because of the respirator. At the rate she was losing blood, there would be no need for us to decide when to pull the plug. We gave instructions not to resuscitate or to add to what was already in the IV drip.
"We want to be with our mother as she is dying," I said. Ordinarily, only one person at a time is allowed to visit a patient in the ICU but I was ready to fight for a patient's right to die with her family around her. The doctor gave us entry though there were 11 of us.
"We love you, Mom. We're here. We're going to be all right, you don't have to worry about us. It's all right for you to go. Follow the light. Where you're going, you can walk, you can dance, you can fly."
"Thanks for everything, Mom. The two years you lived with us and gave me and my family the chance to take care of you while you were sick was a special blessing for us. Thank you for trusting me to take care of you these past weeks."
Words of love, gratitude, and farewell. We choked as we spoke. The first rosaries were also hard to pray. A tube for the respirator stuck into her mouth, a smaller tube to drain the blood spilling out of her throat, a thick wad of gauze to catch what trickled out of her mouth, tubes and wires attached to her nostrils, arms, hands, and feet - Mom wasn't a pretty sight. There was no turning back the clock or stopping the hemorrhage. For her sake, we hoped everything would end soon. Waiting, we added songs of praise and worship to our ICU repertoire. But having cried enough, it was impossible for us to keep from laughing whenever Joel, Sophie's husband said, "Look, every time I touch Mommy's hand, her blood pressure increases and her heart beats faster."
"Mommy loves it when you sing 'Some Enchanted Evening, Joel. Why don't you sing that for her like you always do during her birthdays?" Joel was happy to oblige, not once but several times. We added more songs from South Pacific, theme of Mommy's 80th birthday in 2007. Then there were songs Daddy used to sing - "All the Things You Are," "Old Man River." Going further back, there were the songs Mom taught us because her father loved them - Clementine, Swanee River, Old Folks at Home. Of course we sang the Marian songs that we remembered. "In Glory Untold," the triumphant hymn dedicated by graduating classes to our Lady of Consolation requires a conductor and different voices. My 5 sisters and I sang at the top of our voices while I played the part of conductress. Mom studied in the same school and we were sure that her spirit was singing and laughing with us.
At 3:00 a.m., we were ending our umpteenth rosary but Mom didn't die. "She's probably waiting for John and Alfonso (my two brothers)," someone suggested. We asked for the hospital chaplain to administer the last rites. Around 4:00, the ICU nurses asked us to leave. "We need to clean her up," they said. "We're probably just too noisy and crowded for their comfort," we all thought. Still we were grateful for the break and the chance to sit down after hours of standing. There were also practical arrangements that needed to be made. Sophie, our eldest, took charge. "Does Mommy have a memorial plan?" "Which mortuary shall we hire?" "What dress will Mom wear?" "Where shall we have the wake in Manila?" "Where in Bacolod?" Around 4:30, I called my daughter Sarah to ask her to look for the gown Mom used for her 80th birthday. One of my sisters called Alfonso to ask him to bring the gown with him. With his wife Pines, my brother in Bacolod was alternately praying and going over Mom's photographs, keeping the death watch with us. John, the other brother still back home, went to bed early and didn't know until we had his wife awaken him.
6:00 a.m., after we'd arranged for Mom and all the monitoring equipment to be transferred back to our old room, we were told to return to the ICU. "Her vital signs are declining. It won't be long." We rushed back. More rosaries, more parting words, more tears.
6:30, Dr. Labio joined us. Intensive care wasn't her forte but we were glad and knew Mom was comforted by her presence. Even so, we watched amazed as Eternity Labio, Eternal Love, gently stroked Mom's face, rearranged Mom's hair, cuddled Mom's head and kissed Mom's forehead. When she went outside the room to confer with the doctors, we resumed our singing and praying. Later, we told her about the evening's events, about Mom's Christmas and the 81st birthday. Sophie showed our December pictures, as well as the pictures in the hospital room, the food court, the beauty salon. Eternal Love was holding back tears when I hugged her to say good-bye and thank you.
8:30 Sunday - "Mom, John and Alfonso are on their way up." About an hour later, "Mom, Tita Diots is coming" (Tita Diots is our Aunt Ofelia, Mom's youngest sister). The I.V. drip run out and for an hour, the monitor showed nothing for Mom's blood pressure. The nurse emptied another liter of Mom's blood from the plastic container. Still Mom's heart continued to beat. "Mom, has Daddy come to fetch you?" She couldn't speak with the respirator tube in her throat but I'm sure I saw her raise an eyebrow to say "yes." "Mom, Tita Nilda's coming (Tita Nilda is Mom's eldest sister)." Numbers for her blood pressure reappeared. More rosaries, more songs, more last words. We took turns holding her and talking to her. Sometimes, her arms would flap up and down. "Go and fly toward the light, Mom." All the tubes and wires were holding her back. Around 11:00 a.m., the nurse told us that her pupils were no longer responding to light. Technically, that was the end of the story. I wanted to disconnect the respirator so she could go but we had to wait for the monitors to show a flat line. More rosaries. We were all low batt and flat tired. As contaminated with pathogens as the ICU floor may have been, many of us were sitting on the floor.
"Mom, we've prayed enough rosaries and we're really tired. It's time for you to go to sleep."
"How can she leave when we keep talking to her and giving her reasons for staying?"
"How can she leave when she and Dad are having so much fun with the whole family here?"
"Knowing Mom, she'd tell us to go out for lunch. Maybe she means to go at 3:00 p.m. The drug's effect can last that long."
"Maybe she means to go when we're not around to disturb that sacred moment she and Daddy go to meet God."
We didn't need that many reasons to leave. An hour and a half later, my brother John sent a text message that read "Mom flat-lined at 1:45 p.m." By then, we'd cried all our tears and really had no reason for being sad.
Farewell, Mama Mia. Way to go.
Unfortunately, the damage to her liver was irreversible and her kidneys also began to fail. We did have 4 days good days out of the hospital (Jan. 8-11), days during which Mom enjoyed rides on her sister's wheelchair, went shopping for red lipstick and blouses, ate in restaurants, and explored a new open air mall with spacious walks designed especially for wheelchairs. Twice, on the way home from mass, I also treated her to my favorite wheelchair fantasy, riding a speeding wheelchair. But Mom's creatinine kept rising and she was gaining 2 kilos of retained fluid daily. January 12 we returned to the hospital and heard the bad news from our doctors next day.
January 14 (Wednesday), Mom listened as her hepatologist, Dr. Eternity Labio, told her about liver and kidney failure and how an experimental drug might reverse kidney failure. "What if it doesn't work?" Mom asked. She received the doctor's revelations calmly and after her siesta, told me to ask her sister Ofelia to request the Carmelites for prayers. "So I won't need dialysis," she said. Then she instructed me to ask Bambi, Julie, and my other siblings in Bacolod to go to Manila.
http://s396.photobucket.com/albums/pp42/lizaresandrea/?action=view&..."/>
Thursday, Ofelia, Mom's youngest sister flew to Manila and arrived in the hospital together with Nilda, eldest in Mom's family. Tita Nilda's son, a doctor practicing in the hospital where we were, called to ask how Mom was. His mother told him we were all enjoying a jolly good time at the Japanese restaurant in the food court. In the afternoon, Dr. Labio paid us a leisurely visit, more friend than doctor now. After she left, one of Mom's pharmacist colleagues arrived and the two friends had a good time talking about the places they'd been to together for pharmacy conventions in the Philippines, and as tourists in the U.S. and Canada. The day was so full, it wasn't until 6:00 p.m. that Mom was able to go to bed for a nap. I promised to wake her up at 8;30 so we could use the doctor's pass and leave hospital grounds for dinner at a nice restaurant outside.
Then the seer arrived with a nun friend of my sister Sophie (also a theologian). "Your mother has a sister?" she asked.
"She has two sisters," we volunteered.
"One of the sisters is already dead," the seer said.
"That's a third sister," I replied.
"The dead sister is already in the room with the angel who will fetch the angel of death."
The seer may or may not have been genuine. Most of us have sisters and at 81, a dead sister is a very good probability. I waited for her to mention that this sister died a violent death. Nothing about that for an hour and a half. The numbers she added to conclude that Mom would be gone by about 3:00, whether morning or afternoon of the next day (Friday) also added to my skepticism. Even then, I asked Sophie to stay and agreed to the visit of a priest that evening. Mom's time with us became more precious after that. Sophie and I were also able to spend 3 extraordinary early morning hours with our mother. Those hours we spent praying, singing (Mom sang as heartily as we did with a voice as loud), conversing with her about life, death, family, friends, last wishes, and laughing.
"Mom, has anyone come to fetch you?" I asked after we'd talked about family concerns.
"Before my mother died, her caregivers asked her if she'd go if her husband fetched her."
"Mom, I'm not asking about Lola, I'm asking about you, has anyone come to fetch you?"
"Nanay was fetched by her Nanay and Tatay."
"You're evading the issue, Mom." I gave up on that line of questioning.
"Mom are you afraid about being fetched?"
Sophie and I were happy to hear her say "No."
"Whom do you want to fetch you, Mom?" Sophie asked.
"Your Dad, of course, maybe Nanay and Tatay (Mother and Father) also."
"Has Daddy come to fetch you?"
"No."
"You promise you'll tell us when he comes."
"OK."
"Mom, why do you keep look up above?" The seer told us that when a person is dying, the pupils would be going up. "What are you looking at, Mommy?" "Nothing," but Sophie noticed a smile that said Mom wasn't quite telling us everything.
We decided it was safe to sleep when 3:00 a.m. passed. But several times, Sophie and I sat up because Mom was talking. "The puto (ricecake) is best with butter and cheese." "Has the cook arrived yet?" "Have the fruits been arranged?" Who were the guests she was expecting and what feast was she preparing? A number of times before daybreak of Friday, I saw her lifting up her rosary beads as if checking on where she was in her prayers.
Mom slept through Friday morning but Bambi and Julie, two of my sisters, arrived from Bacolod after lunch and Mom had fun with a number of us in the food court in the late afternoon. Evening, Mom was sitting on her chair and the room was filled with happy family noise when Dr. Labio arrived. To give her a report on Mom's day, I had to explain Mom's sleepless night. She complained about our calling in the seer then said, "This isn't doctor talk but when I entered your Mom's room, I smelled flowers though there were none in the room."
"Mom's not afraid of dying, Doc."
"I can see that you're ready, and your Mom's ready."
That Friday evening, for the first time after her re-admission in the hospital, Mom was too weak to answer when we prayed the rosary. I knew the end could come anytime but I had sisters who also needed to spend time with our mother. When my sister-in-law, Nurse Aux agreed to stay the night, I was relieved to be able to go home for much needed rest.
Saturday morning, I thought Mom would be so weak she'd be sleeping most of the day. Needing a well deserved break, I looked forward to a lot of solitary walking and wandering around a mall. Then Sophie called to ask about Mom's medicines. "She's awake and getting ready to go to the beauty parlor for a shampoo and to get her hair done!" Sophie said.
Mom was getting dressed and putting on lipstick and her pearl necklace when I arrived. My brother Matthew took pictures of her with us in the room and we also had full photo documentation of our time in the salon. Mom was weak but this was hard to tell when she was seated and talking. Even so, that day was Saturday, a day special to Marian devotees. Mom had been asking about the day of the week for several days. Saturday was the date she seemed to be waiting for. Now that it was Saturday and Julie and Bambi had arrived, her repeated question was, "What's the time?" As amused as we all were in the beauty salon, I suspected Mom really was getting ready for the biggest date of her life.
Matthew and my two sisters didn't leave until past 3:00 p.m., just in case. Earlier, Julie told me that when Mom went to the toilet at 2:30 that morning, she'd wondered, "Why is it so bright". "Remember the 3:00 prediction?" I reminded my siblings.
Mom was drifting in and out of sleep when her 2 sisters and my father's sister Tita Edie McKenzie, came to visit. Except for the heplock and the patient's i.d. bracelet, there was nothing that identified her as a patient. She looked like she was just resting and getting better.
"For three weeks before he died, your uncle was connected to IV lines and all kinds of tubes and wires," ?Tita Nilda, Mom's eldest sister said of her husband who died last November.
"Is that how you want to go, Tita? I'd rather go without all those attachments, definitely no respirator for me," I said.
About 9:30 that evening, Mom was sitting on her chair when two of my daughters arrived from the airport. "How are you, Lola?" Eva and Josephine asked. "Not too well." It was her first admission that she wasn't well but her smile for them was real. An hour later, something gave when she got up from bed and walked to the toilet. Fortunately, she collapsed while being supported by 3 people. Still fully awake, her speech was badly slurred, her body as limp as a ragdoll's. For a while, no one could detect her pulse and blood pressure. When the residents finally came, they said that Mom wasn't urinating enough so they'd insert a catheter to solve that problem. "The problem is, her kidneys aren't producing urine for the bladder to excrete. The fluid's everywhere except in her bladder so what's the use of a catheter?" I argued. The time it took for hospital staff to finally get her back in bed, the incompetence that we witnessed that night spoke much of what we're losing when thousands of our best nurses and doctors migrate to first world countries every year.
We prayed the rosary.
"Mom, are you saying something?"
She answered but we couldn't understand what she said.
"Mom are you praying?"
This time the "Yes" was clear. To the very end, she was showing us how to pray.
When he arrived, the nephrologist explained the situation and how we were going to deal with it. Mom was conscious and breathing on her own but she wasn't getting enough oxygen, even with the oxygen tubes in her nostrils. "Unless we attach her to a respirator, her heart will suffer," the doctor said. Two of my brothers were arriving in the morning and helping Mom to breathe seemed a good thing to do, even though she didn't seem to be in distress. We agreed to the respirator and to dialysis, something the doctor had earlier discouraged. "Mom, we've agreed to attach you to a respirator to help you breath, I hope that's all right with you." "Respirator," she said clearly but with no indication of yes or no. That was the last word I heard from her before the medical team sedated her.
After that, there was a conference with the doctor and when we returned my daughters told me that as soon as the tube for the respirator was inserted down Mom's throat, blood gushed out. Haemorrhage. In advanced cirrhosis, there is no stopping that. Our voices were choking as we prayed through our tears outside the room.
Mom was brought to the ICU around 12:30. At about 1:00 a.m., the Intensive Care Specialist met with us and told us that she was on full life support, her heart beat and blood pressure maintained artificially by drugs, her breathing possible because of the respirator. At the rate she was losing blood, there would be no need for us to decide when to pull the plug. We gave instructions not to resuscitate or to add to what was already in the IV drip.
"We want to be with our mother as she is dying," I said. Ordinarily, only one person at a time is allowed to visit a patient in the ICU but I was ready to fight for a patient's right to die with her family around her. The doctor gave us entry though there were 11 of us.
"We love you, Mom. We're here. We're going to be all right, you don't have to worry about us. It's all right for you to go. Follow the light. Where you're going, you can walk, you can dance, you can fly."
"Thanks for everything, Mom. The two years you lived with us and gave me and my family the chance to take care of you while you were sick was a special blessing for us. Thank you for trusting me to take care of you these past weeks."
Words of love, gratitude, and farewell. We choked as we spoke. The first rosaries were also hard to pray. A tube for the respirator stuck into her mouth, a smaller tube to drain the blood spilling out of her throat, a thick wad of gauze to catch what trickled out of her mouth, tubes and wires attached to her nostrils, arms, hands, and feet - Mom wasn't a pretty sight. There was no turning back the clock or stopping the hemorrhage. For her sake, we hoped everything would end soon. Waiting, we added songs of praise and worship to our ICU repertoire. But having cried enough, it was impossible for us to keep from laughing whenever Joel, Sophie's husband said, "Look, every time I touch Mommy's hand, her blood pressure increases and her heart beats faster."
"Mommy loves it when you sing 'Some Enchanted Evening, Joel. Why don't you sing that for her like you always do during her birthdays?" Joel was happy to oblige, not once but several times. We added more songs from South Pacific, theme of Mommy's 80th birthday in 2007. Then there were songs Daddy used to sing - "All the Things You Are," "Old Man River." Going further back, there were the songs Mom taught us because her father loved them - Clementine, Swanee River, Old Folks at Home. Of course we sang the Marian songs that we remembered. "In Glory Untold," the triumphant hymn dedicated by graduating classes to our Lady of Consolation requires a conductor and different voices. My 5 sisters and I sang at the top of our voices while I played the part of conductress. Mom studied in the same school and we were sure that her spirit was singing and laughing with us.
At 3:00 a.m., we were ending our umpteenth rosary but Mom didn't die. "She's probably waiting for John and Alfonso (my two brothers)," someone suggested. We asked for the hospital chaplain to administer the last rites. Around 4:00, the ICU nurses asked us to leave. "We need to clean her up," they said. "We're probably just too noisy and crowded for their comfort," we all thought. Still we were grateful for the break and the chance to sit down after hours of standing. There were also practical arrangements that needed to be made. Sophie, our eldest, took charge. "Does Mommy have a memorial plan?" "Which mortuary shall we hire?" "What dress will Mom wear?" "Where shall we have the wake in Manila?" "Where in Bacolod?" Around 4:30, I called my daughter Sarah to ask her to look for the gown Mom used for her 80th birthday. One of my sisters called Alfonso to ask him to bring the gown with him. With his wife Pines, my brother in Bacolod was alternately praying and going over Mom's photographs, keeping the death watch with us. John, the other brother still back home, went to bed early and didn't know until we had his wife awaken him.
6:00 a.m., after we'd arranged for Mom and all the monitoring equipment to be transferred back to our old room, we were told to return to the ICU. "Her vital signs are declining. It won't be long." We rushed back. More rosaries, more parting words, more tears.
6:30, Dr. Labio joined us. Intensive care wasn't her forte but we were glad and knew Mom was comforted by her presence. Even so, we watched amazed as Eternity Labio, Eternal Love, gently stroked Mom's face, rearranged Mom's hair, cuddled Mom's head and kissed Mom's forehead. When she went outside the room to confer with the doctors, we resumed our singing and praying. Later, we told her about the evening's events, about Mom's Christmas and the 81st birthday. Sophie showed our December pictures, as well as the pictures in the hospital room, the food court, the beauty salon. Eternal Love was holding back tears when I hugged her to say good-bye and thank you.
8:30 Sunday - "Mom, John and Alfonso are on their way up." About an hour later, "Mom, Tita Diots is coming" (Tita Diots is our Aunt Ofelia, Mom's youngest sister). The I.V. drip run out and for an hour, the monitor showed nothing for Mom's blood pressure. The nurse emptied another liter of Mom's blood from the plastic container. Still Mom's heart continued to beat. "Mom, has Daddy come to fetch you?" She couldn't speak with the respirator tube in her throat but I'm sure I saw her raise an eyebrow to say "yes." "Mom, Tita Nilda's coming (Tita Nilda is Mom's eldest sister)." Numbers for her blood pressure reappeared. More rosaries, more songs, more last words. We took turns holding her and talking to her. Sometimes, her arms would flap up and down. "Go and fly toward the light, Mom." All the tubes and wires were holding her back. Around 11:00 a.m., the nurse told us that her pupils were no longer responding to light. Technically, that was the end of the story. I wanted to disconnect the respirator so she could go but we had to wait for the monitors to show a flat line. More rosaries. We were all low batt and flat tired. As contaminated with pathogens as the ICU floor may have been, many of us were sitting on the floor.
"Mom, we've prayed enough rosaries and we're really tired. It's time for you to go to sleep."
"How can she leave when we keep talking to her and giving her reasons for staying?"
"How can she leave when she and Dad are having so much fun with the whole family here?"
"Knowing Mom, she'd tell us to go out for lunch. Maybe she means to go at 3:00 p.m. The drug's effect can last that long."
"Maybe she means to go when we're not around to disturb that sacred moment she and Daddy go to meet God."
We didn't need that many reasons to leave. An hour and a half later, my brother John sent a text message that read "Mom flat-lined at 1:45 p.m." By then, we'd cried all our tears and really had no reason for being sad.
Farewell, Mama Mia. Way to go.
Tags: aida, death, in glory untold, lizares, servando
Replies to This Discussion
-
Permalink Reply by Ma. Carmen "Maricar' J. Dabao on -
Hi Andrea, reading this and hearing from Susie's recounts of your Mom's last few weeks, indeed your mom has lived a full life and she equally prepared herself to go. I appreciate your sharing this beautiful piece and hope this can also inspire other children to take care of their parents. May all our beloved departed rest in peace.
-
Permalink Reply by Randdie P. Cuelo (Class '96) on -
to all moms around the world...thank you...and to all children who take good care of their parents even before their last moments...i salute you!!!!!
-
Permalink Reply by EVELYN (PACO JO) SNEDDEN on -
Reading your blog on how your Mom, my good friend Aida, went Home, has enabled me to "be with her in spirit" during her last few days with us here... thanks a lot, Andrea! You're almost as beautiful as your Mom, you know (no joke)!!!
I wish the good Lord would also grant me that same privilege that was given to your Mom Aida... that of going Home to Him, with all of my own immediate family members around me...
Keeping your Mom... and you... in my prayers! Hugs to you!!
January 19, 2009 was your Mom's going Home, right?
Evelyn Paco Snedden
10 September, 2009
-
Permalink Reply by Andrea Lizares Si (HS'73,AB '78) on -
Hi Tita. Because you commented on this blog, I read it again and re-lived my last two weeks. Do you know that for the first week, I didn't have her regular caregiver to help look after Mom in the hospital? The time with mom was sacred and I didn't want a stranger in the room and doing things that a daughter could do with more love. We're all grateful that unlike many others, Mommy didn't suffer pain through her illness and until the day before she died, she was conscious and though weak, could walk.
EVELYN (PACO JO) SNEDDEN said:Reading your blog on how your Mom, my good friend Aida, went Home, has enabled me to "be with her in spirit" during her last few days with us here... thanks a lot, Andrea! You're almost as beautiful as your Mom, you know (no joke)!!!
I wish the good Lord would also grant me that same privilege that was given to your Mom Aida... that of going Home to Him, with all of my own immediate family members around me...
Keeping your Mom... and you... in my prayers! Hugs to you!!
January 19, 2009 was your Mom's going Home, right?
Evelyn Paco Snedden
10 September, 2009
About
Palmas del Mar Conference and Resort Hotel, Bacolod City
Palmas del Mar Website
- Traveler Reviews for Palmas del Mar
Form for LCCian Data Base
Please fill up this on-line form and click the submit button when you're done.
If you need to edit or update your answers, please fill up the form again.
If you need to edit or update your answers, please fill up the form again.
Phil. Daily Inquirer
© 2009 Created by Andrea Lizares Si (HS'73,AB '78) on Ning. Create a Ning Network!
