DEATH

Two weeks before my mom died, she and I were sitting in the exam room of her doctor’s office. As her primary caregiver, I was present for all of her exams. The doctor had stepped out the room for a couple of minutes. She and I chatted until she abruptly stopped talking. I thought perhaps she was feeling some of the physical discomfort she had reported to her doctor, which was the reason for the office visit. Instead, she turned her head and started speaking Tagalog. It quickly became apparent that she was having some sort of conversation. I could only hear her side of it. After a few minutes, she turned back to me and said, “My dad is here. Do you want to meet him?”

I asked if I had to go to where he was, or would he come to me? He had died in 1939.

A few hours later, I went to see her after she had been admitted to the hospital. She was crying when I entered the room. I asked what the matter was. She told me between sobs that she was going to die. I assumed she meant eventually and was just feeling that eventuality while in the hospital. Although she had never said it quite like that in the nearly three years I had been taking care of her.

I didn’t realize until after her death that her father had come to get her that day. That he was giving her time to get things in order. He had come to comfort her as she prepared for her journey and to escort her to the other side because that’s what Filipinos do for one another.

Death is not final for us. It is a move from one plane of existence to another. The ones who have passed find their entry through the places in our hearts where they continue to live. My grandfather came for my mom that last time because he had been visiting her for years. He would send her messages, guide her to gifts, or help find lost items. He was never too far away.

We began her send off the day after she died. All those who loved her gathered and prayed for her joyous journey. As with any conversation with God, there was a certain amount of solemnity during the prayers. But afterward, with the food came the celebration of life. For 45 days, off and on, we gathered to pray for her glory and to celebrate her.

My mother was a remarkable woman and to say she wouldn’t be deeply missed would be as inaccurate as to call day, night. But her death was not about us. It wasn’t about how we felt about her absence. Her life had been about everyone else. That is another Filipino way. This moment was about her journey HOME. Collectively, our blessings propelled her as she rode the wave of goodwill to the heights of Heaven. That is the least we could do. Sorrow holds a soul on earth. Joyous redemption gives it the freedom to soar.

She is resting there now, although she frequently visits me and my siblings. They may not always be aware of her presence, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t here. She is as formidable in death as she was in life. What needs to happen, she makes happen. She was who was and is who she is.

I don’t know if she will be who returns to walk with me to the other side. As a woman beyond middle age, I have seen many loved ones pass before me. But it doesn’t matter who comes to get me. It only matters that the ones who love me keep the joy of my life in their hearts as I make my way over. To remember me for who I am.