I WAS in grade three when fear of death came into my mind. I saw my grandmother's cousin's wife lying
in her own blood. She was accidentally stabbed by their house maid when she was trying to prevent
another maid from stabbing her. I could still remember the stench of blood and the horror I saw in
everyone's face as they stared in shock at our relative's dead body.
Since then death was what I feared most, especially the thought of death of any of the people closest and dearest to me— my parents, brothers, and relatives. At a very young age, I started questioning in childlike, innocent, anxiety how painful it might feel like to die. I tried to imagine the hurt. I would pinch my skin as hard as I could or pinch my nose until I was almost out of breath. I then imagined what heaven would look like. I visualized heaven as it was described by my grandmother (who prays the rosary daily at exactly six in the evening).
I visualized angels floating around me while a gigantic, serious-looking, Jesus sat on a shining throne of gold, surrounded by old bearded men in oversized white cloaks, looking below the clouds as if checking on us the living. The vision should have made me feel relaxed and peaceful, but it scared the hell out of me. (Try thinking of the vision I just described, alone in a dark room.)
As I grew up an old relative would die, one after the other, from my mom's side and then dad's. Every three years on average, as each elder relative died (either of old age or a heart attack), we attended all the ceremonies and participated in the tradition of bereavement. I was confident that our immediate family was still far from falling into the cycle as my grandparents and parents were then still young and strong. I tried very hard to avoid thinking about it, until the day that I feared the most came.
My mom (Perlita Nuqui Tayag-Caniones) died ahead of her mother. She died at 58, of breast cancer, in 1997. She died a brave woman. She died with "class"— as my doctor brother put it. I did not know what he meant by it, but I guess it had to do with how she kept the pain to herself and tried not to look (she had no teeth as she wore ceramics) as if she was suffering or in great pain. I did not know that there was still a kind of "class" in people while dying. But indeed mom died gracefully, as if to leave behind a powerful message: "There is more to life." (That was what I felt holding her hand during her final hours.)
Mom arrived at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport in Manila after a seven-year stay in California. She was on a wheelchair when we saw her at the ground floor of the arrival area. Her hair was already brown and gray. She was so pale and seemed unhealthily plump. (I learned later that it was water that could not anymore be processed by her kidneys.) But she appeared very physically brilliant among the other arrivers (at least as I saw her), and she still carried that aristocratic but embracing smile (at home she would wear worn-out dusters yet still looked very elegant).
During mom's last hours, I sat in a lotus position in front of her. Her eyes were closed as I started to meditate, wishing for a miracle to happen. That was one of the moments you wanted to let her go but could not, hoping beyond reason for something phenomenal to happen. I hesitantly asked mom, whispering to her ear, "Do you see angels? Do you see a light?"
Tears like pearls ran down from her eyes, and she nodded as if to say "yes." I held her hand tightly and whispered, again asking, "Do you want to follow the light?" (I asked her the questions in an attempt to confirm what scientists and psychologists wrote dying people saw. How rude of me! But I was sincere in asking.) Slowly, she again nodded and held my hand more tightly; I sensed that she was giving her last strength. Mentally, I was preparing myself to let go of her.
My brother asked her if she wanted a shot of morphine. She moved her body briskly for a second and said, "Enaku bisa! Eku na agyu!" She was given the shot. We knew the effect, but we did not want her to feel pain and suffer much longer. To our surprise she signaled us to come closer and then she hugged all of us.
Finally her spirit departed.
We did not know that she still had that strength enough; it was as if she had been saving it for the very last moment. We felt that she too did not want to let go but that she had to use her last strength for that final farewell.
Happy birthday, Mom. (November 6)
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