Death is my greatest fear. Not exactly for the reason that I fear experiencing it myself. Pretty morbid but to be honest, I’m not worried about it because I’m sure of my destination after this life. This fear has more to do with a memory from my childhood where I saw my own grandfather, covered in a white cloth, being taken away by men in strange dark blue uniforms. Until then, I thought death was like Santa Claus. I thought it never existed (oh yes really, I never believed in Santa Claus). After my lolo’s funeral, I had constant nightmares and kept imagining things. I don’t believe in ghosts or spirits or anything supernatural. But my imagination can’t help itself sometimes.     

And that’s the obvious reason I never go to funerals. I don’t like passing by funeral parlors and getting near funeral cars during traffic. If it weren’t for, umm, peer pressure, I never would have had the guts to “hang out” and do pictorials with my college friends at an old cemetery in Bacong.

Umm, actually. I’m not in this photo. Too paranoid the whole time I was there, I guess.

And even though I can watch a horror film and never cover my eyes all throughout the movie, I will tell you right now that countless of times those horror films had made me cover my whole face with a blanket at night. For months.

But that is really not the reason why I am writing this post. Death is just a fear that I have finally faced recently. And at last, I have the courage to write about the wonderful life a wonderful woman I love dearly had lived.

My lola had passed away right before my very eyes. I think I may even be the last one she looked at when she had the last deep breath of her life. If there is anything I am grateful for about that moment, it’s the fact that I was still able to mouth the words Thank You before she closed her eyes.  

Sadly, I know a simple Thank You will never be enough for everything she had done for me and my family.

I grew up seeing my lola “give and give and give and give” (lolo Eduardo, 1996) to everyone: to the tricycle drivers, to her sukis at the market, to the students of my parents’ school, to the garbage collectors, to the balut and the pandesal vendors, to strangers. Her unselfishness, her willingness to help others even if it meant making a few sacrifices in her part, is very inspiring. Even during her last weeks she was more concerned about the people around her than herself. She eventually forgot my name, but she never ever forgot to ask if I’ve eaten already every time she saw me coming home.

During my family’s not-so-great days, my lola was our rescuer. Sometimes her help had even become controversial but she was still so damn stubborn about helping us. I really don’t know where we would be now if it weren’t for her. 

My lola was also a very strong woman. Both inside and outside. Inside, she dealt with problems she didn’t let anyone else solve, as well as bad memories even the most imaginative will never come up with. Outside, she was always so full of energy. She was always the last one standing among the “elders” during trips somewhere far. That’s why it really came as a surprise to everyone when she was diagnosed with the big C. During her last days, her tolerance on pain was incredible. I don’t think I’ll ever see a stronger woman than her.

She was an inspiration. And one of the things I regret now is not knowing her well enough.   

See, my lola has always been pretty obvious about her favorite grandchild. As much as I would like it to be me, I definitely am not that person. And I wish I didn’t take it that personally. Or I never would have been quite distant to her. 

I could maybe even say that we had a love-hate relationship. Though I am her eldest grandchild, I kind of avoided her. I didn’t want to admit it but deep down the reason was always because of jealousy for my own brother. God, was I so childish.

But if I ever did anything right since I graduated from college, it’s that I chose to stay with my lola and help take care of her. Over the past months, I’d like to think that I have made up for each time I chose to ignore her. And when she looked at me when she took her final breath, I’d also like to think that she has forgiven me.  

My lola is a lot of other adjectives. But to come up with one single way to describe what she was like in her 82 years of living, I’d say she simply was a good person. She really was, I tell you. And everyone else who has gotten the chance to know her will no doubt agree.  

So to end this, I will share something my mom has written. I still cry whenever I read this:

Once in our lifetime, we come to a sudden realization of how great one important person has made a deep impact in your very existence. Somehow, the reality just begins to sink in when the time comes that you long to feel her presence and her comfort when she is no longer around to make these things possible.

Mom. we have shared so many unforgettable memories and events that has molded me to be what I am now. No material amount may compensate for the love, kindness, generosity, patience, care and sympathy you have always extended me and my family at the most crucial points of our lives. I know that I may never consider myself to be a perfect daughter but with your loving presence and nurturing hands, you have molded me to be a strong and determined person ready to face all odds because I am assured of your great trust in me.

You can read my mind even before I speaketh from the mouth. My actions are so predictable to you that I don’t even have to say a word and you can understand what I mean. Our bond is something that goes beyond the time that the doctor had cut the umbilical chord that connected us since the time of my conception. It goes beyond the greatest echo that can reach the deepest wilderness whenever I try to shout for sympathy.

Now, I have come to a very heartfelt conclusion that, indeed, only a mother’s loving presence can heal all the wounds tha a daughter is going through. And for that, I will truly miss that magic touch of your unselfish love that will forever surround me until the day we see each other again in our appearing in Glory with our Heavenly Father.

Goodbye, lola Adoracion. Thank you so much for being a wonderful grandmother to me. I will always love you.