Give me a simple road
August 14, 2004 | 12:00am
Was the road to recovery simple? Is there anything in my life that’s simple? In the beginning everything was quiet. I just followed instructions from my children and when there were none I slept and knitted. I did not think. My mind was either blank, disconnected or tired. That’s how September passed and October too except I was beginning to feel more active. I think I was sleeping later – around eight-thirty – and knitting more, knitting constantly. I was playing with my grandchildren and enjoying it more.
Late in October, I went with Panjee’s family to an island in Guimaras. Their house needed a face lift and we could not be around so we took a car, a chopper, a small jet and a boat to the island. I had a lovely small house on the beach itself. There I did my eurhythmy twice a day. We returned on Halloween to attend the village’s celebrations. On November 1, Panjee told me I must pick up my mother from her friend’s house. "Gino called to say he brought her to the hospital last night. You better pick her up after lunch and bring her here." I got into the car and picked up my mother, packed her things, loaded them onto the car, settled her in my room. A part of me constantly watched her, gave her medicines. I could see she was not well but that did not bother me. Part of my road to recovery – I was not connected to my feelings.
The next morning was Sunday. I borrowed Sancho’s jigsaw puzzle. Someone had told me they were good for damaged brains. I was working with it in the family room when I got a text from Panjee telling me that her doctor said I should bring my mother to the hospital and check her in. I did not quite understand. My mother was sick, yes, but did she need to go to the hospital? Maybe I was not seeing well. Obediently I brought Mommy to the hospital where she got progressively worse.
In the beginning I would sleep in the hospital at the far end of Makati, have breakfast there then go home to the far end of Quezon City to have lunch, bathe, and head back again. It was not easy but without question I did it. Suddenly Risa, my eldest daughter, arrived. She picked me up from the hospital and brought me home to her Rockwell apartment that had been up for sale for two years but remained unsold. "Mom, live here. Your life will be easier," she said. "I have a maid who can cook for you. Then bring Mamoo home here when she’s done with the hospital. You will be all right, all of you." I agreed and Risa took off for the United States again.
That was, quite possibly, the worst time of my life. I watched my mother get paler, weaker. I saw her struggle with her medicines but follow instructions anyway. I trembled with fear. My mother was just visiting from Vancouver where she lives. Did she come home to die? Every time we said we would leave the hospital, her body got worse. One day I saw her walking and that lifted my spirits. "I’ll take you home tomorrow," I said, and made arrangements with her doctor.
She seemed strong but when we brought her to Rockwell’s Basement One, she had difficulty getting out of the car. She fainted and I caught her and carried her back into the car. I told my driver to take her to Basement Two and then the security and I borrowed an executive chair to use as a wheelchair. By some miracle we made it up to the 38th floor but she was so sick and I was shocked, upset, distressed, but everything was at a distance. I could not feel anything though I knew these feelings were there.
The next day I woke up with a terrible cold so I bought masks and stayed away from my mother. Her nurse told me she was getting worse. I thought – her birthday is December 1. Maybe I can get her friends and relatives to come to call. The first batch of visitors visited her in her room where she lay in bed, weak and pallid, but nevertheless talkative. The next batch saw her in the living room, all made up in a wheelchair. From then on she was always in a wheelchair. By the week after her birthday, she was doing well and I could tell her, "If you want to return to Vancouver, you’d better be walking." By January she was walking well and I knew she would make her dream of flying back to Vancouver before January’s end.
We were preparing for Mommy’s trip back. I thought I could take her but Dr. Banico almost lost it with me. "You’ve had a stroke. You cannot fly until six months after. What is the matter with you?" I apologized. I asked a cousin to escort my mother back but that did not work out either. I realized that my mother did not want a companion. She said she would travel in her wheelchair and she would be fine. She asserted that she would leave on January 29th and she would leave alone. Okay, okay, I said, and arranged for her trip. Everything was going well but on January 25 or thereabouts I got a call from my second daughter. She told me she was very depressed again. She lived alone with her son, Julian, whom she had sent to Panjee’s home for a while. Could she come to Rockwell and sleep with us?
Okay, yes, of course, I said. As I hung up I thought life would be simple. Why isn’t my life ever simple?
Late in October, I went with Panjee’s family to an island in Guimaras. Their house needed a face lift and we could not be around so we took a car, a chopper, a small jet and a boat to the island. I had a lovely small house on the beach itself. There I did my eurhythmy twice a day. We returned on Halloween to attend the village’s celebrations. On November 1, Panjee told me I must pick up my mother from her friend’s house. "Gino called to say he brought her to the hospital last night. You better pick her up after lunch and bring her here." I got into the car and picked up my mother, packed her things, loaded them onto the car, settled her in my room. A part of me constantly watched her, gave her medicines. I could see she was not well but that did not bother me. Part of my road to recovery – I was not connected to my feelings.
The next morning was Sunday. I borrowed Sancho’s jigsaw puzzle. Someone had told me they were good for damaged brains. I was working with it in the family room when I got a text from Panjee telling me that her doctor said I should bring my mother to the hospital and check her in. I did not quite understand. My mother was sick, yes, but did she need to go to the hospital? Maybe I was not seeing well. Obediently I brought Mommy to the hospital where she got progressively worse.
In the beginning I would sleep in the hospital at the far end of Makati, have breakfast there then go home to the far end of Quezon City to have lunch, bathe, and head back again. It was not easy but without question I did it. Suddenly Risa, my eldest daughter, arrived. She picked me up from the hospital and brought me home to her Rockwell apartment that had been up for sale for two years but remained unsold. "Mom, live here. Your life will be easier," she said. "I have a maid who can cook for you. Then bring Mamoo home here when she’s done with the hospital. You will be all right, all of you." I agreed and Risa took off for the United States again.
That was, quite possibly, the worst time of my life. I watched my mother get paler, weaker. I saw her struggle with her medicines but follow instructions anyway. I trembled with fear. My mother was just visiting from Vancouver where she lives. Did she come home to die? Every time we said we would leave the hospital, her body got worse. One day I saw her walking and that lifted my spirits. "I’ll take you home tomorrow," I said, and made arrangements with her doctor.
She seemed strong but when we brought her to Rockwell’s Basement One, she had difficulty getting out of the car. She fainted and I caught her and carried her back into the car. I told my driver to take her to Basement Two and then the security and I borrowed an executive chair to use as a wheelchair. By some miracle we made it up to the 38th floor but she was so sick and I was shocked, upset, distressed, but everything was at a distance. I could not feel anything though I knew these feelings were there.
The next day I woke up with a terrible cold so I bought masks and stayed away from my mother. Her nurse told me she was getting worse. I thought – her birthday is December 1. Maybe I can get her friends and relatives to come to call. The first batch of visitors visited her in her room where she lay in bed, weak and pallid, but nevertheless talkative. The next batch saw her in the living room, all made up in a wheelchair. From then on she was always in a wheelchair. By the week after her birthday, she was doing well and I could tell her, "If you want to return to Vancouver, you’d better be walking." By January she was walking well and I knew she would make her dream of flying back to Vancouver before January’s end.
We were preparing for Mommy’s trip back. I thought I could take her but Dr. Banico almost lost it with me. "You’ve had a stroke. You cannot fly until six months after. What is the matter with you?" I apologized. I asked a cousin to escort my mother back but that did not work out either. I realized that my mother did not want a companion. She said she would travel in her wheelchair and she would be fine. She asserted that she would leave on January 29th and she would leave alone. Okay, okay, I said, and arranged for her trip. Everything was going well but on January 25 or thereabouts I got a call from my second daughter. She told me she was very depressed again. She lived alone with her son, Julian, whom she had sent to Panjee’s home for a while. Could she come to Rockwell and sleep with us?
Okay, yes, of course, I said. As I hung up I thought life would be simple. Why isn’t my life ever simple?
BrandSpace Articles
<
>
