We came home to a house eerily silent. It was without the sound of her voice, without her laughter and the distinct sound of the floorboards as she walked the upstairs pasilyo.
When we went home, there was no one to ask us if we had eaten yet – not even the ubiquitous "Iwan niyo na lang ang pinagkainan niyo dyan sa lababo" after we did muster enough appetite to indulge.
We had just buried the remains of Catalina "Ninay" Valdellon Maceda – wife, mother, sister, aunt, nurse, neighbor.
She was – and will ever be – my beloved grandmother.
We were told she had pneumonia, but we knew Mommy would be okay. We knew she was much too strong to let anything get the better of her. She had already survived a stroke and an earlier trip to the hospital (again because of pneumonia). I believed in my heart she would be fine again this time. A few days’ rest was all Mommy needed. She would be as good as new.
For the very first time, our family held our gift-giving without the family matriarch. Understandably, we didn’t have the enthusiasm to prepare the traditional yuletide feast, though we exchanged gifts and tried to put on a happy face. It was a brave front, but I know everyone was just going through the motions.
Still, we were hopeful.
On December 26, I went back to work – grateful for the distraction. But my mom called me up just a few hours later and asked me to go to the hospital. She was crying.
Mommy had been brought down to the intensive care unit on the seventh floor. She was then hooked onto a respirator, and was being fed through a tube in her nostril. She was suffering, and I couldn’t help but cry at the sight of my previously strong and spunky lola looking so frail and helpless. She furrowed her brow and motioned she wanted the tubes taken out – they obviously hurt. Mama admonished her not to do so. "They’re for your own good," she said.
Yes, Mommy was fighting. Weak as she was, she was fighting. And we fought with her. There were designated visiting hours in the ICU, but we kept checking on Mommy all the time.
I refused to spend nights at home – preferring to be in the hospital, where I could go see Mommy anytime I wanted. Every day, I’d go to her, hold her hand, and let her know if I was going out of the hospital or going upstairs to the room.
As in past New Year’s Eves, insistent fireworks lit up the night sky and friends kept texting me their greetings. But I was at room 825 looking out the window with tearful eyes. There was nothing to be happy about. My grandmother was fighting for her life.
Mama, Tita Yti and my cousin Cathy were down at the ICU attending to Mommy, but I couldn’t will myself to do the same. The tears kept coming. I certainly didn’t want Mommy to see me like that. But later, I steeled myself and went down to greet my lola a Happy New Year. Amid the whoosh and beeps of the machines around her, we talked and tried to comfort her. Mama asked her if she could hear the fireworks. She nodded.
That was the last time I saw Mommy awake.
Sometime on January 2, Mommy’s heart stopped – and she was revived by drugs. However, my lola had slipped into a coma from which she would never rouse. But I refused to accept the inevitable, even as it was slowly getting clear that Mommy was getting ready to come home, but not to her earthly abode. Prayers were said, a priest admistered the last rites, but I still refused to believe that my grandmother was set to leave us. We were told by Dr. Antonio Tan that Mommy’s organs were beginning to fail.
"Mommy, uwi na tayo," I told her, and cried.
How long do you hold on to a loved one? When do you stop asking her to fight, to cling on to life because you don’t want her to go – ever? When does it become a selfish plea? Was I, because of a dogged refusal to let go, causing her even more suffering?
My God, it would be my birthday soon. I want Mommy to celebrate it with me. She has never missed greeting me – never. Please, please, please.
I recited this mantra as fresh tears trickled down my cheeks. I absently thought if I would ever stop crying.
I will never forget the night of January 5. Mama and Tita Yti were getting ready to sleep in the hospital bed. I was stretched on the couch, watching Legends of the Fall. A couple of insistent knocks. It was a nurse asking us to go down to the ICU.
Mommy.
The green lines on the oscilloscope said it all. Her heartbeat was tapering off. We had signed a waiver asking the nurses not to recussitate if she flatlined again. Mommy would just be hurt by the defibrillator. I stared into the monitor 50, 40, 30, 20...
When the line stretched out, I let out a sob and saw the heart rate jump back to 40. Mama admonished me. "She’s still fighting for you. Let her go." And I stopped.
Mommy stopped fighting.
I grew up with Mommy. There are just far too many memories of her. Our whole house in Mandaluyong is a photo album. Every corner has a story of her; every room has countless images. She had been so alive. All my friends know her because Mommy wouldn’t simply answer the phone, she’d strike up a conversation with the caller.
Sometimes, I think of what Mama tells me – that she sometimes likes to think that Mommy is in the States. That helps. So does the thought that Mommy’s happy with her parents, relatives and friends now. She can see us; we just can’t see her.
But I must admit that it’s hard to keep myself from thinking of her and crying in the moments when I’m left to myself. I can almost hear her. I can almost hear her voice calling me to dinner. I can almost see her make faces at me as she closes our gate and I drive off to work. I can almost see her watching a slew of soap operas. (We once saw Kristine Hermosa at the mall while Mommy was confined, and our lola’s eyes lit up when we told her we had seen "Yna.")
The tears come. The tears always come. Even now, they cloud my eyes as I remember her.
Mommy, we miss you so much. We love you so much.
His remains are at the Parish of the Nativity on Ermin Garcia St., Cubao, Quezon City.
Lolo Viting is survived by his wife Julieta and children Jimmy, Sylvia and Remy, and granddaughter Therese.