This is a tribute to the wind beneath my wings, my superwoman, Nanay– my mother.
April 10, 2025
My mother was lying in a hospital bed, fast asleep. The afternoon sun was shining, and the breeze outside made the trees dance gently. Her hospital room was private, with a large window facing the ocean. The view was peaceful, calm waves stretching endlessly, the sky clear, the world somehow still. My siblings and I sat close by, speaking in hushed voices as we watched Nanay rest. There was an odd calmness in the air, a kind of peace that was both comforting and hard to explain. It was so still, it almost felt like the world had paused with us.
We decided to turn Nanay onto her side to prevent bedsores. We knew it was necessary, even though we didn’t want to disturb her sleep. Since Nanay was heavy, we asked a male hospital staff member for assistance. Her body had gone limp, and she couldn’t move on her own anymore. We counted to three so we could lift her together, hoping to avoid causing her additional pain. As we gently turned her, she let out a groan that revealed her discomfort. It’s become a regular response for her during these two weeks in the hospital, but today felt different, this time, it was clear that she was in real pain. My heart aches to see her like this.
‘Nanay, where does it hurt?’ we asked, our voices shaky, panicked.
I know, it was a foolish question. Her body must have been hurting everywhere. But panic does that to you. We touched her gently, rubbed her arms and legs, trying to ease her pain, hoping our hands could somehow take it away. Then it happened, something that froze time for all of us. She opened her eyes. Wide.
She looked at me. At my younger brother. At our other siblings. Her gaze was strong, alert. Her eyes hadn’t opened like that in days. That morning, she’d barely opened them for a few seconds. But now, she was looking at us, as if she was searching for our faces, memorizing us one last time.
And then… tears.
Tears streamed down her cheeks in quiet despair, and soon the soft, heart-wrenching sound of her sobs filled the air. It wasn’t just a whimper, it was a cry of profound pain, filled with understanding and sorrow. In that moment, she was sharing an unspoken message with us, a truth woven into the depths of her gaze. The look in her eyes felt like a gentle goodbye, yet also indicated a reluctance to part, a silent acknowledgment of what was to come.
We could only call out her name, hoping to soothe her anxiety, softly repeating ‘I love you’ as a comforting mantra. I gently wiped away her tears, holding her close and pressing a kiss to her forehead. My heart ached for her, knowing how fragile this moment felt. I didn’t want this to be our goodbye, but deep down, I sensed that something was different this time.
Her tears kept flowing, but her face slowly went blank. Her expression softened, and not in peace, but in emptiness. The light was dimming.
We hurriedly called for the nurses, urgency lacing our voices as they rushed in, their faces set with professional seriousness. They swiftly began their checks, their hands deftly assessing her pulse, monitoring her oxygen levels, and taking her blood pressure. It was then that the tool used to measure the pulse showed nothing, revealing the grim truth: there was no pulse. Deep down, we all knew it signified an impending disaster. In response, our anxiety spiraled, and panic gripped the nurses as they sprang into action. The frantic call for doctors reverberated through the air, and suddenly, the room was a hive of activity. Our hearts raced in our chests, pounding with fear and desperation as we watched them fight against the relentless tide of hopelessness.
My siblings and I stood frozen in place until we were either asked to step outside or decided to leave on our own accord because we couldn’t bear the sight of Nanay in that state. Perhaps we wanted to give the medical staff the space they needed to do their best. I’m not sure. But in that moment, walking away from her felt unbearable. What if that was the last time I would see her take a breath?
Minutes felt like hours. We prayed, pleaded, begged God not to take her yet. Then the doctor came out. They told us her heart was still beating, but she was unresponsive. No movement. No sign of brain activity.
Then came the question I thought would be easy to answer: ‘Would you like to proceed with CPR?’ It was a no-brainer YES, especially if we hadn’t witnessed how much Nanay had been suffering from her attacks, the countless times her gums and throat bled, the numerous nebulization procedures, the repeated injections to draw her blood, and the agonizing sounds she made during those processes. After seeing all of that, I honestly didn’t want her to suffer, no matter how much I wanted her alive. So I said NO. My other siblings felt the same way. However, my elder sister firmly insisted that we should continue with CPR because she believed Nanay was still fighting, and so we should fight for her as well. She made a valid point, and eventually, we agreed to follow her lead. CPR was performed, and our mother was revived. Or was she?
Later, we were back inside the room. There she was. Her heart was beating, and the machines were functioning, the numbers were showing. But the color had drained from her face. Her warmth was fading. Her body was there, but she was not, I could tell. Her face was void of emotion.
Afternoon turned into night, and that night, time seemed to stand still. The coldness in the room was unbearable as we watched her fade away. We cried beside her, held her hands, and talked to her. We kissed her cheeks and told her we loved her, even though we knew she couldn’t respond.
The doctors explained that her body would continue functioning until the medication supporting her blood pressure ran out, at which point her heart would finally stop.
That was the longest night.
April 11, 2025 – Morning
Nanay was pronounced dead.
She passed away due to a subarachnoid hemorrhage caused by a ruptured aneurysm. She died just two days after her birthday. She had looked forward to that day so much. But life had other plans. (cry)
When she passed away, a piece of each of us was lost alongside her. Nanay meant so much to us. She was our mother, our caregiver, our protector, our teacher, our anchor, our steady force, the wind beneath our wings. The sorrow in our hearts was profound. Yet, despite the weight of that grief, we knew we had to keep moving forward. There were practical matters to attend to: bills to settle, funeral arrangements to make, and the heart-wrenching task of choosing her final outfit. Each small decision felt like yet another farewell.
Walking side by side with my siblings, running errands, and arranging details,, we moved through the world in a quiet daze. We were together, yet each of us carried our own storm inside.
When her body was taken from the hospital, it marked another painful moment for us. The most gut-wrenching moment (though everything felt that way) came when Nanay came home in a coffin. Seeing her lying in that box shattered something deep within us. We had no words, only tears and silence. How could this be real? How could our Nanay, who was so full of life, warmth, and love, now be lying still inside a wooden box?
It’s now been more than three months since she left us. And I still think of her every single day. The pain hasn’t gone away. And truthfully, I don’t want it to. Because grief, to me, is love that refuses to fade. It’s the love I still have for her. As long as I feel this pain, I know she’s still with me. I don’t want to ‘move on’. I just want to carry her memory with me for the rest of my life.
As you know, I live in Japan. As soon as I heard that Nanay was hospitalized, I flew back home to the Philippines immediately. I needed to be with her, to care for her, and to return the love she had always shown me.
I want to take a moment to share how incredibly resilient she was. As I arrived at the hospital, I felt a wave of emotions wash over me. Before stepping into her room, I took a deep breath to steady myself. I put on a smile, hoping to bring her some comfort because I didn’t want her to feel any more pain. To my relief, she smiled back at me, a beautiful, radiant smile that shone through her suffering. We were both trying so hard to be strong for each other, holding back our tears. But the moment I kissed her hand and wrapped my arms around her, all that bravery broke down, and we cried together, united in our love and the weight of what we were facing.
After that, I never left her side. I stayed with her, along with my siblings, until her final breath. Until the very end.
I miss her so much. I miss her voice. I miss her everything. And I miss her smile, so, so much.
Even when she was in pain, she still smiled. That was our Nanay, always thinking of others. Always loving. Always strong.
She wasn’t the type of mom who defended us when we were wrong. She knew when to be strict and when to be soft. She raised us with wisdom and courage.
Nanay was a constant worrier. She fretted over even the smallest things, especially when it came to us. I can only pray that now, in paradise, she no longer worries. I hope she is resting, smiling, free from pain, and watching us with pride.
I miss you every single day. You were our home. Life has never been the same without you. I love you, Nay. (kiss)
