GOODBYE, LOLA TONYA

November 20, 2014. It was through an urgent call from my cousin that I had to reject because I was in my first class that early morning and a text message that read “Hi dai, good morning, patay na si lola kagabie pag 10pm” that the news about my lola’s death broke to me. My heartbeat stilled for a moment. I wanted to cry, get out from the classroom and curl up in a ball in somewhere I can be completely alone. But I was 40 minutes late, and I don’t want to offend my teacher by excusing myself from the class. I had only been seated on my seat for barely half an hour. So I remained where I was, body slacked on the chair, the voice of my teacher like a distant echo to my ears while my mind wandered at somewhere else. I was trying hard to keep myself together, to repress my strong urge to just let the tears roll down, blinking my eyes every now and then to keep them from welling up. 

 

     Then the class finally ended. I went out from the classroom quick. But then I met a classmate from a minor subject whose classes I haven’t been attending lately, so I had to get my bearings and approach her to ask the things I missed from the last meeting. After that, I walked on, deciding what to do next. My next class was an hour and a half after the first one, and I still have two classes after that in the afternoon. Part of me wanted to stay and just wait ‘til the day is over so that I could finally mourn for my grandmother’s death, but a bigger part wanted for me to go home, tell my mom about the news, and just be alone at my room while I reminisce. I was torn for a while. Next thing I knew, I was already walking outside the gates of the school, hailing for a jeep, and sitting at the most corner part while I try to dull the ache just a little bit longer. I wouldn’t want to have a crying spree in the jeepney now, would I?

     After an hour, I was finally home. What met me was the sight of my mother with red eyes and a handkerchief at her clasp, crying, and my uncle sitting on the bench at our living room. Apparently, he just arrived from the province to deliver the sad news to my parents and was resting from the long bus trip. I patted my mom at the shoulder and went straight to my room. Surprisingly, the urge to cry was gone. It was replaced by an unexpected calmness. I sat at my usual spot in the room, and thought about what happened for the past weeks.

    My lola came to our house together with my 12-year old cousin from the province at Northern Cebu 6 weeks ago. It was past noon, and I was at the school at the time. Usually when she pops in, she is in sound health, paying us a visit only because she misses us or if she wants my mother to buy her medicines and food. But when she arrived, there was a swelling in her right cheek that extended to the base of her neck. She then told my mother that it started as a minor pain when a fishbone got stuck in her gum two months ago and she wasn’t able to remove it. It’s been causing her pain ever since, and the lump that developed on the infected gum grew and grew in size until it came to the point where she realized that it’s high time something must be done about it. So, my mother accompanied her to the hospital that afternoon to have herself checked. I arrived home from school that night and got informed by my father that my mother and Lola won’t be home ‘til tomorrow morning as the health examination was taking too long than what was expected.

     I woke up in the morning and found my Lola asleep. My mother was awake though, so I asked her what happened. She said they were at the hospital ‘til 4:00 in the morning and that I should not wake my Lola up because she’s too exhausted. My mother was worried, because the doctors had my Lola undergo biopsy, and the initial findings revealed that the infection is malignant and might lead to cancer, and since my Lola, who was 81 years old, was too old for chemotherapy and operation, the only option left would be to let her undergo radiation therapy which only guarantees 30% recovery and is very costly. The doctor told her to be back in the hospital after two weeks for the biopsy results. 

     She said her heart broke a little. Mine did too. So I went near my Lola just to check on her. When I did, a strong pungent whiff made me go to the sink and spit in disgust. I covered my nose and went back to where my Lola was. That was when I confirmed that the condition of my Lola was serious. Not only was there an inflammation, it gave off a nasty smell too, the smell that of a rotten shellfish that goes straight to your nose and makes you want to puke if you come too close to the source. 

   I felt bad. For spitting, for recoiling in disgust, for telling myself not to go near my Lola again because of the smell. I felt ashamed of myself. Why did I do all those? I didn't have the right to. She looked after me and fostered me when I was little during the time that my mother had to make money for the family and had to leave me at my Lola’s care in our province at Mindanao. She cleaned my mess, wiped away the dung that I kept dropping everywhere as a baby, cared for me when I had terrible measles and chicken pox, and loved me unconditionally, bragging me to her kumares as she held me in her arms and kissed my forehead repeatedly. It was already her turn to be cared for, so I swallowed back my apprehension and woke her up, telling her to go have a breakfast. She said she will get up in a few minutes. I left her and made her breakfast at the kitchen. 

See, my Lola was the kind of person that doesn’t want to be helped, and her pride won’t let her. Even when there were obvious signs of her failing health, she still wanted to put up a front and make it seem that she’s okay: if you offer to help her stand, she would shoo you away. That was just how she was.

When I checked on her again, she was struggling to get her bearings. She can barely keep her knees straight, and she was having a hard time standing. I rushed to her and assisted her, but she just said “Okay ra ko day, adto lang ko kusina taud-taod”. Although I had doubts, but I let her be. Amidst the pungent smell, I wanted to hug my Lola. Seeing her in such condition made my heart ache. But I can’t, and I wasn’t able to. It was such a long time since we last saw each other, and the closeness that we once had has grown thin over the years. I couldn’t work up the courage to tell her that I love her and that she is going to be alright.

After three days, my mother brought my Lola and cousin back to the province to let my Auntie take care of her. She bought her food and medicine supplies. I wasn’t even there when my Lola left, so I hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye. Since then, I got worried about her, my thoughts are drawn to her from time to time.

I remembered the times when I was bullied by my bigger male cousins whenever I visit the province during my elementary days, and I always come running to her, crying while I tell her what they did to me. She would always tell me to just let it pass and that I shouldn’t just play with them again. She would cook biko, binignit, budbod, nilat-ang manok and linung-ag na saging for all of us, and she would always have this hearty laughter whenever my uncles and aunties crack jokes. She would play cards early in the morning, and whenever I ask her why, she would say she just wanted to find out if harvesting corn would be good for that day, or if she would win “Swer-tres”, things like that. I used to be her most favorite grandchild, always treating me more favorably than the rest of my cousins. I loved the attention that she was giving me. I loved being her “pinaka-pinalanggang apo”. I loved her dearly.

A photograph of Lola Tonya during her days as a dressmaker

My mother and I would talk about my Lola from time to time, and we had anticipated that she wouldn’t last long, that her death is imminent, and that we had to prepare ourselves for the inevitable. Before she got ill, I used to think that she would always be healthy, and that she would be still be there by the time I marry and have my own kids. I was always used to her being strong: she would,even at her seventies, always climb up and down the mountain where she used to live, she would wash her own clothes, she would do the work at the cornfield during daytime and cook food for dinner. That image that I have of her shattered, and every once in a while the picture of her struggling to stand on her feet would pop in my mind. It adds weight in my chest every time it does.

Perhaps that’s the reason that I did not crack down during the entire time my whole family was making the preparations for my Lola’s burial in the province. I did not cry, I did not even get emotional. I was just there, watching her lie peacefully in her coffin, candles burning and flowers put up around her. Where almost everyone was weeping silently during the Requiem mass, I just stood silently as the priest blessed her coffin and sprinkled holy water on it while my relatives stood around with lit candles in their hands. Even as we were marching to the cemetery up to the time her coffin was being placed inside her tomb, and she was finally laid to rest, not a tear escaped my eyes. Before we left the cemetery, I walked to her tomb, and thanked her for everything. I told her I love her so much, and I bid my final farewell.

I never cried for her death. Not until now, now that I am writing this. All those feelings of grief and nostalgia came back to me as I take a trip down memory lane to dig whatever memories I had of her. I… I lost a person that I loved. And the painful thing is that I never got to tell her how much I love her and how much she truly meant to me; I let all the opportunities to do so go. I let her pass away without ever thanking her, letting her feel the warmth of the love of a grandchild, without talking to her for the last time before she held her final breath. 

I felt guilty. I never gave her back the love she deserved. I feel so sorry.

But, I know, wherever she is now, she is at someplace happy, peaceful, and full of love. She would never have to cough violently, complain about how tasteless the food is in her mouth, and whimper in pain ever again. God bless her soul.

Lola, I hope that at the deepest recesses of your mind, you knew what you are to me, and that you will always have a special place in my heart. I will never forget you. I will dedicate my achievements in life to you. And I will make you proud.

I love you so much, Lola Tonya. And goodbye.