A Letter to Mama: Day 21

Dear Mama,

How do I start? How do I open up about the worst day in my life losing the most important person in my life? It was 3:45pm EST, on Wednesday. February 3rd, 2021. Maggie called me. I saw your death rattle. I saw you take your last breaths on video call. Papa, Maggie, Michael, and I were crying hysterically. I kept saying I love you so much. I hope you heard me.

You’ve been really sick since Monday, February 1st 2021. We last exchanged Whatsapp messages on Sunday night. It felt weird not waking up to a good morning text from you. I had a hunch something was up. I asked Papa and Michael. Papa told me, you’ve been very weak since the weekend. That’s when I broke down. I cried on the phone. Those 3 days went by in a blur. I don’t think I’m ready to write about our last conversation. Tuesday night EST, I was just getting off a work call, or was I just preparing for one? I don’t know. I forget. I am not ready to write about that yet. Not now Mama. But your voice. Your soft voice (I could tell you were in pain, and when I asked where it hurt, you said everything.). I hear it every day and every night in my head.

People say grief is like the ocean. And you know I love the ocean. That was one of our last memories together — physically in person — in 2019, 2 years ago. We went on a mother-daughter trip. We went to Bali because I wanted to go scuba diving. You were terrified. I told you it would be fine. You were on the shore, reading your bible as always as I went on the little boat with my dive master and the other guy who was in charge of taking pictures.

Today the ocean is calm. It’s warm. I can breathe. I can see clearly. It’s like taking a safety stop before ascending to surface. It’s sunny and warm. I can appreciate my surroundings. The other day it was the complete opposite. It was like a dive I went on in 2015 near the Krakatoa volcano. We went scuba diving after a rainstorm and at some point visibility was so bad, I couldn’t see clearly. It was scary.

Last Saturday, Jasmine came down here. We had a fun girls day. We went shopping and got cupcakes and ramen. But at some point I broke down and I started sobbing at Wegman’s as we were picking up snacks for our impromptu sleepover. Papa told me he was watching online Mass and he got really sad and stopped.

It triggered bottled up sadness to just overflow. Jasmine, being Jasmine, softly let me cry and started saying words that comforted me and provided assurance that I was in a safe space, with no pressure to be tough or to be strong. I can just be. I was frustrated. I know in my heart of hearts, you want nothing but the absolute best in me. And sometimes I wonder, what is it that you see in me that you thought I’d be able to achieve grand things? I trust that you envision me reaching my full potential here. You never wanted to me to limit myself or let others limit myself. But at that moment of pain, struggling to adjust to this new normal, and questioning everything, I questioned you. Your vision. If this is what you wanted for me, and if this is the life I want for myself, why does it involve me not being able to be with you for the last time and bury you? I humbly accept that everything happens according to God’s plan, but even so, even though I know I can’t go back in time, I know punishing myself renders no good outcome, but at that moment and time, as I was sobbing and wailing in Jasmine’s car, I couldn’t help but ask why on earth, was I not there.

Perhaps one day it will all make sense. Someone texted me, Monica if you flew home you probably would have missed the phone call. That last phone call when I saw you take your last breaths and told you I love you so much. And that may be true. If it happened, God let it happen according to His will.

“Always be grateful.” That’s what you always told me. That, I am. I am grateful, so so thankful for the life I have now, thanks to you, your endless prayers, and your support. You relentlessly supported me. When I had self-doubt, you believed in me more than I believed in myself.

Mama, you were a prayer trooper. You read the bible like it was your day job. I lost count of the number of bibles you read from cover to cover. I still have the one you left for me when you came to the US for the holidays in 2018. I kept hugging it as I went throught the 2 days of your funeral and burial. It was like holding a piece of you very close to my heart.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“Gue gak bisa bayangin, Mon. Lo kan deket banget sama nyokap lo.” (in English: I can’t imagine, Mon. I know you’re very close to your mother.”

That’s it for now. I need to rest.