My beautiful mom passed on March 8 of this year — exactly eight days before the enhanced community quarantine was implemented in Luzon. She died because of complications due to ovarian cancer. It was a three-year fight, and she fought it bravely.
Somehow, I feel fortunate because we had the chance to give her a proper burial. I was able to pick the casket, and surrounded by family, friends, co-workers, and loved ones, held a funeral that fell on her birthday. Some of my friends apologized because their parents did not allow them to go to our house due to the growing health crisis. At first, I thought they were overreacting, but now, the severity of the situation is very clear to me.
Looking back, my sister and I realized how the timing of our mom’s passing felt like a blessing in disguise.
First, I could not imagine seeing my cancer-stricken mother struggle in the midst of this pandemic. She used to undergo chemotherapy every three weeks at the Philippine General Hospital. I could not picture the hassle she would have faced traveling for almost three hours from Bulacan to Manila just to get her treatment—in the middle of ECQ. And, knowing that her immune system was compromised, I could not imagine our worry every time we had to leave the house. The lack of supplies back then — masks, alcohol, PPE — would have added to the difficulty of the situation.
Second, she used to be hospitalized almost every week because of severe anemia. It would have been impossible for us to get people to donate blood when the quarantine was in place. And we no longer had extra funds to buy three bags of blood per week.
Third, she died in the emergency room of PGH. She was intubated for a while before she took her last machine-assisted breath. When I read articles about the severe COVID-19 cases, I realize that my mother endured the same process. She was rushed to the ER because she could not breathe properly due to the fluid in her lungs caused by the cancer, and I could not wrap my head around the idea that if this had happened just a week after her death, she would have been probably considered a coronavirus-positive patient. I might have been designated a PUI, and she might have been cremated.
Lastly, the funds. Being hospitalized is not a piece of cake, especially for middle-class families like us. We couldn’t demand that hospitals give us the same medical benefits extended to those classified by the state as poor. We had already maximized our savings last year due to the chemotherapy sessions. We have loans that are yet to be paid. If she was still getting her treatments up to this day, I’m sure we would not make it financially. We would have starved for weeks.
However, no matter how often I tell myself that I should feel lucky because of these reasons, my heart is still in shreds. Losing a parent—my only parent since she was a single mother—is not easy. Losing her in the midst of this pandemic is tough. Nothing beats the tight hug from your mother when you feel anxious because of everything that is happening in the world. Nothing beats the comforting touch from your mother when you feel afraid because of this unfamiliar situation. Nothing beats the comforting voice of your mother when you need someone to talk to because you feel exhausted even if you haven’t done a single thing. I feel envious because people get to be stuck with their mothers at home, while I cannot even visit my mother’s grave after her interment. I cannot even go to the lapida maker to have her gravestone fixed. I want to mourn for my mother, but I feel like the universe stole that chance from me.
I crave for things to go back to “normal” because I miss going out. I miss drinking with my friends. I miss talking to people. I miss having physical and social connections with others. But deep inside, I also wish for things to stay this way—at least for a while. I’m afraid that going back to “normal” means continuing to live my daily routine, but without her; not receiving her messages asking me “Saan ka na anak?” when I’m in the middle of Edsa traffic; or not seeing her when I come home from the office. I do not think I’m ready to face that reality yet.
I feel heavy because I was not able to grieve for my beautiful mom properly. But I cannot focus on my feelings alone when the world needs empathy for those whose lives were lost because of COVID-19. I grieve for those who have nothing on their plates, for the employees who have to walk hundreds of miles just to go to work, for the drivers who lost their only source of income, for the innocent people who were killed by atrocious beings. I grieve for the world.
I hope to see an end to this conflict in my head. And to this grief.
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Elise Diane J. Gutierrez, 27, lives in Guiguinto, Bulacan. She works as a copywriter in a TV network in Quezon City.