Reflections of a Guilty Son

In January 2012, I got the phone call that all migrants dread. Without being told, I immediately knew my mother had died. The time of the call, midnight, using a cell phone to call long distance and all the minute details that could only be a family death were evident.

In what seems like a long time, but was just probably a minute, the screaming in my head was silenced by the side that has seen much tragedy. I come from the Philippines; we have all experienced misfortunes in abundance. When I calmed down, I gently told my wife we would return the call in the morning, brushed my teeth and went to sleep without preamble.

The following day, after a long phone call made away from my children, in the hotel bathroom, I found out the circumstances of her death. Suffering from dementia, she was unable to find her way home. She walked past the village, to the city, out of it and to the next town, many miles away. She walked under a scorching tropical sun with no water and no idea where to go.

She somehow ended up on a solitary village on the edges of sugarcane fields, near a beach where we once went when I was a child. And in what could have been a very long, lonely, confusing and terrifying night for her, she stayed there unable to take her medication, on her own, in pain, disorientated and freezing.

She was found dead the next day, more than 24 hours after she got lost.

Unable to scream and grieve, I spent the next day on tour in London with my children. We did the usual touristy things; London Eye, parks, garden, shops. They were blissfully unaware that their “Lola” who they have heard so much of, talked to on the phone but have not met, was dead.

On our return home, we sat them down. We told them what had happened. My wife and I were always frank about things with our children, and death is something we talked to them about. We answered their questions and they were predictably sad, as grandchildren would in moments like these. However, I was aware that, having not met her was good for them. They had fewer memories, especially not those of an elderly woman suffering the indignity of dementia. Memories are our salvation, but they are also the ones that cause us grief.

I did not have the luxury of pausing to gather my thoughts. I was the eldest child and everyone would look up to me for support, including my father. Philippine funerals are extravagant, dramatic events; I had much to think of. There were relatives to house and feed for the usual two weeks’ wake, flowers to buy, coffin colour to choose, funeral plot to find and hundreds of mundane details which I suspect were meant to occupy the living to distract them from the death.

I will always be grateful to VSO for understanding my circumstance. The organisation lived up to its character, as that of an understanding and humane organisation. Colleagues commiserated and I was given two weeks off from work to fly home and attend to my family, who by then were slowly trickling to our island by boat, busses, planes, jeepneys and what ever transport they can manage to get onto from all over the country.

Unfortunately or fortunately for me, there was a plane delay. I was stuck at Heathrow airport, unsure if I had to go back to Colchester and when could I fly out of the UK. Two days late, and after two plane rides and many other vehicles; I arrived home numb.  Because of the delay, I managed to sleep in a hotel at the airport. Two weeks of a funeral wake is very much waking time.

When I arrived I needed to tend to the living. I did not go straight to see the coffin; I greeted my family and friends. I asked for coffee and in a moment indicative of how insulated I was from the pain, I forgot about the coffin and placed the mug on top of it. A nervous hush overcome those in the house but they understood how far I was down the emotional rabbit hole. 

The two weeks went with much out drama. Birth, weddings and death were opportunities for family reunions, a time of settling old scores, grievances and disagreements. Luckily, at the wake, there was less of it than at other times. My relations were all generally well behaved. We had to endure silly traditions, which I again suspect were meant to make us uncomfortable to distract us from our grief, and which they did. We can’t brush our hair inside the house; we had to go out onto the streets for that. We can’t shower and a rota had to be organised for going to relatives houses to wash. We can’t sweep, so we had to pick up all the rubbish which was a lot because of the non-stop eating to keep people awake at nights.

Frankly, I can’t remember much of the two weeks. But three things will forever be etched in my memory.

First, a conversation with my father, speculating if my mother had a lucid moment, and decided to end it all to spare us the years of care, a fortune in medication for an illness that can’t be cured which she would not recover from. I will always partly wonder if, like she always did, make a motherly sacrifice.

Second, the hearse ride to the cemetery. I sat beside my father in the hearse and the kilometre trip felt like an eternity. I was acutely aware of the silence and the feeling of drowning, a heavy chest, as if my body was very heavy. It took much effort to stand and keep my composure.

Third, confronting the elephant in the village, dementia. There were whispers about my mother’s condition. She was called the crazy lady. I did not hold a grudge against people in my village. We come from a small provincial city and people nose into each others lives. It is their way of showing that they care about you enough to gossip about you to others. I told them she was not crazy, she was ill and that it could happen to anyone. We should show compassion to others who could be in the same condition. It is not easy for them and their families.

When the fanfare was over, we went home to an empty silent house. Initially no one spoke, but I would have none of it. So we planned a mountain trip to wash from the streams, get away from it all and breathe fresh air, hopefully to get a bit of perspective. We escaped to the mountains the following day. We couldn’t let this spoil my father’s birthday celebration. We had already lost a mother, the best we can do is to make the surviving parent happy, but of course hard as you try, emotions are not taps, they can’t just be switched on and off when they over-flow.

I have not grieved since then, nor will I know when. We all grieve but we do it in our own ways. I am the eldest child, brought up by a tough mother who once broke two wooden rulers on my hand to encourage me to learn my alphabet at five years old. She was old school and I did not hold these disciplining against her. I left a dusty sugarcane filled island to get an education from the best institutions in the world and travelled many continents with a sense of mission. Two broken rulers and a sore hand is a small price to pay, thanks to her.

I had to see the family emotionally and financially through to her death. I was occupied more with the mechanics of the funeral, than my own grieving but I know one day, I will break down. Not today for sure, but when the realisation that her love masquerading as courage, drive, defiance and non-conformity made me who I am today, the emotional dam will burst and I will be reduced to a broken, pitiful state trying to come to terms with my lost.

When most of the things were finally settled or put on hold for the right moment, I went back home to the UK, to my two children and wife. On the plane ride on the way back, I struggled with guilt, of how I left my parents behind to make my mark in the world. I had severed the parental umbilical cord a long time ago to be my own man and have been on a mission to help make the world a little better by working in public health for almost two decades. I know that this is something that made them extremely proud even if I did not become a lawyer or politician. But sadly, the very thing that made them proud took me very far away from them.

I have worked all over the world helping communities address their health problems yet my own mother died; cold, lonely and in pain on a solitary beach. I realised that phone calls, letter, pictures, gifts and money sent regularly over the years were not enough and could not have substituted for my presence. I cared for others, yet I did not physically care for them as often as I could have. The bitter ironies of choice and the misfortune that comes with sacrifice will cast a shadow over me for a long time.

Fortunately, a much bigger shadow, her character, is dominating me at the moment; enough to drown my grief and guilt. My mother was a proud woman, heir to a glorious tradition of a mountain people with a long history. She was determined and amazingly with grit, sent us all through private schools. After nine graduates from the best schools with the last on track for graduation in two years, her gamble paid off. Her line of 16 brothers and sisters will be the first among our people to have all finished university, an achievement considering that we are only the second generation that is literate.

This is the message of my eulogy. My mother was not one to let misfortunes get in the way of what needs to be done. She was one who would swallow the bitter cups of tea life throws at her and just plough on. She was not one who is big on wasting time on grieving, even at her own funeral.

I know the pain will never go away, because I had a strong bond with my mother. But if there is something she taught me is that we should not abandon courage, for it will not abandon us. As a child who slugged fire wood on her head to trek down the mountain to get an education and a new life, these words meant something coming from a woman like her. It is testimony of courage and strength of character.

My mother also believed in giving back. She believed in the idea of our collective humanity and the importance of the village, not just as a place, but a community of people caring for each other. She believed that is the only way to survive, by caring for each other. I can’t be with her anymore, but I can still help others going through the same ordeal, if only to have a few days more with their loved ones. I can still help others to at least hold their parents hands and hopefully witness their death surrounded by loved ones.

So I now do what I do, out of guilt definitely, but also to honour the memory of a person who firmly believed that every moment of kindness that cost you something, is a way of helping make the world a better place.