Two weeks ago, Mom called me to tell me that my Lola was rushed to the hospital following what they thought was a heart attack. It was night fall then and I just arrived from an afternoon in Gateway, as it was one of my free days. She told me that she'll be fetching me on her way to the hospital in a while.
Mom swung by a little close to midnight and we made our way to UST Hospital. I was feeling the nasty effects of a virus I caught somewhere and the cold airconditioning of the hospital did not help. We met all but one of my dad's siblings there and we learned that Lola was moved to the ICU for better management. Unfortunately, the ICU was already closed when we arrived.
But maybe out of some stroke of luck, Mom and I was able to go in the ICU even for a few minutes. When Lola saw Mom, she asked for me. But the virus I was hosting kept me from going in her room, so I contented myself by just waving at her from her window.
Though clearly labored, that was the last time I saw my Lola breathing. Around lunchtime the next day, my dad's sister called to tell us that Lola passed away around noon. Mom cried. I buried myself in the comforters were I was sleeping. I felt a mixture of sadness and relief. Sad, because she's gone, and relief because she is finally resting, and all the pain she's been feeling for the last weeks, are already gone.
Mom decided that we would go to her wake after Dad's arrival the next day. So we did. At first I could not bring myself to step inside her house and see her laying there. A cousin had to usher me in. I didn't look at her for long. She looked good, younger by twenty years, but I don't want to remember her that way. I want to remember her as my grey-haired Lola, sitting on her rocking chair with a big fan and twinkling eyes that light up every time I visit.
I wasn't her favorite granddaughter. And we don't really know each other well up until several years ago, when she started to become sickly and there were times that I would spend the night in her hospital room. Stuck with each other and nothing to do, we would talk and talk and tell stories. She would tell me about her youth, about how she helped her parents by selling hot coffee early in the morning. She would show me her wrinkled hands with pride. They're not really beautiful, she would say, but those hands were the hands that rocked my Dad's, and his five other sibling's, cradle. They might as well have cradled mine.
As one of her grandkids, I don't hold much distinction. As mentioned earlier, I wasn't her favorite, nor was I the prettiest. I didn't spend majority of my childhood with her. It was only in the last decade that we got to know each other better.
The whole period of her wake, I didn't cry much for there really wasn't anything to cry about. Because I know that she was ready and she lived a full life. When we were on our way to lay her to rest and we passed by their old house, where she and Lolo raised their six children, that was the time when I started crying. That was when realization started to kick in, and memories of my childhood started flooding in.
Never will I see her again behind the displays of her grocery store, nor will anybody respond everytime I visit and shout her name from the garage. I cried because I will miss her and the thought of never hearing her voice or touching her aged hands again is very sad. In the church, when the priest gave her the final blessing, I cried a little again, and looked at the family she left. Her six children, all making names for themselves despite very humble beginnings. And fourteen grandchildren, also trying to make our way in the world, reaping the fruits of her and her husband's sacrifices.
We said our sad goodbyes. But for me, it wasn't really that sad, for I know that in her 88 years, she lived a fulfilled life. And when her Creator finally called her back, she was ready. With these in mind, though I will miss her deeply, I realized that there's really nothing to be sad about.
