Mommy.

Those who've known me or my brother and had the privilege of being welcomed into our humble abode have all, at one time, wrongly identified who our mother was. It would come as a complete shock to everyone that the short, skinny, brown-haired woman they saw inside our home is not our older sister, but actually the woman from whose bosom we were brought into life. More often, people would point to somebody else when they ask me or my brother, “Siya ba nanay mo?” One of the usual suspects was this stout, sharp-tongued blonde who always seemed to be preoccupied with something – a book, her phone, the laundry, a television show she was watching, or her garden. 

No, that woman is not my mother. She is my grandmother, Solema Pilar. She is known to plenty of people as Emma, Kims, Ate or Ma'am. But I knew her by a different name...

I knew her as Mommy.

You see, we have weird naming conventions in our household. “Mama” and “Papa” are obviously my parents, but we also use those names for the elder members of our family, be it aunts or uncles. “Grandma” is the term of endearment not for our actual grandmother, but our great-grandmother Connie who was the eldest living matriarch of the clan. And “Mommy” is reserved especially for my grandmother. I guess that’s what made it confusing for our friends and guests; one minute they hear us calling for Mommy, the next minute we’re looking for Mama, and people can’t quite tell which is which. Weird, huh.

When Grandma passed away four years ago, I pointed out a somewhat odd predicament within our family, careful to not put it in bad taste. (Because, you know, making smart-ass remarks at a wake is probably not the brightest idea in the world.) As things stand, I innocently asked, does this mean Mommy assumes the title of “Grandma”, as if the name was some sort of crown jewel that was passed from generation to generation? Her response was priceless, and I'll never forget it: she let out a loud chuckle and gestured to me with her index finger as if to say, “Don’t you f***ing dare, Kyle.” And then everyone started laughing. 

We all knew why this was funny. We sort of had a sense that she didn’t like the idea of her age slowly catching up with her, which is why she refused to be called a name that immediately evoked the feeling of being old. Not that the name itself was altogether bad, though. Grandma didn’t mind when she was called as such; one look at her and everyone would agree that the name suited her well. She really did look like a “Grandma”. But did Mommy? She herself begged to disagree, for the exact same reason: because she looked like a “Mommy”.

At seventy years old – excuse me, seventy years young – her outer appearance did not give her age away. She was a self-professed kikay, who was not one to dress inappropriately for an occasion. She knew which outfit, which pair of stilettos, which kind of jewelry and which shade of lipstick to put on whenever she had to go to some place. She would dye her hair often, even experimenting with different colors to see if it would look good on her. And she would regularly bond with her daughters – my mom Tet and my aunt Cathy – and spend quality time with them outside the house, either to go to the mall and watch the latest movie or to get their nails done at the nearby parlor. One might look at this lady and think that she "tries too much to fit in" with the younger crowd, but what's incredible to me is she pulled it off rather well. She knew how to carry herself despite her advanced age and did it gracefully, as a true lady should. I think that contributed significantly to her youthful aura.

She took a lot of pride in that youthfulness of hers, too. On her sixtieth birthday party which she held at the Clinical Chemistry room of the Philippine General Hospital's Department of Laboratories, she began her speech with one of the most astute observations I've ever heard anyone make: "If 'life begins at forty,' then I feel like I'm only twenty years old!" She absolutely believed her words to be true. And the crazy thing was, no one objected. Not a single soul! No one had to force us to "drink the Kool-Aid" because we were already sold to the idea that this lady, who was now eligible for a Senior Citizen ID, felt that she was so much younger than what her birth certificate makes it out to be. I mean, who could blame us? We all saw with our own eyes how, for many years, she climbed the same steep flight of stairs leading to her office on the second floor of the hospital building. How she walked the long corridors of PGH to go to the Mess Hall for breakfast, then head back. And how she crossed the often-deadly streets of Manila to get on a bus or an FX as she headed back home...

Of course, all that didn't surprise me one bit. That's just the tip of the iceberg. Having lived with her all my life, I was an eyewitness to more of Mommy's marvelous feats, such as staying underneath the scorching sun for hours on end to spruce up her lush, flowery garden. Or lifting large plastic bags containing not a few pounds of meat as she bought a week's supply of food from the Farmer's Market every other Saturday. Or (I can personally attest to this one) finishing the entire crossword puzzle from the day's newspaper in one sitting and without fail for a record number of weeks, even months. But, in my humble opinion, the most marvelous feat of them all would have to be this one: raising her two daughters and looking after her two grandsons while taking care of her mother – all at the same time, and mostly on her own. That took a lot of strength, no doubt. She had to have a strong body, a strong mind, a strong will and a strong heart to keep an entire family together, putting all of us before her own self. And if how our lives turned out are any indication, she must have been doing something right. Just for that, we are forever grateful.

There is only one instance that I recall when she appeared feeble and weak, and it was during Grandma's wake. The night before her burial, I saw Mommy sitting down on one of the beds in the sleeping quarters of the funeral chapel. She looked out of it, like a boxer who had regained consciousness after a crushing blow. I didn't have to ask why; losing Grandma hit us all pretty hard. All I could do was stand next to her, place my hand on her shoulder, and reassure her that "everything's going to be okay" even though I knew in my heart of hearts that it won't. Out of nowhere, with her voice shaking and her eyes swelling, she said, "Hindi ko na kaya, 'be."

There goes my hero, as the Foo Fighters would sing. Off came her mask, and underneath I saw a face just like mine: human, ordinary, and prone to frailty. But it was then that I understood the secret to her ways. Her great strength did not come from within. Rather, she drew it from the people closest to her: from Grandma, and all of us. And so as I silently stood by Mommy's side in one of the darkest moments of her life, I vowed to myself that I will never abandon her. Everyone else did, too. Even though we knew our lives were no longer the same, we promised to help keep our home intact in every possible way we can, without neglecting each other's needs. We did that for four years, in an effort to restore some sense of normalcy and stability. This included Mommy regaining her strength – most of it, if not all.

Sure enough, she did not disappoint. She picked herself up from the ground like the hero that she was and, slowly but surely, sprang right back into action. Every now and then, we would see bright, shining flashes of her recovery. She was the first to get out of bed every morning just like Grandma used to, except she also made coffee and cooked breakfast for the whole family. Her green thumb turned much greener as she continued to work tirelessly on her garden, making several additions to her plant boxes along the way. She even got her sense of humor back as we teased each other non-stop, particularly when I came home late from work. (She would always say, "Nakipag-date ka siguro, 'no?" I would always answer, "Bakit, selos ka?") The only thing that was weak about her is her knees, as my brother and I would assist her at times in getting out of a car or a cab because she couldn't quite bend them as much, but other than that she was in tip-top physical condition.

This is the Mommy I know and love. A far cry from the woman I saw four years ago, hunched over on a bed and emptied of everything inside her, even her tears. Now that I'm seeing her trademark smile again, as I hugged her before leaving the house or kissed her goodnight before going to bed, I'd think to myself that maybe – just maybe – her strong body, strong mind, strong will and strong heart have been fully recharged to a hundred percent, and that she was on the verge of a glorious comeback...

Little did I know that this "comeback" meant she was coming back to her Creator.

There are plenty of things I will never come close to understanding in my lifetime. This is certainly one of them. Was she sick? If so, how long was she hiding it? And why did she hide it from us? But if not, what caused her to go out the way she did? And why so sudden? These are questions I might not find answers to. Perhaps it is not my place to understand this at all, and that realization only adds to the pain of not being with her during her final moments. Truly, Death comes knocking on your door at a time you least expected.

If there is anything I can take comfort in, it is the fact that Mommy lived what was a very fulfilled life. Most people dream of it, and not a lot of people get to say so about their own. But having lived under the same roof as her for twenty-four years, I can say for certain that it was indeed a very fulfilled life. It wasn't perfect, as with all things on this earth, but it came very close.

Another consoling thought is the hope that our family has gained another guardian angel. Maybe, in this capacity, Mommy will be much more able to look after us because she is that much closer to the Big Man Upstairs. No shortage of cellphone load will be able to stop us from talking to her, because now we have a direct line to her through our prayers. And we know she's listening. Strange as it seems, we can still feel her motherly presence overshadowing all of us – not just at home, but wherever we go. It's like as if she never left.

Thank you for everything, Mommy. Who we are today, we owe to you. Say hello to Grandma, Grandpa and Lolo Mario for us, won't you? We miss you every day, and we love you every day.