Vision

As she walked home, she cried, seeing a vision that was perhaps better to have seen as blind.

I remember that suddenly, the air around me felt so monotonous, dull. A heaviness in my chest slowly formed as soon as I was out of the building. It wasn’t there when I walked out of the classroom, when I was impatient for two annoyingly slow walkers to step aside and let me descend the staircase as fast as I would want to. Because of them, I felt dirty longer than I would care to. My limits scraped against the floor; I wanted a shower. I just needed to get away.

Yet as the cold crisp air of late morning tackled me, the story I read in class came back, taunting me, written about a community over in the east, upper-middle class or so. A guy tried to commit suicide, but so irrelevant. An underscoring implication about loneliness, about the inevitability of death, what trapped me was “someone we hold dear.” From the moment I left the classroom, I was fixated on a scent, one wrapped around me. Caught, the story’s implications struck me harder than a punch across the face or a kick to the gut.

As I fell, the world lost expression.

 It was from a scarf, the scent I mean. The thick and soft fibers brushed along my cheeks and over my nose. The simple movement reminded me of an artist’s painting, trying to capture the ocean for its waves, how vexing their movement, going back and forth, back and forth.

Every time the scarf loosened or lowered, I immediately pulled it up. I had to. I wanted the scent, to dive into my emotions head first, ready to experience them, prepared to face them in broad daylight�"which I probably would never do as I abhor the sun�"before the public’s eyes, not caring as to how much I am consumed, how dark the world may become or how deep I am diving.

I’m trying to describe that smell.

However, as I have found, both then and now, that to entail exactly how that scent had been perceived by me is nearly impossible. As much as I can describe it, I could never quite perfect how well you receive it and make you think you can smell it too. I can try to help you smell this scent that had surrounded me, but we both know that it can never be as real as you and I would hope it to be.

I knew it was a perfume, not of the fruit-like varieties or the pungent heady scents similar to musk or something. It wasn’t like evergreens or winter rain, vanilla or dried leaves, as candle scents often go, neither was it flowers or what many perceive to be the classic quality of a perfume’s either enticing or sickening aroma. No, it was exceedingly different. I can almost say it was the smell of the Philippines�"a  land I can never forget but usually fail to appreciate--of  the sun--but of a kind in people, a trait I find myself so urgent to search for�"of  a perfume with my name, of comfort.

How does it smell of comfort?

The person who owns this scent happens to be my source of comfort. Isn’t that concept a bit vague? Who are they?

They are a woman, thirty-two years and five months older than me. At the age of twenty-two, she migrated to the United States and became a citizen. She’s widowed, holds onto a daughter who cares more for her space than the ever shortening time of a mother’s dwindling lifespan, a teenage daughter I think burdens her and unconsciously gives truth after truth in actions but never words.

She is a sun, an embodiment I so often long for, but find is too difficult to grasp or understand in others. From the moment of conception, in the very depths of the womb, she had already become my companion. The one who’s respect I always struggle for, the one who’s attention I constantly try to take, the one who’s pride I often try to become, this scent belonged to her. She is my mother.

And because of this scent, capturing me in the aftermath of a story about loneliness, death, and the single one we have to care for, as I dwelled further and further into the image, I found myself crying, seeing her on her deathbed. I was seeing moments when she would leave me.

*******************************************************

I sit by myself, watching her face, hoping every second that she opens her eyes for a single moment and sees me. I shift in my seat, every once in a while looking away as I do. Something inside of me can’t stand to see her, not like this, but I turn my head and gaze at her once more. As much as I hate this moment, this time, this fate in front of us, I don’t want to miss it. I can’t bear to miss it.

A steady beep pervades the room. Its rhythm is slow, but I assure myself, “It’s still there.” My eyes are weary, but even as I feel more sobs threaten to tear out of my throat and take my breath away, I can’t cry. Throughout my life, I’ve cried too much, yet I know I could never cry enough.

Many around me thought I was strong in some sense. They didn’t know this woman was my strength. Any confidence I may have projected, all of my anxieties or frustrations or sadness came from her. She determined my standard. She determined if I was good enough, if I was ready, if I was something valuable. I don’t think she had ever intended this, never once saying a word of my limits, of the boundaries I can’t cross or rules I should not to break. Not a word, so I would look at her face and hear how she phrased her words, if there were any.

She was my foundation, where all of my habits, values, and thoughts came from and grew. She was everything.

She is everything.

How many people can say that, call the one who showed them everything, that created everything, to be everything? I don’t believe many people know what it’s like. Everything, they often mistake everything to be the moment, the year, the time they are living, but what about everything of the past and everything of the future? Can they say that?

If I can keep from crying, it’s because what makes me cry is her pain, her loss, her burdens, when does she hear me and when does she see me. How much stress did I give her? How much pressure did I set on her shoulders? What have I done? I remember these worries coming out in dreams, following me into that moment of twilight, bringing tears and sobs that I didn’t want to feel. In the aftermath, when tears won’t stop and I need more than a person to hold me, more than the simple comfort of reassurance, I needed her. She assured me none of it was true, nothing would happen. All was fine. I wouldn’t be able to stop from thinking, “That’s what she says,” but even then, the tears had been swept away and left to rest, if only a little while.

“Marie.” I stop, turning my head and seeing faces of people I had forgotten were there. A hand rests on my shoulder. Looking up, I find the face of my older brother. Hours of sadness and worry have aged him more in a day than in sixteen years. Sometimes, I forget he’s even my brother. “How are you?”

“How do you think I am,” I wanted to snap. What a horrid question to ask. I certainly wasn’t in the least okay. How could I be? Here I am, sitting by my mom as she lies in a hospital bed, breathing her last. I’m a doctor, d****t, why can’t I help her?

But I didn’t snap. Instead, I turned back to our mom and waited for her to open her eyes. I could feel older brother rub my back, trying to comfort me. It was the only way he knew how to deal with me. When I’m not vulnerable, there’s no possible way for us to relate. He can’t understand me and I don’t want to understand him. He has his way and I have mine. Did he need mom? I don’t know, but I needed her. His reassurances were futile, always are. Only mom can reassure me. Only mom. Only mama.

I could feel my hands beginning to tremble, getting harder and harder to breath. All I wanted to do was cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to hear her tell me she was alright. Anything she could give me, I would take it. If she told me to pray, I would pray.

Anything, I would do anything, just don’t take her away from me.

*******************************************************

My vision blurred and a tear trailed down my cheek. I didn’t bother to wipe it away or try to hide because I knew, I had to cry. Right here, right now, I couldn’t just ignore it, so I let the tears fall. They had to run their course. Even as I strode down the sidewalk, passing by a line of cars that waited for a green light, avoiding the boy who pedaled on his bike, turning his head for a spare moment to gaze at me, missing the woman at the post office who glanced my way, I felt the steady stream of tears streak down my cheeks.

For a moment, it stopped. Just a moment and I was no longer crying. I found it strange, pausing to wonder why. Then I noticed the truck that was a foot or so away. I was standing in the midst of the entrance. When I glanced at the driver, he held up his hands, silently asking, “What’s wrong with you?”

I couldn’t find the motivation in apologizing or hurrying on. To me, everything was still covered by a haze. The air was cold. Colors were dark. Frost drifted in the air, even though I knew frost could only be seen on the ground. But I obliged. I faced away from him and resumed walking home.

Images of mother flashed through my mind, dying and the tears returned. Then here I was, crying again, letting the tears fall, letting them chill my cheeks and pool on the fibers of the scarf. I kept inhaling my mother’s scent again and again, seeing her in that blue gown amidst greenish blue sheets. Her eyes closed as she labored to breath. The monitor that told her life beeped one…one…one…one…one…

I hurried home. Without stopping to wipe the tears away, blinking because that was the best I could improvise, stopping and looking left, right, left, and right, dashing across the wide street and quickening my pace until I reached the door. The next few minutes blurred. I wasn’t running, but I was in my house, taking off my shoes, setting down my keys and my iPod. I hadn’t removed my backpack, yet I found myself upstairs, already in the bathroom, removing my clothes. I didn’t hear the click as I shut the door, still, I found myself under the spray of water, hearing the song “If you’re not the one” playing on my stereo at full volume.

Mom’s face flashed in my head. She was in that gown, lying amongst the greenish blue sheets. There was the beep of the monitor. Her lashes fluttered. Brown eyes stared at me, lifeless. Before I could stop it, I was crying. Tears mingled with the streams of water. Sobs racked my body. I could feel myself breaking. A hammer struck my glass heart and everything inside poured out. I started jerking as if I could puke. There was no air to breath. I inhaled. Nothing went in. I felt as if I could choke. I was choking. I couldn’t breath. I couldn’t breath! Mama, crying “Mama!”

*******************************************************

 I snapped out of the memory, discovering the sky was dark outside. Stars could be seen in the distance. Below, street lamps showered light on the sidewalks. Cars zoomed past, going left and going right. Lines formed for the intersections. Every time the light turned green, a stream of cars drove by like a child who eagerly eats candy on Halloween.

I had never truly liked candy, but I had watched those kids in my class who delighted in edible necklaces and the faces of friends when I gave away chocolates or sweets, just because I didn’t have a taste for them. Parents envied my mom, asking, “How did you do that? You know, my daughter can’t get away from the stuff, but yours, she won’t even touch it.” Mom didn’t have an answer. She would merely shrug and say, “I don’t know. She’s just like that. That’s how she is.”

Mom didn’t know much. We never had real discussions. Between us was always questions and answers, random facts or outspoken thoughts. “Are you hungry,” she would ask, or “Have you done your homework?” Every once in a while, she’d ask, “So how’s your friend what’s-her-name?” My answers were short, give or take an analogy once in a while. As for mom, she had a strange way of avoiding the question with a long overdrawn answer or giving an answer that forced me to question why or what. If she didn’t want to bother with me, she looked away. If I persisted, she’d snap, “I don’t know, Marie. Now stop. I’m busy.” And I left her alone.

Yet we had our ways. There was body language and gestures, more on my part than hers really. She had a strange affinity for talking and socializing. Then again, mom was always the social one; she was the sun, wasn’t she? Her short phrases and random comments, which were usually thoughts that she happened to speak aloud, were as much communication as I needed. If it weren’t these, it was her actions that told me the rest.

We laughed. When she was downstairs with me, I had to be near her in some way, sitting on the opposite couch, sleeping as she watched the TV, eating at the dining table, walking around the room. No matter, I had to be somewhere in a way that she could know I was there. If I did happen to leave her proximity, it would be to grab something from my room or sing in the den. She could hear me if I sang, so I was still there. And if not singing, she could probably hear my music playing or hear me typing away on the keyboard.

I could tell mom made a lot of effort, trying to connect with me as many people like to believe mothers and daughters should , yet that felt so hollow. Even if I didn’t show it, I would think of her and question my treatment of her--as many would call it, neglect �"and wonder if I must change. But she’d already constructed my very person. I didn’t want to change. Still, I would constantly think of the burden I had become, of the spoiled brat her unnoticed efforts had unintentionally created. But I didn’t change and I didn’t show as much appreciation for her as I truly felt. Wasn’t it enough to know I was here? She said nothing, but I don’t know what’s going on in her head. I was always guessing.

It’s funny. Thinking about it, when she scolded me, it sounded as if she were taking the words from other people’s mouths. She didn’t punish me or become angry with me as she did with older brother. Instead of anger, there was disappointment or exhaustion. Instead of worry, there was a dull sense of concern. No matter how strong it was inside her, it looked weak by the time I saw it. 

As I think of it, I would imagine being hesitant or finding some excuse not to obey. That’s how I am with others. With her, it’s a constant guessing game. If she told me to jump off a bridge, I have the feeling I would, if she told me where and when and watched.

Mom set no rules, established no standard or boundary. What she stated were guidelines, not expectations. She didn’t say what I couldn’t be and neither did she say what I could be. Everything seemed up for grabs as if anything were possible. That’s how she talked about it, telling me the chances, what I’d need and what it’d take. As long as I followed three guidelines, live well, live happy, and never forget family. She never said these to my face, but she managed to impose them some way or another.

I always dread the day I lose her because there can’t even be the pursuit of a replacement. When people lose someone, they try to find something similar or something that can fill the void. I couldn’t. Who could possibly fill my mother’s void, position, place? No one. My mom is a sun, a supreme being. She’s not a god, but she is the creation that created me, raised me and molded me.

From past to present to future, she dictates my life and I would have it no other way. Because of her, I became a doctor. Through high school and college, I studied to be a nurse. The sooner I had the money, the better. Mom supported me and was the reason for ambition. Mom suffered so much physically that I thought if I could ease her pain even just a little, help her live a little longer and make her last years worth all of the stress, the anguish, and the burdens, let me do it. Let me try.

She endured so much. Doctors found her to be so stubborn and mind-boggling. High blood pressure, an aneurism, a ruptured gall bladder from a two hundred carat gallstone, overgrowth of the bone in both feet, allergies to painkillers, a tear on the brink of a separation in the calf muscles, and some things that weren’t bad, but simply…unique. She had children, when the chances weren’t possible, gave birth to a baby who came out in the full sac, resembling an alien when they cut open the sac. Mom hasn’t made it through cancer or any life-threatening virus, but she probably has enough stories to keep a whole hospital entertained.

I wanted to help her, but I wasn’t fast enough. God was taking her away from me. “Marie…”

Mom! I hurtle forward, taking hold of her dark hand. I try to hold back the tears, but her eyes are open. They’re not so dull. They’re not so lifeless. She can see me.

“Are you alright?”

I nod my head. Hurriedly, I wipe away the tears. “Yes,” I answer, “I’m okay, mama.”

She tilts her head, gazing at me. Then she nods. I can hear her every inhale. She rasps, struggling to inhale and exhale normally. I want her to stop, just stop suffering, stop struggling.

“I’m okay,” she murmurs, “Don’t cry.”

But I can’t stop. I grasp her hand, holding it against my cheek. She’s cold. Mom is never cold. “I’m alright,” she soothes, but she’s not. Her voice is too soft, too weak. She’s dying, but she won’t admit it because she sees me crying. I want to tell her hold on. I want to tell her let go. I want to help her. Mama, why can’t I help you?

“You can,” she utters. I see her eyes, gazing down at me. I avert my eyes because I just can’t look. Instead, I find myself staring at her hand, her dark hand that has paled with veins more prominent than they’ve ever been. She’s cold. She’s still cold. “Marie.”

Even though I don’t want to, I lift my head and gaze into her eyes yet again. The tears are now stinging my eyes and it’s getting hard to breath again. I hold back for her sake, but I can’t speak. I nod my head, but she waits for more. “Yeah,” I manage.

“Smile.” Is that her last request? I shake my head because I can’t. What if I smile and she finally lets go? A little longer, I just need her a little longer. I can’t. Please don’t make me.

“Marie…smile.”

And against my every wish, I manage to smile for her. She nods at me as if she approves. A smile appears on her lips, a meek smile that I’ve never seen on her face before. Slowly, she starts to nod off and I realize, I’m losing her.

“Mama.” Her eyes slowly drift closed.

“Mama.” Her head slowly lays down on the pillow.

“Mama. Don’t leave me.” The line rings a dead pitch. Mama.

“Move aside! Please!” I see the nurses and doctors storm in. Someone tries to pull me away. Something is rolled in. They cry out a number. Then pumps are placed on my mom’s chest. As her chest heaves, I rush forward. I knew this was wrong. This shouldn’t be happening.

“Marie, move!” They try to pull me away, but I hang onto my mother. I won’t let her go. Because now I realize, let her go. God was saving her in the way I never could. Just like she said, if it ever came to this, let her go.

“Marie!”

“No! Let her be!” I hold on.

“Marie! As much as you-!”

“Stop. It’s too late.”

And all the sounds disappear. All I can hear is my own sobbing and the constant pitch of the flat line. I lift my head and there is mom’s face. She looks peaceful. God has given her peace. I wanted her here. I still need her, but…she deserved the pain to go away. She deserved to be with the angels, to be with father. I almost took that away because I’d forgotten her wish. I had almost stopped her from finding peace. Mama…For that, “I’m sorry, mama.”

*******************************************************

I see that moment. I see how I lost her. I see how I will lose her. Hopefully, the day it happens, it’s not like that. None of the waiting or the drama. It’ll be a day on vacation, for me and older brother. We’ll be in Hawaii, just as I’ve promised her. The whole family has come together in one room. In front of us, a feast is laid out on a table reminiscent of mom’s favorite Cherrywood. The real Cherrywood had been sold away years ago, but older brother and I set out to find one, just for mama’s birthday.

Older brother, his wife and their kids stand to one side. I bet their kids will be awfully well-mannered, my little slaves, joking.

I’ll have my boyfriend with me. He’d probably be smiling. Mom will glance at him, make a snide comment about his looks. She always does that, no matter how many times she’s met the person. He’d probably be another ball of sunshine, even though I dread that. Though as bright as he is, he can’t outshine mama.

I know I put her on a podium, except, at least I know her flaws and despite the mistakes and imperfections, I still place her on that podium. In my mind, no one else can belong there. As much as others may try, they have to accept that even when my mom is gone, she will still be the first in my heart.

Mom’s sister and sister-in-law will stand beside my mother, her best friends and almost like stepparents. Like mom, they too sneak a glance at my boyfriend. Auntie, mom’s sister, doesn’t make any comment, but Big Mama, her partner, does and loudly too. I suspect my boyfriend would be surprised or embarrassed by the exceptionally loud, brazen snide comments Big Mama would pretend to whisper. If he’s the person I would expect him to be like, he would smile and play along. And for that, Big Mama and mama would take a definite liking towards him.

Then, the caretaker would set the last dish on the table. Right as they turn to walk away, auntie tells them to come and join us. Surprised, the woman respectfully tries to recline, but as the social people mama, Big Mama, and auntie are, they convince her to stay. I smile as she approaches because I am grateful she takes the time to care for my family when I cannot, especially mama.

“Okay, let’s pray.” Older brother nudges his son. He looks at his father, puzzled. Brother tilts his head, a silent warning in his eyes as he gestures towards the table. When he doesn’t understand, older brother sighs�"too softly to be heard, but everyone saw�"and declares, “Dona will lead the prayer.”

Many of us laugh at the boy’s nickname, which he blushes for, momentarily glaring at his father, but then smiles. Mom had found the name interesting, considering older brother’s wife is Asian like the rest of us. Not to mention, it reminded most of us when my brother was crazy about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

We quieted down. Everyone made the cross and closing his eyes, Donatello respectfully tries to lead us in prayer. Just for teasing him, Big Mama and I put in little phrases, messing him up in his endeavor not only to speak loud and clear, but to recite the “Our Father” without mistakes. By the time we’re saying “Thy will be done,” the boy is blushing from ear to ear, embarrassed. When we finish, mom instantly notices and bursts out laughing, reddening the boy’s face beyond what it already was.

The rest of us would pass around plates and dig in, smiling and laughing as Donatello is teased some more by mama and Big Mama. Maybe he’ll scarred for this. After a few minutes, mama stops and auntie chastises Big Mama, telling Donatello to go on, grab his food. He does so eagerly and I end up commenting, “Hey mama, there’s another hog in the family.”

“Hog,” mama perks up, “That’s too bad. He’ll be fat, but we can’t make any money out of him.” Donatello glances at his father, blushing red, but brother smirks and shrugs it off.

We would spend the next few hours chatting away, perhaps playing mahjong, the game mama, Big Mama, and auntie love to play. The kids could practice their math, while being beaten and doling out chips every half hour or so. By the end of the night, when they have to prepare for bed, their drawers are empty. And Donatello’s little sister swears that one day, she’ll win and then she’ll be laughing in our faces. All of us chortle and the determination she feels falters. She beams a smile, sticking out her tongue before dashing off.

At that moment, I encourage my boyfriend to join the table. He’ll smile at me and nod, seating himself as I pull out a seat between him and mama. They shuffle the tiles, talking about all sorts of things. Mama even gets my boyfriend talking about himself, saying, “We didn’t get to know much about you last time.” Big Mama sneaks away from the table. When she comes back, she’s holding four glasses of margarita, handing them to the women around the table.

My boyfriend watches me take a sip. “I don’t get one,” he asks. I chuckle. Big Mama answers, “Of course not. If you want one, make your own. You have legs, use them.” And just to rub it in, Big Mama takes a long sip of her margarita, pretending to avert her gaze and flutter her lashes to tease him. Auntie quickly chastises her. Chuckling, Big Mama apologizes to her partner, a smile on her lips as auntie looks back at her, going “Uh huh, just as sorry as giving Marie that full bottle of vodka last Christmas, especially when I told you not to.”

“It was Christmas,” Big Mama joked, “You have to spread the joy.” Conversation ensued and we played several rounds of mahjong. Then mama stood, telling me to take her seat. I don’t ask why. She smiles at everyone, still laughing with us. As we agree on one more round, mama moves into the kitchen. I hear the faucet turn as she collects tap water in a glass. Until the end of the round, mama sits nearby as she finishes her most recent book, smiling, but surprisingly quiet, making less comments than before.

I gaze back at her, noting how she’s aged. Time should’ve lasted longer, the span of a life shortened by so many complications, but it was fine in a way because the life lived was one that was lived well. And that’ll be the first time, I say “goodbye.”