Way of Life

Pain. Sorrow. Dread. Fear.

These are the overwhelming emotions that grip you when a loved one—especially a parent—is hospitalized.

Fifteen years ago, my mom was diagnosed with Stage II breast cancer. When I heard the news, I broke down. I cried out of sheer terror of losing her, knowing how unforgiving cancer can be. Going to the hospital during midterm week filled me with dread; seeing my mom so frail, hooked up to endless wires, broke my heart. Around that time, our family’s finances began to dwindle. My parents were both rank-and-file government employees, and balancing checkups, lab tests, prescriptions, tuition, rent, and utilities was a heavy burden. I prayed endlessly for God’s protection and grace. Fortunately, after a mastectomy and a cycle of chemotherapy, my mom was declared cancer-free.

Though she had to limit her travel, she returned to work in person—this was long before work-from-home setups existed. She continued her quarterly checkups with her oncologist, and for a while, life found a steady rhythm.

But late 2015 into 2016 brought our most dreadful nightmare: the cancer had metastasized to her supraclavicular lymph nodes and lungs. It was now Stage IV. After enduring two full cycles of intravenous chemotherapy, her doctor recommended a third. My mom hesitated, deeply worried about the financial strain it would place on our family. My dad, my sister, her siblings, and I tried desperately to convince her, promising we would find a way to fund it. But she gently refused.

Shortly after returning to our home province, she struggled to breathe, and our emergency oxygen tank wasn't enough. My father called an ambulance, and she was admitted to the local provincial hospital. Because certain medications weren't available locally, I needed to travel to the mainland to buy them. Before leaving, I asked her if she needed anything else. She simply smiled and said everything was already on the list.

I took a ship and a bus to the city, bought her meds at the clinic, and went to work the next day. As a Job Order employee, "no work" meant "no pay," and I desperately wanted to earn whatever I could for her medicines. It seemed like a routine day—I focused on my tasks, balancing ledgers, processing purchase orders, and answering phones. Then, a call came from my aunt asking for my mom’s best friend—who also happened to be my co-worker and godmother. Thinking it was work-related, I passed the line. Moments later, my godmother pulled me aside.

My mom had been moved to the ICU.

Tears flooded my eyes as panic set in. She had never needed the ICU before. Deep down, I knew that anything out of the ordinary was a terrifying sign.

My godmother immediately filed for leave and traveled back to the province with me. We arrived before noon, and I was allowed inside. She was already unconscious. I leaned in and whispered my promises to her, sensing in my heart that she was preparing to leave us. Afterward, we stepped out for lunch, but as we walked back through the hospital gates, my phone rang—we needed to hurry. My mom was fading fast.

By the time we reached her room, she had joined our Creator.

I will never forget my nine-year-old brother punching the wall in tears, crying, "You said Mom was going to be okay!"Seeing an innocent child lose his mother at such a young age hurt worse than anything. I held him close. From that moment on, he wouldn't leave my side, as if knowing I had to stay with Mama to prepare for her wake at the morgue and funeral parlor.

In the years since, it is God’s grace, our prayers, and the unwavering support of family and friends that have carried us through.

Marking her 10th death anniversary recently made me realize just how fast time moves. People often say that "time heals all wounds," but my truth is different: time doesn't heal wounds—it just teaches you how to live with them. The pain and sorrow linger, especially during family gatherings. Yet, I take comfort in knowing she is happy in the arms of the Lord, forever free from pain.