I had to catch my breath while holding down my tears as you asked me “Rusty, kumusta STI?” Talking has been an agonizing challenge for you these past months and hearing you say my name again five months after our last conversation the night of December 8 was so dear. While the thing conspired on the blind side to slowly immobilize vital fragments of your body, you haven’t forgotten my name and went further by asking the state of the Institution we served and dedicated the best days of our lives. Our eyes meet as I answered your question and then we both knew that behind every fumbled word I say are precise statements of how we both feel, especially on this intricate moment. Then eternal silence begins.
Shernan and I were standing outside your room for quite some time trying to gain strength for the unknowns of this visit and figuring out the right words to say to begin our conversation. I rehearsed some lines in my mind and keep it playing over and over as we argue who should knock and who should slowly swing the white door open. The door number reads 316 and the patient card indicate occupied.
I was half awake the entire evening trip. I traveled 8 hours south eagerly anticipating the chance to see you again and now that I am standing in front of your door something in me is holding back to pursue my intention. I’m sorry, but I have to do this ma’am, no matter how cruel and painful the truth is for us I have to knock and open this door because this is the only way I can thank you for the wonderful life you have shared to us not a bit of reservation, for the standards you have lead by example that made us what we are today, for the affection given comparable to that of a mother and son, for the courage of letting me go at the expense of your comfort and for the reassuring smile each time we meet (though not so often) which tells me I am still one of your friend and son.
I spent almost the entire moment inside looking at the ceiling and the walls deliberately avoiding the center of the room where you are. I am not used seeing you this way, vulnerable and weak in the flesh, but immeasurable courage of spirit exudes with the relentless manner you fought your fight and the audacity approach you now take in your life. My knees were trembling in the parody of life at this very moment. I was there on the primal purpose of seeing you but then I could not look at you. I wish to stay a little longer and listen to deafening sound of silence but we both know that I should not and I know you wouldn’t want me to. But then how do I say goodbye and mean it’s not yet goodbye?
Then in a light voice you said “Sige na, mamasyal na kayo. OK na sa akin na dumating kayo.” Ma’am your unscarred wisdom eased our moment’s burden of saying we were leaving but hearing you say it for us in a sublime fashion was excruciating a hundred times over. I wanted to hug you tight and for as long as it could take the way you did when I dropped by your office on that Saturday of October 2007 to say my goodbye. I felt shaky and helpless as I stand to reach you. The hug was sheared to a gentle stroke of your arm and everything went blank as we slowly opened the door and couldn’t look back.
I didn’t have the change (and the courage) to tell you what I intend to say in this unconventional circumstance. Before you get in your car after our conversation back in December of last year I called you up said “Ma’am, pwede pa hug?” from which you smiled and gladly opened up your arms. Then I said “Ma’am, I love you ha..” What I would like to tell you ma’am today are the same old and overly-used words. Though the meaning will remain the same, the value of that distinctly selected letters that gave life to the words are priceless from Alpha to Omega now that it has been said, shared and given to an amazing leader, mentor, woman, mother and friend.
I love you DNR.
