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Thursday, March 17, 2005
Magsaysay: Fare thee well
By Jo Magsaysay
Whatever
She’s gone. My mother, Fidela Real Gaboya passed away peacefully March 7th. She would have been 105 years old next month, the 24th April. But now, she’s in the loving embrace of our Lord. Please allow me a little time to grieve for Mama Dela in private while I share in public, again, thoughts of my mother from a column I wrote three years ago.
Thoughts of mother
My mother, My Queen Mother, was 102 years old yesterday and she is in splendid health, thank you. Her blood pressure is that of a teenager, her heart rate is that of a woman in love with life. Confined to a wheelchair, her sight and hearing impaired, her mind is still razor sharp except for memory lapses.
Amazingly, she recalls people, places and events of days long gone by, vividly past perfect, remembering even the name of my bestfriend in first grade whom I have almost forgotten. Occasionally, she becomes disoriented, believing she lives in a house not her own, conversing lengthily with imaginary friends about the mother of the Philippine President Magsaysay, about news she used to hear on the radio from her favorite broadcaster, Cerge Remonde. She has a wholesome appetite and eats anything, indulging in lengua and callos as having grown up on very British fare of stewed kidneys, tripe, bitter marmalade, blood sausage and pudding supplied by Smith Bell, employers of her British father. Of late, however, she has become picky, having lost what she calls her “enthusiasm” for food.
***
Unlike most mothers who taught their daughters to cook and sew and keep house, I have the privilege of having a mother who taught me to be independent, to make my own decisions, to have the courage of my convictions, to pick myself up after a fall, to learn from my mistakes. No small wonder I chose a husband who was a marvelous cook, who appreciated my values and tolerated my pigheadedness. My mother once fearlessly stood up against the Japanese Kempetai who had come to our house to interrogate her on a report that she was an English spy.
She must have convinced them enough and saved herself from arrest. My father, a martinet, laid down a 10 p.m. curfew (Cinderella never had it so good, traipsing footloose till midnight!) And so, when I’d come tiptoeing home at 11, he would be waiting in the living room armed with a rosary while mama sneaked to the kitchen to open the back door for me. I have always suspected papa knew what was going on.
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Mama is quite aware that her end is quite near and has become obsessive about death, enumerating her friends and relatives who have died and consigning each one of the six children to the great beyond… “Your sister died yesterday, you must go and attend the funeral.” On my visits, I greeted her with my usual kiss on the forehead, she asked who I was. I replied that I was her daughter she said had died, but now, I have resurrected. She looked a bit confused and then had the amazing grace to chuckle and comment that when she passes away, we will all say “good riddance,” her exact words said with a lopsided smile and another chuckle. Dear Mama, when you go, I will never feel that I have lost you because you will not have gone at all. You will always be here, where you belong, in my heart, and when I think of you it will be with a chuckle and a sad smile.
(March 17, 2005 issue)
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