Let Them Live, Hold Their Hand
Japanese Take-Out dinner with my Parents and Ate Marica
A few days before leaving Manila, I held Mom’s hand while asking her whether she was up for walking toward the dining area on the day of my departure to San Francisco so we can all have dinner together.
“How about Japanese food, Momsy?” I proposed knowing that it’s the family’s all-time favorite cuisine.
She was jazzed about the idea that it brought a smile to her face.
“O, sige!” she responded quickly. (Oh, Okay!)
I walked over to Dad’s room across from hers and shared the plan with him. His eyes widened and enthusiastically flashed a fast two thumbs up in my direction. For months, they've been having simple meals in their respective rooms since their hospitalizations. I hoped this change in routine, coupled with the idea of a special dinner, would bring them momentary joy and something to look forward to.
Ate Marica was on board with the plan and chose a Japanese restaurant nearby that offered bento boxes. That morning of my departure, we discussed the food order with Mom. Aside from the Big Bento box that came with beef misono, mixed tempura, gyoza, rice, and shredded cabbage with a creamy Kewpie-like dressing, she requested an extra side of shrimp tempura. Ate Marica chose an Oyakodon bowl for Dad.
That evening, while Ate Marica managed the online food order on her mobile phone, I changed into my travel clothes: a plain ash gray t-shirt, beige traveler's pants, socks, and my trusty gray Allbirds sneakers. Aside from toiletries, I packed the rest of my clothes in the luggage. Meanwhile, caregiver Djoan assisted Mom in changing into a pink daster with a floral design, combed her hair, and applied makeup. For a final touch, she draped a beige shawl over her shoulders. In Dad's room, caregiver Grace groomed his hair and positioned him in the wheelchair. When I emerged from Marina's room, they were already waiting outside.
Once the food arrived, Ate Marica arranged the cartons on the table. Afterward, Mom, using her walker, gradually took her seat at the head of the table. I felt proud of her for reaching another milestone. Grace wheeled Dad next to me.
“Let us pray first,” Mom reminded us.
We made the sign of the cross and Mom said grace.
Dad eagerly delved into his meal, consuming spoonfuls of tender chicken thighs and rice at a faster pace than usual. He ate heartily, surpassing his typical quantity. Mom, in good spirits, relished the beef misono, sesame-sprinkled rice, and shrimp tempura. She asked to taste the oyakodon, and Ate Marica obliged, adding a few pieces to her plate. For dessert, Djoan, brought out from the refrigerator a few pieces of milk chocolate for Dad and dark chocolate for Mom.
I paused, taking in the moment. Six weeks ago when I arrived, they were bedridden; tonight, we were sharing a meal at the dining table. What was once an ordinary habit now felt utterly precious.
I glanced at my iPhone for a time check— 20 minutes more before leaving for the airport. We requested Djoan to take a group photo, then I excused myself to brush my teeth and finalize packing my toiletries. As I wheeled my luggage out of the room, Ate Marica, Mom, Dad, Djoan, and Grace watched me, causing a moment of self-consciousness. Leslie, my parents’ household help, and Djoan took charge of my bag while I approached Mom.
I held her hand, kissed her forehead, and stroked her shoulders.
“Momsy. I’ll go na. Magpalakas ka, okay?” (Mom, It’s time for me to go. Be strong, okay?)
“Okay, Hija. Thank you. Have a safe flight.” She replied. (Okay, daughter. Thank you. Have a safe flight).
I walked over to Dad and leaned close to his ear.
“Okay, Dad. Papunta na ako sa airport. Palakas ka para lumakas si Mom,ha?” (Okay, Dad. I’m heading to the airport. Be strong so that Mom can draw strength from you.)
I repeated it twice in case he didn’t hear me the first time.
He nodded.
I squeezed his hand, touched his forearm then flashed him a two thumbs up.
“Thank you, thank you,” he replied with a smile.
Ate Marica stood up and we hugged each other.
“Thanks talaga, Stells,” she said. (Thank you so much, Stells.)
“Of course, Ats! I’m glad I could help,” I replied while rubbing and patting her back.
I turned toward their caregivers, Djoan and Grace.“O, sige, ha! Kayo na ang bahala sa kanila,” (Okay, please take care of them.)
“Yes, po. Ma’am Marla. Have a safe flight, po!” they replied and waved goodbye.
On the van ride to the airport with driver Ralph, a lump formed in my throat. The dreadful thought surfaced: What if this was the last time I saw them? Did I convey my love and show kindness? Was it enough? Pondering this, I gazed out the window at the shanties, sari-sari stores, buildings, and gigantic billboards passing by. Pulling out my iPhone, I smiled as I scrolled through the pictures I took of them. Anything can happen between now and next year. God willing, I’ll see them again soon.
This morning, my friend Minnie, whom I recently reconnected with on this trip, shared a quote from Facebook about parents growing old. The last line brought tears to my eyes:
LET THEM LIVE and try to make them happy the last stretch of the path they have left to go; give them your hand, just like they gave you their hand when you started your path.
–Deacon Karl Korberg, April 13, 2021.
See you all next Sunday.
Thank you so much for sharing this with us. Vulnerable and beautiful and so easy to connect with.
Very emotional, I have no more words. Thank you for sharing this. Very special.