This is the earliest post yet, but my wake up call this morning was not the same. On a typical day, I would wake up around 8:30 AM to the cheerful, persisting voice of my mother calling out to our pets. Thats one of the downsides of sleeping in the living room; you hear everything. Whether you are awake or not, you are part of the life that flows through a tiny apartment. On a typical morning, the phone likes to ring A LOT. Sometimes we don't bother to answer, but my sister picked up the phone out of failure to ignore it.
The phone ringing let alone annoyed me. Then, was the sound of confusion in my sisters voice trying to understand the language on the other line. It was my mothers relatives in the Philippines. Half conscious, I detect a shocked, and indescribable "OH." My heart suddenly dropped. My mind began to race as I waited for my sister to put down the phone. I immediately came to full consciousness, forgetting about the glories of sleep.
My grandfather, my LoLo Pol, had just passed away earlier this morning.
We got the call at 6:10 AM. The biggest thing about this is that my mother has not yet arrived home from her night shift at the hospital. In hopes to understand what to do, I hopped into the shower as my sister packed her things for the day, as she already had plans to go to the beach. She was not sure whether to go or not, but it was decided.
I'm sitting here, in the living room, dreading the hear that key shove its rough metal self into the door lock, allowing my mother to enter.
I sit here in a towel and robe, dreading it. I am the one who has to tell her about it. I wasn't sure, nor have I ever thought about carrying the title "The Bearer of Bad News". For a good while I pondered about how am I going to take care of this? Do I give her the number they left to call back? Or should I tell her first, only see her drop her pink bookbag that she carries her work supplies in; only to see her eyes once again swell up with a redness that I have seen in 2001; only to see her heart drop as mine did earlier; only to see her take in the final death that verifies that both her parents are deceased?
I wasn't very close with my Lolo, but I have visited the Philippines a few times well enough to know that I care for him. My greatest sympathies go out to him as mourning his death will be something to edure. But what hit me the most, emotionally, was the fact that I would have to watch my mother mourn once again, the passing of her parent.
I HATE seeing my mother cry. I absolutely hate it for a few reasons. First of all, no one wants to see their parents cry. We see them as strong people who always hold ground for the family. This expresses the characteristic of vulnerability that every single human being shares. Secondly, I despise the site because sometimes I am the reason for those tears. If not, I am part of the reasons - no, I am, whole, one separate reason as to why there is so much stress in her life.
I admit to myself and to you, and I have been a very difficult child to have raised. Chores never done, attitude thrown around. I regret it all. Its all been like a cake; problems layers on top of another and another. There is icing inbetween that represents the good times we shared inbetween, but I soon enough would see the shadows of another layer coming from overhead.
In bed, I prayed to god. I prayed for his loss, but moreover I prayed to Him for strength. Just so you know, this isn't some holy faith blog, if you are reading this right now. I prayed to himm, begging to give my mother strength; she needs all the strength she can find to get through this.
I know I might not know you, but can you please just take a second to pray for them both: his loss and for her strength.
I'm not the type to be asking out for your prayers, but for the past half hour that I've been typing this, I'm still finding some strength to actually tell her.
There is no picture for this post.
