One day, I received a call from the hospital. When I arrived, the doctor told me that my mom had entered a vegetative state and was unlikely to recover. I was nineteen that year.
For almost a year, life became a routine of doing whatever needed to be done. I worked two jobs, arranged care for my younger sister, paid the bills and visited them whenever I could. Most of it, I handled alone. I don't remember thinking much about whether I was coping because there wasn't really space for that. Things simply had to be done, so I did them. Some days I felt strong enough to carry everything. On others, I was simply exhausted.
One afternoon, I sat beside my mother's bed and finally told her what I had been holding inside. “Mama, I don't think I can hold on much longer. I'm tired.”
She lay quietly, staring towards the ceiling as she had done for so many months. I told her that if she could recover, then please recover. But if she couldn't, and she was worried about my younger sister, I promised I would take care of her for as long as she needed me.
There was one more thing I needed to say: “Mama, I forgive you.”
For the first time in almost a year, I saw a tear roll from the corner of her eye. I still don't know whether she heard me. There are things from that day I will probably never be able to explain, and I have stopped needing to find an answer for them.
When I left the hospital, I should have walked towards the bus stop and gone home. Instead, for reasons I did not understand then, I walked into a Catholic church nearby.
I knew almost nothing about God. I wasn't a Christian and I didn't know how people were supposed to pray. I had no familiar words to fall back on, no Scripture in my mind, and no understanding of what I was doing. I simply went inside and sat down.
In front of me was a statue of a mother holding her child, and something in me gave way. I began to cry and whispered, “Please help me. If my mother can recover, please let her recover. But if she cannot, please let her leave peacefully, without pain.”
That was my prayer. There were no beautiful words. I didn't know whether I was saying the right thing, or even who exactly I was speaking to. I only knew that I had reached the end of what I could carry on my own.
I don't remember how long I stayed there. Perhaps less than an hour. When I reached home and had barely settled down, the phone rang. It was the hospital. My mother had passed away.
For many years, I believed she had been waiting to hear two things before she could leave: that I had forgiven her, and that her younger daughter would be cared for. It was the only way I knew how to understand what had happened that day.
The memory has stayed with me for many years, but not only because of what happened in the hospital. Of all the places I could have gone after leaving that afternoon, I walked into a church. I did not know God, I did not know how to pray, and I did not understand why I had gone inside. I only knew that I had nowhere else to go, and somehow that was where I ended up.
Perhaps that is why the memory feels different to me now. I was exhausted, frightened and trying to speak to a God I did not yet know, but something in me was already reaching towards Him.
I didn't know how to pray that day, but somehow, my heart did.
For almost a year, life became a routine of doing whatever needed to be done. I worked two jobs, arranged care for my younger sister, paid the bills and visited them whenever I could. Most of it, I handled alone. I don't remember thinking much about whether I was coping because there wasn't really space for that. Things simply had to be done, so I did them. Some days I felt strong enough to carry everything. On others, I was simply exhausted.
One afternoon, I sat beside my mother's bed and finally told her what I had been holding inside. “Mama, I don't think I can hold on much longer. I'm tired.”
She lay quietly, staring towards the ceiling as she had done for so many months. I told her that if she could recover, then please recover. But if she couldn't, and she was worried about my younger sister, I promised I would take care of her for as long as she needed me.
There was one more thing I needed to say: “Mama, I forgive you.”
For the first time in almost a year, I saw a tear roll from the corner of her eye. I still don't know whether she heard me. There are things from that day I will probably never be able to explain, and I have stopped needing to find an answer for them.
When I left the hospital, I should have walked towards the bus stop and gone home. Instead, for reasons I did not understand then, I walked into a Catholic church nearby.
I knew almost nothing about God. I wasn't a Christian and I didn't know how people were supposed to pray. I had no familiar words to fall back on, no Scripture in my mind, and no understanding of what I was doing. I simply went inside and sat down.
In front of me was a statue of a mother holding her child, and something in me gave way. I began to cry and whispered, “Please help me. If my mother can recover, please let her recover. But if she cannot, please let her leave peacefully, without pain.”
That was my prayer. There were no beautiful words. I didn't know whether I was saying the right thing, or even who exactly I was speaking to. I only knew that I had reached the end of what I could carry on my own.
I don't remember how long I stayed there. Perhaps less than an hour. When I reached home and had barely settled down, the phone rang. It was the hospital. My mother had passed away.
For many years, I believed she had been waiting to hear two things before she could leave: that I had forgiven her, and that her younger daughter would be cared for. It was the only way I knew how to understand what had happened that day.
The memory has stayed with me for many years, but not only because of what happened in the hospital. Of all the places I could have gone after leaving that afternoon, I walked into a church. I did not know God, I did not know how to pray, and I did not understand why I had gone inside. I only knew that I had nowhere else to go, and somehow that was where I ended up.
Perhaps that is why the memory feels different to me now. I was exhausted, frightened and trying to speak to a God I did not yet know, but something in me was already reaching towards Him.
I didn't know how to pray that day, but somehow, my heart did.