My mother’s death lasted only a moment in an overheated hospital room, days after she had been declared brain dead. She had suffered a severe debilitating stroke at the age of fifty-two, but it was only after surviving eleven years of medical challenges that I had to say my final goodbye.

I knew very little about the details of her death at that time. I lived on the other side of the country. She had been so ill for so long; it was hard to assess the severity of her condition based on a simple phone call.

I had already received similar calls. My father would say, “I think it’s time for you to come home now,” only to have my travel plans interrupted by a temporary improvement in her health. In the last call, however, my father’s voice whispered those words and then cracked as he said, “come home.”

St. Joseph Hospital was familiar to me. My mother had been admitted there several times over the years. I knew how it worked. The intensive care unit was located on the lower floors, and the severity of illness decreased as the patient’s room was moved to the upper floors of the building. My mother was on the sixth floor on her last night. She was close to death, kept alive by machines, waiting for her daughters to arrive from afar.

The lights were dim, the curtains drawn, so I don’t remember if it was day or night when they disconnected her from life support machines. The last whirrs of the ventilator were stopped, and silence fell in the room. Later, when I said I loved her in her ear, I ran my fingers along her cheek and then kissed her there. She was smooth and cool.

For many reasons, I was not a good daughter. I left home at 18 as soon as I could. Mostly, it was to escape the oppression of living with a sick parent. It’s ironic that now, as my father gets older, I find myself in the same position I fled from in my youth. My friends point out how I accept my current responsibilities with few complaints. They don’t know that this is what I see as my penance for not being attentive enough to my mother’s needs during her final years.

Despite her illnesses, she was eternally optimistic about regaining her health. She was a devout Catholic, reciting novenas multiple times a day. She was also a yogi, working persistently on her breathing and meditation. I didn’t practice any of these rituals, to her great disappointment.

I remember her frustration with me when I refused to do something she wanted me to do. I was argumentative, but secretly, I found verbal sparring with her amusing. She often ended a discussion with, “Ang tigas ng ulo mo!” You’re so stubborn! I would roll my eyes when she said that, but by this I knew she cared about me, and that made me happy.

We look alike: me now, her then. At family gatherings, relatives are always quick to note the resemblance. When I see a particular angle of my face in the mirror or look at a wide smile of mine in a photograph, I see her.

There’s an idealization of my mother in my head after her death so many years ago. She was a wonderful woman, I’m sure, but she had her flaws. It’s precisely those that I have trouble remembering. Moreover, it’s strange that I can’t recall any situations in which she expressed sadness, even though I’m sure there were.

She must have been sad when her mother died, but I can’t see her tears in the photos taken that day. She wore Jackie O-style sunglasses that hid her gaze from the camera.

She must have been sad when she left my father, but there are no photos that bear witness to her strength in the midst of that marital disaster. It was winter. She packed a bag for each of us and found a simple one-bedroom apartment near my sister’s school. We had no furniture.

My parents eventually reconciled. In all the photos I can find of them together, they smile happily. I now wonder how they staged those poses. In the end, my father became a devoted caregiver to my mother, which is why I feel obligated to do the same for him as his health deteriorates.

Recently, I saw old footage of a family trip to San Francisco that we took when I was about 12 years old. They captured a moment I fondly remember. We were with a large group of my cousins at Golden Gate Park, doing things like building human pyramids and playing volleyball. My mother was the only parent who participated, eagerly throwing the ball over the net, wearing a crisp white blouse, a knee-length skirt, and playing barefoot. I had forgotten how eccentric she could be. I turned to my cousin, Carmela, as she watched the videotape, and she said to me, “When the other adults were busy socializing, I remember that Auntie Paz was always around with us kids.” I didn’t know.

I’m not sure when the transition occurred. I don’t know when the mourning for my mother’s death stopped, when the act of remembering her was no longer painful. Sometimes I think of her, but remembering her is no longer a constant in my daily thoughts. Occasionally, however, there are discoveries of new found gems, details about my mother’s life that I didn’t know, that make me long for her tenderness.