I am Mae German. 34 years old. Born in Mangatarem, province of Pangasinan. I was taught and trained by 
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Some-Kinda-Blog-Stop The Waiting Room.
Some-Kinda-Blog-Stop The Waiting Room. | The Waiting Room. |
| Friday, 21 August 2009 | |
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"I don't feel like having lunch. I am not hungry." "You need to have your lunch, Grandma. We all do." "Just tell them I am asleep and that you couldn't wake me up." "You go get some more sleep then we'll both have lunch later." "We?" "Yes, Grandma. You and me." "You're not easy to get along with. Did you know that?" "Yup! So we better eat." "I can sleep now and wake up the next day." "No doubt about it. Yes, you can." "Haha! You know I always say the truth." She does. And I know, too that she means whatever she says. "I am so tired. It's like I have been shoveling coal the whole day." "Coal, Grandma? You're still using coal?" "Yes, for the furnace. In New York, some old apartment houses still use that." "Oh. But then again, maybe you're just tired from reading the papers. You need to rest your eyes." "Maybe tired... from living." Most days she knows where she is. Most days she knows what she's saying. It's only lately that she'd wake up and would actually say she needs to pack and go home. Disorientation. I guess that really comes in the package of growing old. "How old am I now?" she once asked me. I told her she's 93 and she's turning 94 in September. She thanked me for reminding her. She said she really feels old. She doesn't want to hit a hundred. She often says she's done her fair share in life and I agree with her. She's raised two lovely kids. She's lived a full life. But she's stopped living a quality life for some five or six years now, according to one of her children. They'd feel relieved when they see her resting-- in peace. I know what they meant. I understood. I've been in that situation before with my Tatang-- the father of my father, my Grandfather. It is selfish to hold on to someone who, obviously, is not getting better. The circle of life, that is. Grandma woke up from a short nap this afternoon, totally disoriented. Again, she said she wants to pack. She said she's going home. I asked her where and she said, at Merle's. We are at Miss M's home. She grabbed the magazine that Miss M has put on her bed this morning and thumbed at the pages. At the back cover of the magazine, her name was written, so with the address. Miss M's home address. "Grandma, you see that?" pointing to the address, "It's addressed to you. You're at Miss M's home. You are home." I knew she was confused. She said there's a mix up. She asked me to call Miss M, which I did. And Miss M told her that she's been living with her for five years already. That moment of truth has hit me hard. Bulls eye. It tore my heart apart. I couldn't stand looking at her, how she tried to take it in. I was even embarrassed being there, moreso embarrassed because I was almost on the verge of crying. Do we need to have a right to feel sad when we witness things like that? If we do, then I had no right to feel that way. I am an outsider, just a mere spectator. Grandma decided to lie down. She said she needed to rest. After five minutes, she was up again. Up from a five-minute nap. It was good enough to get her back from wherever she was. "I need to go to the bathroom. I need to get up. I think I've been sleeping the whole day. I was dreaming." "What about it?" "I was dreaming that I was dreaming." Yes, I think Grandma is back. "When you were in elementary...[pause]... what was I supposed to ask you, again?" Uhh... Not quite back. But I am glad that she's her usual self again. "Honey, what shall we do about supper?" "They're preparing it for us." "Who's preparing it?" "Miss M." "I wanted to do something for supper." "They can handle that. Maybe she'll surprise us again." "Oh. I don't think so. She's not the surprising type." "We'll see, Grandma." "Ya-ah." 5:45 in the morning, I start my day with Grandma. I don't mind staying with her until around 9 or 10 in the evening. Heck, if my body is willing, I would stay with her even at night. I think I am addicted to her. Her laughter, her witty comments, and even the sight of her. I don't care if she stays longer inside the bathroom now, sitting on the john. It is where we'd usually have our short-memory conversation. I don't care if she keeps on repeating the same line about something. I don't care if she keeps on singing one song-- Summertime-- it'll be my summertime with her. I don't care if I have to wait for forever until she gets up from the john to go back to her bed. She doesn't have forever. We all don't have forever. Some of us leave this world early. My high school friend did. My father did. Some of us would hit a hundred or almost a hundred and would say, that's it. Some would try to take another route thinking they could escape the dreaded road. Some would just keep going and see how it goes. However long or short we live, whatever road or path we've chosen, we cannot do much but wait for the final call, or we can. I say, we're all inside this waiting room that we call life. Grab a book, dance with the music, sing with a friend, pet a dog, talk to that stranger sitting beside you, do some hard work that other people refuse to do, or maybe just the simple tasks that some people could no longer do. Or simply stare at the window and be grateful that you're inside, cool and fresh, instead of being outside in the summer heat. Look beyond. There's a lot to do inside the waiting room. "We're inside looking out, Grandma." "Yes, it is better than outside looking in." There's a lot of things to talk about while waiting. |
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