The mother who forgot she had children

Part of a series on our moms—or about being a mom—for Mother's Day

I was only 14 years old when my mother started showing signs of forgetfulness. Would you believe at times she could barely remember my name or my brother's? Eight years later she would have no recollection whatsoever of her past. She completely forgot she had me and my brother, Robert.

It started off as a family joke. When my mother went to work wearing a red shoe on the right foot and a green shoe on the left, I quipped with a small giggle, "Hey Mom, it's not quite Christmas yet." She'd misplace her purse, her comb, her pay envelope. She’d argue that her favorite actor was still the President of the Republic when in fact back then he was already incarcerated.  

What seemed like a joke slowly unfolded itself as a grim reality—my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, a neurodegenerative disease characterized by memory loss, which gets worse over time. She became disoriented, got extremely temperamental, lost her speech, lost her motivation to live.

A young Bernadette with her mother Evelyn and kuya Robert

 

Sometimes she'd laugh by herself. Other times she’d be mad for no reason at all. Once she went into my room holding a knife.

People thought she was crazy, but we didn’t mind, because her presence was the only thing that kept me and Robert from losing our own sanity.

As her disease took over her mind and body, she soon forgot about us, her children. Instead, she became the child who needed the love and care of a mother. I took her place as she took ours, but with shame I tell you I wasn't the best mother to her.

One day I came home from work, excited to hand over the bagful of bread I brought home for mom. It wasn’t much but it was all I could afford.

There was an inexplicable silence as I passed through the gate of our house. I knew something was coming, only I didn’t think it was death right at our doorstep. I lost my mom that day and part of me died with her. At 62 my mother died without any memory of how or when or why she died, but our memory of her lives and will live on.

Seven years have gone by and I still miss her time and again. This Mother’s Day, I know I’ll miss her more. Honestly, I can't remember if we celebrated any Mother's Day with her, and her birthdays were just like any normal day, but not once did she complain. Perhaps in her silence she hoped we would remember. We may have remembered, but we made her feel unimportant.

Bernadette and her daughter Rafa.

She would have turned 68 on the third of January 2014, the same day I found out I was pregnant with my first child. Mom didn’t live long enough to see her little daughter become a mother.

Mom, if only you can hear me now, I’m sorry I hadn’t been the best daughter to you. I can't take it back, I wish I could take it back, I wish I could take you back. But please watch from heaven, because I will be the best mom to your granddaughter.

If genetics is destined to jeopardize my future, I too may one day forget I have a daughter named Rafaela, then I’d be the same mother who forgot she bore a child. But just like my mother, in our hearts we’d know we’ve lived life to the fullest because once in our life we knew how it was to become a mother to a child.

I’m writing this not to exonerate myself but to remind you to cherish your mother not only this Mother’s Day but all the days of her life.  

Happy Mother’s Day.

The author is a Senior Correspondent for GMA News and is a proud mom to her eight-month-old daughter, Rafa.