A man’s relationship with his mother can be one of cinematic proportions. There is no dynamic like it, a balance between nurturing and letting go. It is also an extremely important one, as a a mother is usually the son’s model for how he treats other people.
My own mother, Mamang Aurora believed that though films can “bring much chaos to one’s soul,” it is the responsibility of the filmmaker to treat their subject with much care—a nugget of wisdom that she shared with no less than Tom Hanks as he was in Paris to shoot the unforgettable “Da Vinci Code.”
She sat down by accident beside him, not really knowing who he was. That he responded, “Thank you for your wisdom, my lady,” made for a perfect scene. Real life does tend to surprise, especially with Mamang Aurora.
Every detail of Mamang Aurora’s life is a moment within a breathtaking montage, and I don’t say this just because I’m a filmmaker. That’s the peculiar thing about losing someone—your life together seems to flash before your eyes. Or at least, I believe it should.
I lost my mother on July 24, 2010, five months before her 80th birthday on Dec. 10. She never feared death as my father, Dante, her great love, would be waiting for her on the other side. Mamang Aurora was a woman whose every breath filled the spaces around her with a real zest for life. Her free spirit was truly infectious, even on that last day when she suffered a massive stroke.
It was just another day, as Mamang Aurora and I walked, our daily exercise. During our walks, we would return to a familiar wish between us: that I would put my love for stories to epic use. Her wish was that my works would become classics to be remembered in the hallowed halls of Philippine cinema.
But I had chosen to be more practical and focus on the more commercial aspect of filmmaking; I became an ad man. Mamang Aurora once told me,”I think you had given up your dream to be a great filmmaker because you wanted to be like me, with my feet planted firmly on the ground. You should know that it is people like us, our feet rooted to the soil, who always look up the skies and all its immensity.”
On that last day, we checked a newly uploaded Facebook album of a get-together with apos Vincent, Jordan and Virgil. She joked that being around her grandkids gave her a youthful glow. Then she lay down for a quick nap, as was her habit, and never really woke up again. We spent some more time together in the ICU, but she went peacefully.
Once she told me that when her time was up, she didn’t want me crying over her. So when she was slowly slipping away, I whispered, “Mamang, should you want to go, move on, for I will be strong.”
Images, not words
Mamang Aurora guided my path toward studying filmmaking. She knew that it was storytelling that was most important to me, and I could do that with images if not with words. She pushed me to pursue masters and doctorate degrees in the best film schools in America and Europe.
She was always generous with her opinions. “Anak, I don’t like your commercials about children eating ice cream. There’s more to ice cream that just eating it. Show lots of pagmamahal.” Even when it came to my diet on set, her pabaon of salad was a reminder to stay healthy.
My father’s death turned out to be the initiation to adulthood, and the first time I glimpsed Mamang’s vulnerability. His death in 1974 cut short a promising law profession. Their marriage is still the greatest love story I’ve ever known. It would have been perfect for a romantic epic.
Mamang was never afraid of death; she only feared the consequences of aging. She was no stranger to back-breaking work. She went into the construction industry after my father died, literally to build our lives again.
She was a pioneer in the realm of megadikes, as she was one of the few woman who was on site in the lahar fields. She managed engineers and their crews, overseeing massive earth-moving equipment to construct dams, bridges and airports. “I love how things fit together, like when everything just clicks and the engines start. It’s a puzzle but once you get it, it’s joy.”
At the age of 55, Mamang Aurora was diagnosed with a slipped disc, forcing her to face the increasing fragility of her body. After slipping in one of the lahar fields, her spine took a beating. It was only a cue for her to draw on her own wellspring of strength and endurance, physical and mental.
There were times Mamang Aurora almost gave up, but I gave her power. She was an unbreakable spirit’ her body may have needed some more help, but her soul was strong.
Her recovery was nothing short of a miracle. A typical recovery schedule would take a year of intense therapy, but Mamang Aurora walked 10 days after her surgery, to the shock of her doctors.
“Walking energizes me. This is my world, my freedom, my happiness. Every time the sun shines on me like this, I know that I will be walking until I turn 100!” Mamang Aurora said on what makes her walk every day.
It was not completely smooth sailing, as she underwent lumbar upper back surgery and eventually the reconstruction of her cervical spine—five spine surgeries in the span of 20 years. Her recovery may have seemed miraculous, but it was a real process.
It was this same unyielding spirit that kept her afloat when another storm descended. She was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent a mastectomy in 1999.
She made the difficult choice between chemotherapy, which could leave her sick and tired for days on end, and a radical mastectomy, not to mention the reconstruction of her breast post-surgery.
Cancer did not defeat Mamang Aurora, and she continued to work. She sought the cool mountain air of her hometown in Mangatarem, Pangasinan, and changed her diet to healthy fare, savoring broccoli and carrots for their antioxidant properties. Once again, she sought refuge in books of healing and rebirth.
Mamang’s strong will is rooted in an intense faith. She didn’t see the Lord’s providence as getting exactly what you want, but being given exactly what is needed. After seven years, Mamang Aurora was cancer-free.
Mama Aurora had made friends with the impending possibility of death, but aging was another creature altogether. She struggled with the growing brittleness of her bones. But there are some things for which one is never prepared. One of her sons declared that she had Alzheimer’s to seize control of her properties.
A mother’s hurt
Her affidavit revealed a mother’s hurt. “When my son was still studying, he promised me that once he became a lawyer, he would protect me until my dying day. Ironically, now I need to be protected from him. He has become my oppressor, and not my protector.”
She retained control over her assets, but things never really went back to normal. It was a real family tragedy, and things had taken their toll. She began to limit social engagements, choosing to be a recluse. Her life began to grow smaller.
To bring her back out of her self-imposed isolation, I coaxed her into taking one more trip with me—a visit to her favorite cities in Europe. Our itinerary was filled with Europe’s greatest hits, old faraway villages and jaunts, seeking out old friends in Rome, Tuscany, and Paris. We visited churches and museums, ate good food, and took a lot of photographs. For many a moonlit night, we laughed heartily, sorrow be damned.
Mamang Aurora had no reason to fear death, and I believed it more than ever in her last moments in the ICU. When her heartbeat began to slow, and her breath started becoming shallower, a lone brown butterfly floated in through a forgotten open window. It was no doubt my father, ready to take my mother’s hand and bring her home.
Her death seemed so organized, everything in place. She drew up a Last Will and Testament which included strict instructions on how her last days would be like. It would also include the fulfillment of an idea we shared, a gallery of her photographs at her wake.
The people at The Heritage Park were very respectful of her wishes, and I’m sure she was happy about how everything turned out.
I knew the spirits of Papa and Mama were there at her wake, bidding us goodbye, when brown and white butterflies kept us company the night before the internment. They hovered around the gallery of portraits, as if smiling with pride.
As I sat in vigil in front of mother’s casket, a white butterfly rested on my shoulder, and I felt it was Mamang Aurora comforting me. In a flash, I heard her sweet voice calling. “Anak, maraming salamat.” I blinked back tears, and she was gone. A mother’s gratitude is the only thing a son could truly wish for.
I’ve always believe that stories are very important to healing. In grief, the retelling of her story, of a life well-lived, is the only way for me to begin again without my Mamang.
