When Holy Week Comes, I Remember

Every year, when Holy Week approaches, something in me grows quiet. The dates change, the routines shift, but the memory remains fixed—unchanging, steady, and deeply personal. No matter how much time passes, I am brought back to the Holy Week of 2011.

Even before that week, there were signs I did not fully understand then. I remember overhearing my mother speaking to an old friend over the phone. Her voice carried a kind of urgency I had never heard before: “Please, ayaw ninyo pasagdi si Larrah… this child of mine is not a talky person. She doesn’t say anything. But when she does, it means something is wrong—she is hurting.”

At the time, I didn’t know how much weight those words would carry.

I was not in a good place in those days. I was overwhelmed—by fear, by anxiety, by emotions I couldn’t name, much less share. I kept everything inside. I thought strength meant silence.

Then came that night.

My mother struggled to breathe and called for us—my sister and me. Her words were clear, even in distress: “Take care of each other. Do not let each other fall. If one falls, carry the other. Especially you—you’re the eldest. Duha ramo. Wala nai lain.”

Those were the last words i heard. 

Hours later, we rushed her to the hospital. I remember running out to the highway, searching desperately for a taxi. The hospital was only minutes away, yet that night it felt impossibly far. Time stretched. Fear grew louder with every second.

When we arrived, everything happened so fast. She collapsed. Her skin turned blue. The doctors rushed her into the emergency room. I stood there, stunned, as they performed CPR. When the doctor asked for permission to intubate her, something inside me broke—but I couldn’t let it show. I was the one inside the ER. My sister was crying. My father was holding her. And me—I stood there, gathering every ounce of strength I didn’t know I had.

She was moved to the ICU. And then came the waiting.

We had no money, no financial safety net. Staying in the hospital was not an option. My father said something that sounded practical, almost protective: “Unsa man ang mautro kung mag stay ta didto? We are not doctors.” And so we waited from a distance—coming and going, holding on to updates, hoping for good news that never quite came.

I remember standing outside the ICU, watching from afar. I wanted to be close to her, but I felt paralyzed by everything I was carrying. I told myself I didn’t have the right to fall apart—that my role was to be strong for everyone else. So I swallowed everything.

Instead of tears, I found small ways to cope. I prayed quietly that the nurses would take good care of my mother. And when I saw that they did, I asked my sister to buy food for them—a simple gesture, the only way I knew to say thank you when we had nothing else to give. When I handed it over, I asked for the nurse’s name. It reminded me of Saint Michael the Archangel (Michael Angela, not sure) —the same angel my mother had always been devoted to. It felt like a quiet reassurance, something I held onto in the middle of uncertainty.

Then came later midnight i think, that changed everything.

A knock on the door—three hard knocks. A phone call. A nurse asking us to come to the hospital, without explanation. We rushed there, already knowing, even before it was said.

Inside the ICU, I saw them trying to revive her. CPR. Defibrillator. 1, 2, 3 or more times reviving. Urgency in every movement. Then the doctor turned to us and said words no one is ever ready to hear: “Talk to her. Let her go.”

My sister looked at me, almost pleading, almost angry: “Kausapin mo na si Mommy. Sabihin mo na mag-aaral ka ng social work—that’s all she wanted.”

So I did.

I spoke, even when every word felt heavy. And minutes later, she was gone.

I remember calling our relatives afterward. My voice trembled, but my eyes stayed dry. Even in that moment, I held everything in. i was quiet, my heart almost collapsed but i have to stay still, strong, alone. 

Years have passed, but some things never fully leave you. The sound of a sudden knock still unsettles me. The memory of that night still finds its way back, especially during Holy Week. Healing, I’ve learned, is not always complete. Sometimes it comes in fragments, in quiet realizations, in the spaces where pain and acceptance meet.

My sister and I rarely talk about that time—about who we were then, about how we carried it. But in the way we understand each other now is a lot better, in the effort we make to give what we once lacked—time, patience, understanding—I believe there is healing there.

Not loud, not perfect, but real.

And maybe that’s what Holy Week has come to mean for me—not just remembrance of suffering, but the quiet, ongoing work of carrying love forward, even after loss.