Salt & prayer

Miracles are love letters from God. His penmanship is unseen but the message is real; the manifestation, tactile. His writings are so clear every word is exalting.

God wrote my mother Candida, frail and weak for almost a month now because of her infirmity, a love letter last Saturday when she asked for an orange and was able to eat three wedges. Not only that, God wrote a postscript when she was able to eat three spoonfuls of batchoy Tagalog mashed with a hard-boiled egg.

Prior to God’s messages, Candida had no appetite as a result of her multi-organ problem. She did not eat real food for three weeks. Her only sustenance for a few days was Kabiven 1400, an intravenous supplement that is a source of calories, proteins, electrolytes, and essential fatty acids, while she was confined at St. James Hospital for 18 days. The caveat, however, is that her doctors did not recommend the food supplement for long use.

A few hours after her momentous lunch, my niece Paula, a nurse and one of the primary caregivers of her lola, sent a message in our group chat bearing good news. Because Candida was almost always bed-bound, only Paula’s presence was required by the liver doctor for the follow-up checkup. According to the doctor of my mother, her latest tests revealed more than a significant improvement in what used to be a health scare. That was the love letter from God that read like lyrics of a joyful Christmas carol. The news was so good it made Candida smile. And shortly after that smile, she was laughing again — silent, soundless, but the crisp and crust of her laughter was felt. The Greatest Doctor is putting her under His care.

Imagine the joy in our hearts. It felt like Christmas that day. And the succeeding days after that felt like New Year’s Eve. It was Easter Sunday again. The pain and heartaches of a Good Friday were erased. New beginnings, indeed.

Is it too early to celebrate considering that Candida is not yet completely out of the woods? A miracle ought to be celebrated. It may be arrogance not to read loud and clear God’s love letters to Candida, to our family. So we sing hallelujahs and become more determined to care for our mother. Love heals — God’s and ours.

***

Two Wednesdays ago, her doctors in the hospital allowed Candida to go home in an ambulance. Her natural alabaster complexion, spoilt only by the sun through her many years of farming in the fields, became apparent as she was lifted to the house on a stretcher. She wanted to be home — it was a wish, a prayer, a pleading. Granted.

The minute she got home, she began to be conversant again, though very minimally, with her voice like a whisper, or even softer. Her legs, though they can move, weren’t nimble anymore. Her hands, though they can also still move, were stationary on her side. But Candida was a thinking patient: when it was laborious to use her faint voice, she used her fingers to communicate her needs. She lost the strength to toss and turn in bed so a little lifting of her left index meant she wanted to be turned to the left. A gesturing of her right toes meant something — a little ant, a piece of lint on her blanket bothered her.

Since Saturday, however, she has had an epiphany in her disposition. She began to talk more, her voice could be heard in the whole house. Still not loud but very audible. And she began to request for food.

“Ang sarap! Ang lamig (It tastes good! It’s cold),” she said when my brothers and I gave her a glass of two finely blended oranges, one carrot, two stalks of asparagus, and two slices of apple. She was able to get a grip of the glass. In her every gulp was a promise of Candida to herself, to her children and grandchildren and God that she would be okay.

“Malapit na. Makakalakad ako ulit. Kaya ko (I can feel it’s near. I can walk again. I can do it),” she assured us as she wiped the foam of juice from her lips.

Because my brothers and I did not want to act all-knowing when it comes to her diet, we consulted our family friend Zozima Lustre-Servo, a head dietitian in another hospital in Cabuyao. Since we intimated to the dietitian that a NGT (nasogastric tube) was out of the question, because Candida doesn’t feel comfortable with it, she gave a dietary requirement for a diabetic patient like my mother.

Excitement also rules my brother and me when we care for Candida. Her improving condition, albeit still fragile, is reason enough for us to celebrate. Division of labor becomes labor of love. And our mother tastes the flavor of love as she nourishes her new cocktail of bread, fruits, vegetables, boiled chicken breast or egg white, a teaspoon of olive oil and a pinch of salt. All goes through the food processor. With five cubes of ice. Candida’s rule: “If it goes through the food processor, I want it very cold.” She wins at mealtime all the time — breakfast, lunch and dinner.

My mother is a fighter all her life. When depression tried to capture her due to her long stay in the hospital, she snapped out of desolation when she came home. Her body is still weak but her spirit is forever strong.

“What did you learn from your sickness?” I asked her in the vernacular.

“Totoo ang Diyos. Sa Kanya ako humahawak. At di Niya binibitawan ang kamay ko. Mahigpit ang hawak ng Diyos sa akin. Kaya alam kong magiging okay ako isang araw. Magluluto ulit ako. (That God is real. I hold onto Him. And He never lets go of my hand. His grip is tight. That’s why I know I will be okay one day. I will cook again),” she said, her voice loud and clear.

She can now sit at the edge of her bed without anybody holding her back for balance. She’s helping herself flex her legs and feet on her own as she waits for the coming of a physical therapist.

When I made her food concoction today, she made a loving request: “Dagdagan mo pa ng konting asin. At dasal (Add more salt. And prayer).”

Salt and prayer. And all the care we can give her. All for the love of Candida, a recipient of God’s many a love letter.

(For your new beginnings, e-mail me at [email protected]. I’m also on Twitter @bum_tenorio and Instagram @bumtenorio. Have a blessed weekend.)