When the Lights Go Out -Remembering my Mother

It has been two months since my mother passed away.

Two months sounds like a long time, but grief doesn’t follow a calendar. During the day, I am mostly okay. I keep myself busy. I do what needs doing. I write, I remember, I move from one task to the next. But when the day is over, when the lights are switched off and everything becomes quiet, my thoughts return to her.

They return to one moment in particular. It was the moment when her suffering truly began—the moment when the cancer showed its ugly face for the first time. I was with her. I saw my mother in a way I had never seen her before.

My mother was a strong woman. She could bear pain in a way that always amazed me. Taking pain relievers was never really an option for her. She avoided them because she feared possible side effects. She endured so much quietly, often without complaint.

But that day was different.

She was crying and shouting from the pain, pressing her head against my belly. It was unbearable to watch. A painful moment for her, but also for me, because I could not take it away from her. I could only stand there, helpless, holding her, loving her, wishing I could do something impossible.

Later she received morphine, but the pain was so strong that even the morphine seemed unable to give her real relief. It changed her and made it difficult to talk to her the way we used to. Maybe it helped her in some way, but it didn’t take away what I wished it would.

There was a moment when I stood beside her bed and told her that I would take over what she had, if only she could be fine again. I meant it. I would have taken the illness, the pain, the fear — anything — if it meant she could be free from it.

And somehow she understood.

Maybe she understood everything we were saying around her. Maybe she heard more than we realised. But what I said must have reached her deeply, because she gathered the little strength she had left and answered me.

“Brauchst du nicht.”

(“You don’t need to.”)

Those were her words. Even in her suffering, even in that pain, the last thing she wanted was for her children to suffer as she did. That was my mother. Still protecting us. Still thinking of us and still being a mother.

This scene comes back to me every night when I turn off the lights. It repeats itself in my mind, again and again. Maybe that is why I have been writing so much over the past two months about my travels, old memories, places I have been, and moments that shaped me.

Writing gives me a diversion. I know only a few people may read my articles, but I’m not looking for recognition. I am not writing for applause. I am writing because it helps me breathe. It gives my mind somewhere else to go. It lets me dig into old memories, travel again in my thoughts, and be carried for a while by moments that were beautiful, exciting, strange, funny, or free.

And I welcome that.

Lizz and I have been working on this blog for almost two years now. During that time, we experienced many things. Wonderful journeys, unforgettable places, and also difficult travels — travels that were not about discovery, but about care. Travels to be with my sick mother.

When we first learned about the untreatable cancer, we brought her here to us to give her a “quality of life”, as the doctor recommended. Later, she wanted to go back to Germany. Maybe she feared becoming a burden to us. Maybe she wanted familiar surroundings. Maybe she needed to make her own decision while she still could.

Then we brought her back again to the Philippines, where she passed away only two months ago.

She knew it would be her final journey. I think she knew. We thought about it too, but we did not want to think that way. We hoped. We pushed the thought away. Only now, looking back, I understand some of the signs. Only afterwards do certain words, certain silences, certain looks become clear.

My mother saw what was coming. I am sure of that now.

She was able to hide her pain for a long time. That was who she was. Strong, proud, protective. She did not want us to worry too much. She did not want to be the centre of suffering. But eventually the pain became stronger than her ability to hide it. And that day, the day I cannot forget, changed everything.

So I am writing this because I am mourning. I am writing this because grief needs somewhere to go. I am writing this because maybe sharing it will give me a little relief. And maybe, whoever you are, wherever you are, you will understand a part of it.

If your mother is still alive, give her time.

Call her. Visit her. Sit with her. Listen to the stories you may have heard many times before. Be patient with her worries, her habits, her questions. Do not wait for the perfect moment, because one day there will be no more moments left.

And when that day comes, it is not the big things you will miss most.

It will be her voice. Her hands. Her way of looking at you. The small things she said. The things you thought would always be there.

Enjoy the time with her while you can.

Because if you don’t, you may regret it one day.