This next installment may be the hardest one yet for me personally. After the Novitiate, I was taken back to the United States, back to the Dover, DE house. It was a transition filled with uncertainty, yet I knew one constant awaited me: Tita Mi.
For those familiar with the Alliance of the Two Hearts, you may already know the profound impact she had on my life. For those who don’t, let me introduce you to one of the most remarkable souls I’ve ever had the privilege to meet. Tita Mi was an elder, perpetually professed sister of the Secular Institute of the Two Hearts (SITH). She was a gentle spirit, her smile capable of illuminating the darkest of rooms. With a heart of gold, she loved deeply and selflessly, despite grappling with health issues and enduring physical pain that would challenge any soul.
Our bond grew stronger when I was assigned to drive her to her dialysis appointments. Each trip became a sacred opportunity to peel back the layers of her heart. Tita Mi, always the caretaker, checked in on me, reminding me that she was praying for my well-being even amid her struggles. I remember praying earnestly, asking if I could embody even a fraction of her genuine kindness.
Devastation struck when Tita Mi suffered a major stroke, leaving her paralyzed on one side. This was a profound shift, not just in her life but in mine as well. Communication became a challenge; her words were trapped, but her spirit remained unbroken. I found solace in my obedience that was given to me to pray with her daily—morning, afternoon, and evening—alongside our cherished moments of adoration.
Though the chapel was in the basement, Tita Mi was confined to a hospital bed upstairs, where the Eucharist was brought to her. What was meant to be a disciplinary measure became a blessing for both of us. We developed our own language: a squeeze of the hand, a glance that spoke volumes. One squeeze for yes, two for no. In those quiet moments, we understood each other deeply, transcending the barriers of pain and paralysis.
Her suffering was palpable, a shared burden that weighed heavily on my heart. The community often urged her to “offer it up,” a phrase that echoed hollowly in the wake of her struggles. They referred to her as the “Victim Soul,” a title that felt unjust in the face of her true suffering. I would sit by her side and share my own pain—the experiences that had left scars on my heart—hoping to connect in our shared humanity.
I noticed the effects of her immobility: her legs were visibly atrophying, and the discomfort in her body was evident. I took it upon myself to stretch her legs and massage her calves, desperate to provide her with some relief. The lack of in-home care felt like a betrayal; how could they allow her to endure such neglect?
One day, I was told she had been “infested” because she knocked over the CD player playing rosaries on repeat. It was a moment of frustration for me; I knew it wasn’t possession but rather the expression of her pain and agitation. What kind of quality of life was this?
I sought permission from the Mother Superior to take her outside in a wheelchair for walks on the property. To my surprise, she agreed. Those daily encounters became our sacred moments, where the world outside seemed to fade away. I would lift her gently, like a baby, and we would bask in the sunlight, sharing unspoken words of solace.
It became a ritual: dropping her off for dialysis, promising her I would see her later. Each time, she would squeeze my hand once in response. But one day, everything changed. As I dropped her off, she squeezed my hand differently—twice instead of once. Confused, I asked her again, and in response, she squeezed my hand three times, saying “I love you.”
In that moment, I felt an overwhelming rush of emotions—love, sorrow, gratitude, and an acute awareness of the fragility of life. Our connection transcended words; it was a bond forged in shared suffering and unconditional love.
I headed back to the hospital like I always did, ready to pick her up. Tita Mi would be there, waiting for me in her wheelchair, her smile a beacon of warmth in the sterile, cold environment. But this time, when I pulled up, she wasn’t there. Panic gripped my heart as I rushed inside, already sensing that something was terribly wrong. Mo Agnes had already arrived, along with Fr. Bing and a few other sisters, their faces etched with concern.
Then I heard it—the chilling words that would haunt me forever: "Code Blue." The announcement echoed through the hospital, a stark reminder of the fragility of life. My heart raced as I reached her room, only to find the medical team surrounding her, urgency radiating from every corner. Mother Agnes and Fr. Bing had power of attorney, but in that moment, it felt like they held the strings of my heart.
What unfolded next was a scene I could scarcely comprehend. They made the doctors revive her—six times. Six times they zapped her chest, performed compressions, desperately trying to breathe life back into her fragile body. I could see the distress etched on the faces of the medical team, a mixture of professionalism and heartbreak. They knew she was gone, yet the orders kept coming, demanding resuscitation as if her life was a mere statistic. I could hardly bear it; I felt as if I was losing myself in that sterile room.
I remember the moment I snapped. "Stop! Stop!" I screamed, my voice breaking through the chaos. I pleaded for them to cease this torment, but my words fell on deaf ears. My heart shattered further with each failed attempt to bring her back. In those agonizing moments, I could see the cracks forming—not just in her ribs from the relentless compressions, but in the very fabric of my faith and trust in those around me.
Afterward, the punishment I faced was brutal. I was reprimanded for my outburst, silenced in my grief. But how could they expect me to stand by and watch this cruel spectacle? In the depths of my despair, I felt anger boiling within me, particularly toward Mo Agnes. I voiced my rage, my frustration, and in response, I was grabbed by my habit shirt and slammed against the wall. The sheer injustice of it all left me reeling. It took every ounce of restraint not to retaliate, to lash out at the very people I once thought were my allies.
In the days that followed, the funeral became a blur. The Filipino tradition of a week-long funeral process meant constant mourning, and I remained by her side, unable to let go. Seeing her in that casket felt like a final betrayal, the culmination of all the pain we had endured together. My heart ached for her, for the life she had fought so valiantly to live, and for the sacrifice she had made for others.
When they eventually brought her body back to the Philippines for a final goodbye, I felt a mixture of sorrow and anger bubbling within me. They glorified her death as a testament to her strength, parading the story that she had fought back to life six times for the six institutions of the Alliance. It felt grotesque to me, a manipulation of her suffering for their own motivations. My heart screamed in protest—this was not the legacy she deserved.
That was my breaking point. I felt suffocated by the very people I had trusted, the institution that had once felt like home now a cage. "Who are these people?" I wondered, the question echoing in my mind as I grappled with my tumultuous emotions. My resolve hardened; I needed to escape this place, to reclaim my life from the shadows of grief and betrayal.
Tita Mi deserved better, and so did I. It was time to find my own path, one not defined by the pain of her loss but by the love and light she had shared with me. As I journeyed forward, I carried her spirit in my heart, determined to honor her memory in a way that was true to who she was—a gentle soul who loved deeply, not a mere victim to be paraded for the sake of others.
As I reflect on my time with Tita Mi, I realize that the lessons she imparted—about love, resilience, and the power of connection—will remain with me forever. In her silent struggle, she taught me more about life than I could have imagined. And though she may no longer be with us in body, her spirit continues to light up the rooms of my heart. Come Hell or High Water I was ready to fight back!
In life, there are moments that test our very core, challenging our resolve and pushing us to the brink. It's in these moments that we discover our true strength, our willingness to stand firm against the tides of adversity. “Come hell or high water,” we tell ourselves, ready to fight for what we believe in, for the people we love, and for the life we deserve.
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