She took over a parental responsibility as a second mother to me and my brother, John, when we attended grade school at the University of San Carlos in Cebu City. Her son, Victor, was a bubbly three-year old then. We were the older brother and sister that Victor never had in his life.
Her name was Aida, whom we fondly called Auntie Daya. She was mom’s younger sister. We were always fearful of her because of her strict and termagant ways. But the other side of her allowed us to enjoy childhood. She would bring John on travels with her to the province. She bought me clay stoves and dolls, the usual toys a little girl would always enjoy playing. She took us to the park and yes, shopping. She sewed my clothes with complimenting colors. She had a special knack at the sewing machine just like her sisters, being a daughter of a tailor and haberdasher.
As nephews and nieces come one after another, she was also mother to Oliver, Albert, and Antonio, the sons of the youngest sister, Oliva, when the latter left for the United States for greener pastures. I have less knowledge if Auntie Daya briefly assumed being a mother to Noriviena, Duane, and Jennifer, the children of her older brother, Henry, when he and his wife also left for the United States.
When John and I attended university, she re-affirmed her self as being second mother to us. That time, she extended her role to our younger sisters, Irma and Cherry. And for a short period of time, she was also mother to Salma, Pio, and Oscar, the children of our oldest aunt, Thelma. Then later, she became mother to Bryan Gil. She was also a sweet aunt to the rest of the nephews and nieces, and later, to grand nephews and grand nieces.
She had a strong personality and was cool on anything in fad. She taught us to drink and brought us to drinking bars. Not the ideal and perfect aunt that she was and despite her shady deals, we loved her all over. She guarded her wards like the proverbial mother hen and would fight tooth and nail to defend them. She was one ferocious woman. Like any other mother in the world, we would run into arguments with her. It was a love-and-hate relationship between her and the children in the family; children, being Victor, Bryan, the nephews, and the nieces. When hurts were healed, we would kiss and make up and love her all over again. That cycle repeated perennially.
On January 23, a Saturday, I received a text message from Salma that Auntie Daya was rushed to a nearby clinic in Bonifacio, her childhood hometown. Through communication with my sister, Charisse, I learned that she had a hard time breathing. John rushed her to a hospital in Ozamis City where she was put in intensive care. The news was relayed to Irma in Canada and Cherry in Saudi Arabia as well as to Auntie Oliva in the United States. I kept tab of her condition. She reportedly had a hard time breathing despite the oxygen administered to her. Her kidneys, lungs, and heart were complicated and eventually shut off. She could not hang on to life anymore.
The following day, Sunday, Victor was asking for prayers, saying his mother was in critical condition. Later, I received a text message from Irma while I was attending church service. Auntie Daya was resuscitated. A few minutes after, Charisse informed me she expired. That was around eleven thirty. She was 60, leaving behind, not two, but at least 15 children.
I am comforted at the thought that I was at least able to spend a night in her house when I passed through Ozamis from Iligan last Christmas holiday. Had I known that would be the last time I would see her, I could have spent more time with her. I did spend time with her, but not enough, maybe two hours that night. The following morning, I was waken to the blaring sound of the neighbor’s transistor radio at four thirty. She sensed me coming down the stairs and with sleep still in my eyes, she told me how that neighbor had been a headache (she had her bedroom downstairs). We talked until breakfast up to the time my sister Charisse came to pick me up. She had that extra glow in her eyes that morning because apart from my visit, my son also came. She exclaimed how big Anand had grown. Minutes later, her sister Oliva and cousin Oliver called from the United States and spoke to all of us. When we left, she was happily looking forward to another visit by cousin Oscar the following day.
(Auntie Daya was shown in the picture with niece Charisse and nephew Jopeter at Oscar's wedding in 2005.)
