Our house in Rizal was small but full. Four people lived within its walls: me, my Mama, my Lola (grandmother), and my Tita (aunt). But only one truly moved freely. My Mama was the axis around which our household revolved, a reality I failed to appreciate until much later.
From my earliest memories, my Mama’s day began before dawn. She would wake me for school, prepare my uniform, and ensure I had breakfast. But her morning had only just begun. Upon returning home, she would help my Lola out of bed, her curved spine making each movement a careful negotiation. Then she would assist my Tita, whose limited mobility from childhood meningitis required patient attention.
Our sari-sari store provided our modest income. My Tita served as the shopkeeper while my Mama handled restocking, accounting, and inventory between cooking, cleaning, and attending to everyone’s needs. My uncle sent money to help support the household.
The hilly terrain of our neighborhood confined my Lola and Tita to our home. This barrier meant outings were rare, something I failed to consider when I complained about our lack of vacations.
I remember one summer clearly. My schoolmates shared stories about beach trips, and I came home full of demands. “Why can’t we go somewhere nice for once?” I whined. My Mama patiently explained the complexities: the logistics of transporting my Lola and Tita, the financial constraints. But her words passed through me unabsorbed.
It wasn’t until later that I realised: if I was itching to see beyond our walls, how must my Lola and Tita have felt? My Lola passed away in 2013, having rarely left our home since 2008. When I visit beautiful places now, I often imagine my Lola’s reaction, what joy she might have felt seeing such sights.
The chamber pot or arinola sits in my memory, as a symbol of our daily adaptations. When friends visited and spotted it, their teasing was merciless. The shame led me to stop inviting friends over.
My Mama’s life as a caregiver began long before I was born. Her sister contracted meningitis during primary school, upending their family. Mounting medical costs forced the closure of my Lola’s restaurant. My Mama eventually abandoned her university studies due to financial constraints.
By the time I entered the picture, caregiving was the constant thread running through my Mama’s life. Every moment was dedicated to others’ needs: cooking, cleaning, assisting with mobility, managing medications, running the store, and raising me.
When my Lola passed away, my Mama moved to Australia. The irony wasn’t lost on me when her employment became aged care. She completed a certificate, joking that she hardly needed “a stupid certificate” for work she had been doing her entire life.
I remember dismissing my Mama’s enthusiasm after her first professional manicure in Australia. Now I understand. These moments represented something she had rarely experienced, time dedicated solely to herself.
The household of my childhood was shaped by disability: our routines, our space, our finances, and my Mama’s life trajectory. She never framed her life as a sacrifice. They simply were the reality she navigated with grace.
Looking back, I see the constellation of accommodations that filled our home. What I once viewed as limitations, I now recognise as evidence of profound love. My Mama’s caregiving wasn’t just work; it was the expression of her deepest values.
The tragedy may be how invisible this work remains, how easily a child could grow up within it and still fail to truly see it. But perhaps that invisibility is also evidence of its success, care so seamlessly provided that it could be taken for granted.
