Katinka Baltazar

To many of you, our friends and relatives, my mom was your emotional support. She was the person you called late at night when you were anxious, scared, or worried. I often heard her on the phone, laughing, gossiping, or offering advice.

When her bedroom door was closed, if she wasn’t asleep, watching Korean dramas, listening to meditations, or playing games on her iPad, she was praying or sending healing to people she loved.

Mom prayed for everyone, near and far, who came to her for comfort. Even when she became sick and struggled to breathe, she still prayed for others. I know because I saw the messages she sent on her phone.

Because I live with chronic pain, depression, and anxiety, Mom tried to help me too. But since I didn’t believe in healing touch, she said it wouldn’t work on me and gave me back rubs instead.

When my worries kept me up at night, I would go into her room and lie down beside her. She would talk to me about her life, her interests, and her anxiety, or she would show me pictures taken from the many parties she loved to plan.

Because she loved me so much, we often argued. She worried about me constantly and could be overprotective. Growing up, I was afraid that if I disappointed her or wasn’t who she wanted me to be, she wouldn’t love me anymore.

But I couldn’t be anyone but myself. As an adult, I had to learn new and better ways to take care of my mental health. I’m still learning, and every day is a challenge.

I moved back home years ago when I couldn’t work, and later I became disabled. Mom took care of me when I couldn’t take care of myself. She worried about leaving me alone when my parents went out of town. She worried about what I would eat because I was trying to lower my cholesterol.

I tried to show my love and appreciation for her in my own way, in the way that I was capable. Hugging her, buying flowers on every special occasion, giving her sentimental, but hopefully meaningful gifts.

I once gave her a book about natural home remedies because she read a lot like me and loved to learn new things. I knew that it would interest her, since she was a certified Reiki and quantum touch practitioner.

And because I wanted her to know I respected what mattered to her, even though we saw the world differently.

Last year, she told me that her own mother never hugged her. So, I tried to hug her even more. She would smile and sometimes get a little teary-eyed. Now, when I walk into the kitchen, she’s not there to hug. She’s not there to worry about me or protect me anymore.

Many people have said Mom’s death was sudden. For me and my family, it wasn’t. We experienced it in real time. For me, it was a rapid, frightening decline. I was in a constant state of shock and worry.

Over a few short months, Mom changed before my eyes. My beautiful, aggravating, complicated, adorable, and wonderful mom who had once been present every day began to disappear. By the time she went to the hospital, I already felt like I was losing her.

My dad, my brother, and I tried to help in the ways we could. But Mom didn’t want us to worry about her. Even when she was sick, she tried to protect us. She kept reassuring us that she only had a cyst and anxiety.

And the sad thing is she did have anxiety. Anxiety and fear so terrible and consuming that we couldn’t convince her to see a doctor.

I wish I had been capable of giving her everything she wished from me. A meal I cooked just for her, belief in her healing, more relief from the chores.

The last month of her life, I tried to care for her like she cared for me when I became disabled. Cleaning, feeding her, comforting her, sitting with her, attending as much of her needs as I could. I didn’t do it because I felt guilty or as if I owed her. I wasn’t keeping score.

I did it because I loved her and couldn’t stand her suffering.

And in those moments, I felt the full weight of Mom’s enduring love and worry for me.

Love is not conditional.

In caring for Mom, I wasn’t perfect. I was exhausted and overwhelmed.

One time, when she needed help every five minutes, I got impatient and snapped. I felt horribly guilty.

But after I calmed down, I held her and hugged her and cried. I told her I was sorry for everything, even for our arguments in the past.

And in a quiet moment at her oncologist’s office, Mom—who always believed she was right, who told us never to look back—Mom said she was sorry too.

I am so grateful that I was with her at the end. That I was her daughter and knew her in a way no one else could.

When Mom passed away, she had advanced metastatic breast cancer, and her body was very tired.

Mom had gone through so much in her life, and it had all taken a toll.

Yet, Mom wasn’t ready to go. Until the very end, she did not give up. She stayed true to herself. She was good and generous. She laughed and smiled.

She gave Pop that look when he was stressing her out.

She joked with my brother and her visitors in the hospital.

She gave friends and nurses expensive chocolates.

And when she saw me struggle and worried about my anxiety, she gave me her last advice. Be strong.

In the end, she took all her medications, even the big pills I had to crush for her. She endured all her uncomfortable treatments.

When a physical therapist came to help her, though it was hard, she would stand or kick her feet.

Just like when she gave birth to me—when the pain was overwhelming, and she kicked and screamed and fought.

Mom was strong and brave, even when she was scared and her body was frail and failing.

Because that’s how my mother lived.

With courage, faith, a fighting spirit, dignity, grace, and determination.

Mom was the hero of my story.

And I am so very proud of her.

Mom, if you are here and listening, I offer you the prayer you once taught me.

Divine love through me blesses you.

I love you, Mom.

May you rest forever in comfort and peace.

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*In the photo above, my mom is holding a baby, me, in Hillingdon Hospital, London, January 1974.

Originally from Paranaque, Philippines, Mom was 78 when she passed away December 3rd, 2025 at 11:26 a.m. in Southern California.