ETHER DIARIES

controlled breaths | uncontrolled thoughts

The Last Breaths

Published by

Mark Andrew Cruz

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I had just stepped out of work when my mom’s caregiver called. Her voice told me everything before the words even landed. I rushed home. I walked into the room and saw my mother taking her last breaths.

And here’s the cruel part: I’m an anesthesiologist. I spend my life controlling breaths and bringing people back from the edge. But the moment I saw her…I knew, this was one breath I couldn’t save.

I sat beside her. I held her hand. I felt her pulse slipping under my fingers. Her chest rose, fell, rose… then didn’t.

I looked at my watch. I looked at my sister. And I said the words I never imagined saying for my own mother: “Time of death, 5:59 p.m.”

That was the moment I learned the sharpest pain a doctor can feel: calling the time of death for the person who gave you life.

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Hello,

I’m Macoy Cruz

Macoy is, ironically, my professional name. Before residency, there were probably only two people who actually called me that. Then I had to get my name embroidered on my residency white coat. It cost ₱9 per letter, and I realized it would be cheaper if I used a nickname I barely used.

So I did.

People who knew me before residency would occasionally hear someone call me that and look confused, like, Who is he? People who met me after residency, meanwhile, would be like, Who is Mark?

I was diagnosed with depression in 2018. It has relapsed a few times since then.

Most of the time, you probably wouldn’t know. I still go to work. I teach. I see patients. I answer messages. I buy groceries. Life continues looking remarkably ordinary even when, internally, it doesn’t feel ordinary at all.

Writing became one of the ways I deal with that. It forces me to take whatever has been circling inside my head and put it somewhere else for a while.

Sometimes I understand it better afterward.

Sometimes I just make it funny.

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