UNTIL THERE WAS NO YET LEFT.

Photo collages covered each wall of Te's hospice room. There were dozens of smiling faces of each Cariola sibling, their partners and kids, my grandparents, plus extended relatives. We were huddled together, mid-laugh, making funny faces. Each image was cut by hand, and framed with bright construction paper before being glued onto giant white poster boards. My favorite collage though, was one that combined all these versions of Te during her travels across the world. They must have been taken during the 90s, displaying an analog quality that made New York City, Las Vegas, and Washington DC seem somehow less crowded and more vivid. She's smiling her big warm smile, and wearing these chic outfits in bold colors while she poses for the camera.

Fresh bouquets of sunflowers and fragrant purple blooms flanked each side of the twin XL bed. The oxygen machine hummed in the background as Te was drifting in and out of sleep. I tiptoed closer and quietly sat down in the chair on her left, careful not to make unnecessary noise. Then for some reason I felt called to pray aloud an "Our Father." My voice was low and steady, the words flowing easily since it's a prayer that's lived in my memory since childhood. Somewhere in the middle, I looked up at her. My gaze found hers and I felt a jolt move through me, as if being startled by a static shock. Her eyes were wide open, staring right at me. I kept reciting and followed her gaze as it started to drift to the side, her eyelids closing and then opening again. As if deciding whether to stay awake for the prayer or rest in the comfort of familiar words. It was the most responsive I'd seen her in recent days, when she could not speak much anymore or even move at all really.

About a week before, my parents and I had just landed in San Francisco from an almost 24-hour travel day from the Philippines and across three airports. That afternoon we headed to the hospital, where Te had been staying for a little over a week. We walked into her room, and the tears started to well in my eyes as we all greeted her hello. She was sitting up in her bed, looking quite frail though still wearing her warm smile. When we locked eyes, I leaned in for the sniff-kiss on my cheek that she's always given me, ever since I was a little girl. While my parents were chatting with my other titas in the room, Te asked me, "How are you doing?" I paused in hesitation for a moment, not wanting to burden her with my personal struggles when I should be the one who's present for her. To make her feel lighter and more peaceful. She waited, with a gentleness in her eyes that told me it's okay to share whatever was on my mind. I opened up about feeling uncertain about the current season of my life, not understanding why I can't see progress despite trying my best. The exact words she used are fuzzy to me now, but she made sure I knew that I'm capable of doing whatever it takes to achieve what I want for my life. That things will work out. They were sentiments I've heard time and time again. But hearing them spoken in her voice, somehow they resonated more deeply. I took her hand and felt her squeeze back. I didn't go in for her famous Te-ddy Bear hug the way I usually do whenever we greet each other, in case lifting her arms around me was too painful for her.

There was nothing more that the doctors could do for Te in the hospital that could not be done in hospice at home, so home is where we brought her.

One morning a few days later, I was keeping her company in her room and thought of stories to tell her. Recounting the previous days' gallivanting around the city, childhood memories, reading aloud my essays about our family. Anything that might entertain her while she was awake.

I brought up an afternoon from last summer, the two of us walking arm in arm. She'd been the one to start that conversation. She'd told me she was proud of me. I hadn't understood what she meant at first. She'd continued — she was grateful, she said, that I'd repaired something I once thought could never be repaired. A relationship in our family I had walked away from years earlier, out of a hurt I didn't know how to carry any other way. Te had understood that pain, and she'd never once pushed me to fix it before I was ready. That afternoon, her voice had started to break. She'd grown teary-eyed and told me she'd been praying, all those years, that this would heal. Helping the people she loved find their way back to one another — that had been part of her mission for the last five or six years of her life, while she was fighting her illness. Making sure hurts were forgiven. Amends made. People returned to each other. "And because you opened your big heart," she'd said — that's how we were able to heal things.

Now, recounting that afternoon back to her, my own voice cracked. I started to cry as I told her she was the one who'd helped me turn back toward my family. That for years I'd been afraid I couldn't be close to them again without being judged for how long I'd stayed away. And that only last summer had shown me otherwise: that I'd be welcomed back with love instead. In between labored breaths, she told me, "That's not the case. That's not the case" — the judgment I'd feared, she meant, had never been real.

Tears were streaming down my face by then. I told her that because of her, that relationship was healed — that we were okay now. I told her about the remorse I felt, realizing how much time, how much of each other's lives, we'd missed.

I was still mid-sentence when she said, "What?"

My tears halted. I looked at her and found her staring blankly back, her eyebrows a little furrowed. Did I share too much? Should I have not said this? I summarized, in a few words, what I'd just told her. Her gaze fell — or maybe drifted — to the side. A half-second later, I understood: she wasn't following me anymore.

My stomach dropped.

My parents and I weren't the only family members that came in from out of town to see Te and help take care of her. In addition to two of my titas and their families who live nearby, another tita and a few of my cousins flew in from SoCal, and my sister came to visit from the East Coast.

Ever since the start of Te's hospice at home, my titas were discussing needing to coordinate night shifts. Doing night shifts didn't start until an instance that happened on one of the first few days. One tita was recounting the story to my other tita at the breakfast table the following morning, and I was listening. She said that she found Te in the middle of the night awake and thirsty, trying to call out to her. At that point Te's voice could not project very loudly at all, so my tita who was asleep could not hear her. Also at that point, Te had very low energy and could not move or do things by herself anymore. At the breakfast table, my tita said that Te told her, "You didn't hear me." Then they proceeded to speak in Tagalog about how Te can't be by herself anymore, that she'd feel more at ease if someone was always in the room with her. To watch over her, just in case she needed anything. And probably, also, to feel like she's not alone.

Each night, 2-3 family members would take turns staying up for a few hours to keep Te company while she slept. In case she needed water, or needed her pillows or bed adjusted, or if she was in pain. After about 3 hours, the first person would wake up the next one so they could take over. My tita's living room had tons of pillows and blankets strewn across the couch and air mattress — makeshift beds for the people on shift that night.

There's one night I recall being the first to stay up. Te had just been given medicine at 10:30pm and I'd stay up til about 1am. She was asleep the whole time, so there wasn't much I needed to do. The house was pretty quiet, apart from the oxygen machine running, and Te's breathing through her mouth making soft gasping sounds. Taking my laptop with me turned out to be pretty pointless, since I couldn't concentrate on anything else besides hoping Te would make it to the next day. I pulled the blanket wrapped around me even tighter. I leaned into the chair as I watched her chest rise and fall, counting the seconds between each breath. Three. Three whole seconds of her body not moving before another labored gasp pulls her out of stillness. I couldn't blink, or ease the tension in my arms and legs that curled into me. But I also didn't want to stare for too long, just in case I didn't see the gasp after counting to three.

In the days after that, there was a quiet yet persistent fear sending me into high alert each time I'd walk past Te's room: being the one to find her dead. That's the plainest way I could state it and it feels so wrong to admit that.

The question that kept coming to mind was, if I knew I was about to lose someone I love, what would I most want to tell them? And the answer was the same every time. I'd say "I love you." So that's what I tried to tell Te each day, every single time I noticed she was awake. I stopped worrying about being repetitive, because at that point in her decline, she was no longer able to really speak anymore and I wasn't sure how much of the simple conversations we had she'd remember. And the fear underneath that fear was, not knowing whether this would be the last time I'd get to say it to her.

"Hi Te, it's Bri, I love you!" I'd say in my most cheerful tone, without being too loud. I'd make sure my hand wasn't cold before taking her own, not wanting to shock her. I'd sit down in the chair at her side to meet her at eye level, find her gaze and smile at her. One of those times, although her face did not move much at all anymore, I distinctly remember her head turned to the side, her eyes looked up at me, and her lips moved ever so slightly, and in the faintest voice, she said "I love you" back.

I never knew if she was lucid enough to recall the last time I'd said it, so I said it again. I couldn't risk her not knowing, not even once. Whether or not she remembered that I said it to her yesterday, or this morning, or even a few minutes ago, at least she would know now, in this present moment, that I love her. Heck, even if she couldn't recognize me and didn't know who I was anymore but could still hear, she would know she is loved.

My mind kept cycling through these same thoughts of anxiety over this being the last time I get to say it, then of relief that Te is still alive and can still hear me say it, and then back to thinking that maybe THIS time is the last time I get to say it. Never a chance for my mind to rest.

It was late morning when I hugged my sister goodbye before she headed to the airport. I stayed at home and kept Te company in her room. She was awake, no furrowed brow from discomfort, which was a good sign. I greeted her with my usual line. She couldn't really turn her head anymore, but when she noticed me, her eyes followed me as I got comfortable in the seat beside her.

Two little stories popped into my head that I felt could be amusing for her to listen to. The first was that in recent years, I'd changed my favorite color to purple, partly because it was hers, and partly because it reminds me of wisteria, my favorite flower. The other story was about my parents, sister, and me getting ice cream at Mitchell's in the city a few days before. Our whole family has memories of that ice cream shop tracing back decades, with one of our most beloved flavors, ube ice cream — Te's favorite. Fitting because it's also purple. I recounted it all to her in the most animated, enthusiastic voice, hoping to cheer her up even for a moment. The corners of her mouth turned upward into the only kind of smile she could manage in those final days. I think her eyes crinkled ever so slightly too.

Towards the end, the hospice nurses started giving Te morphine to manage her pain, so she spent most of the days asleep. Her breathing slowed dramatically, with one shallow gasp escaping from her mouth roughly every three seconds.

There was one day that I found myself checking on her more often, probably every single time I walked by her doorway. What started out as me peeking my head in for several seconds to find her asleep, turned into quick glances from the hall. It was the same image: an oxygen tube resting below her nose, her eyes closed, breathing through her mouth, sitting up a bit in her elevated bed. Each time I found her asleep, I told myself I'll try talking to her later. I feared disturbing her already fragile state, overthinking about how painful and exhausting it must have been for her to just get to sleep. But I still glanced inside her room every time I passed by, keeping my footsteps soft.

There wasn't one moment I decided not to go in. It was smaller than that, and it happened over and over: she's asleep, I'll try again later. Then a couple hours later, walking by again — she's still asleep, later. It had just become the day's quiet rhythm. I didn't choose not to say it so much as I kept, gently, choosing "not yet" — until there was no "yet" left.

I believe she knew that I love her. I hoped she'd remember, even if I didn't get to say it that day.

My titas, cousin, and I were sitting at the dining table late that night when my tita told us something that even now still feels unresolved. She was sitting in Te's room, facing away from the door, and praying the rosary. She caught a reflection in the window of someone walking past in the hallway. "I thought it was you?" she said to my tita who was on her computer. My other tita who was napping counted herself out. My cousin chimed in after, confirming that she wasn't home yet and neither was my tito. I also said that it wasn't me, since I was sitting on the couch. The room was filled with a lot of raised eyebrows and nervous laughs by then. But the time spent dwelling on this story drifted back to grief.

It might have been around 5pm when my cousin arrived. She had a routine of her own, coming home from work and having her daily chat with Te, sharing stories and funny moments of her own. She told me during the group conversation later that night that she stepped out for a moment to the restroom. And when she came back, she noticed Te's chest was not rising the way it usually did. She said she waited and watched for a few seconds, seeing that nothing was changing.

In the middle of typing away on my laptop, I heard my cousin's shaky voice yell for my tita at the dining table. Hurried but still trying to stay calm, she called back, "Coming!" Her footsteps shuffled to the room. Blood drained from my face and I felt a sense of dread wash over me. Don't overthink it, I tried to snap myself out of jumping to the worst conclusion. Moments later, I heard my cousin call out "Mom!" and my other tita to come to the room. My tito’s footsteps made their way inside shortly after. Why aren't they calling me? Or maybe it's nothing and everything's fine and I don't need to be called. "Brianna?" my cousin finally said. Or maybe not finally. Did I want to know what happens after I hear my name? But I guess something inside me could not rest without knowing what was going on.

The lights were dim, the hum of the oxygen machine was low, and everyone was huddled together, sniffling back tears and looking towards the bed. In the millisecond before I turned my head, I braced. I saw what I assume my cousin saw: Te's eyes closed and her chest not rising. I stared for several seconds, confirming with my own eyes, that she was not moving at all. I felt my tita's hand gently grasp my arm, and I realized I wasn't crying yet. Why wasn't I crying already? I slowly turned away, confused about where to look or what to do. Whether I should curl up and hide somewhere or run out of the house. She must have noticed because she said gently, "Don't leave."

Someone, I can't remember who, told me to call my parents, who were at my other tita's house. Still not crying, what's wrong with me? "Hello?" my mom picked up. "Can you and dad come over?" I think she tried to ask what I meant, and I just kept repeating myself. I couldn't say it. She understood right away, and further away from the phone I heard her tell my dad they need to go. My tita called out to tell them to drive safely. I repeated her words and hung up. Huge tears started to sting my eyes and cloud my vision. I walked back into the room, took Te's hand, and said, or maybe almost cried out, "Love you, Te."

My tita who was praying the rosary earlier that day recounted another detail to us all at the dining table. One of the hospice nurses told her, or maybe all the titas since they might have been in the room together, that the dying person often waits for a moment when no one is around to go. That maybe so that the living don't have to worry about watching them pass. And that only when the person feels that everyone left behind is going to be okay, do they leave. I wonder if Te planned that, when she waited for my sister to visit, who just left the day before. Or when my tita asked my tito to fly home a day early from his work trip, and he arrived that afternoon. Maybe Te saw the tears we shed at the prospect of our other loved ones not making it in time to see her, and decided to hold on for just a little longer.

Late into the night, with the entire family gathered at the house and looking for things to keep ourselves occupied, I asked if Te kept any of her jewelry. My tita pulled out a small white cosmetic bag that looked pretty stuffed. My cousin was heading out the door to go home when she yelled back to wait for her to look through it together. My other tita must not have heard her because a bit later she started opening it. I felt a little bad but I didn't want to stop her because I was on the lookout for just one piece of jewelry. It was an amethyst bracelet I'd made for Te a few years back when she visited Maryland and stayed with my sister and me. It's her birthstone, which also happens to be purple, meant for her. I felt more certain than not that she would have kept it. Towards the end of sifting through, out fell a tiny cloth bag with the bracelet. That was the only thing I took. About two weeks before, several family members had spent a day clearing out Te's apartment, and my tita happened to rescue the bag before everything else got donated. "It's a good thing that little jewelry bag was saved," she said.

I wear the bracelet as an anklet now.