Heartbreaking news reached us on Sunday evening. My beloved sister, Weng, passed away after a bout of a pneumonia compounded by problems with her liver and her blood. She went quickly and did not suffer long.
I have no words for agony.
Loss followed by loss. Sorrow upon sorrow.
My sister has gone from this world.
Someday, I will stop being the widow. Someday, I will be completely myself again.
It’s been more than a month since my husband died. Already, I want an end to the tears and to the sadness and to the numbness that plagues my heart.
Yesterday, my eldest son and I went to pick out a gravestone for his father. It was a sunny day–almost as beautiful as the day when we buried him. We took the train to Rotterdam and from Rotterdam we took the metro to the shop where we could pick out a stone.
The same tension pervaded us as in the days when we knew his father would no longer return to us. You know the smile that you force past your lips, the effort it takes to not break into tears in a public space. You hold yourself together by strength of will and don’t know how you manage to get to where you’re going. How is it that the world is still turning? How is it that life still goes on as is? How is it possible that I still walk the earth?
We sat there listening to the woman tell us about the different kinds of gravestones and all I could feel was a pervading numbness.
We ended picking the simplest stone. Shiny black granite to be embossed with silver letters and the shadow of a flying seagull.
Flight.
Flight comes with a cost.
I think of the future that has opened up in front of me. How I must learn to navigate life as a mother alone.
My mother’s heart, I said to a friend. Is inclined towards my children.
More than anything, I want my children to be happy. I want to see them grow strong and secure regardless of this sorrow that has come to us.
My sons tell me that they want me to be happy too.
But sometimes, it’s too hard to be happy. Any little thing is enough to bring me to the edge of tears. If I take a walk and someone speaks to me–all it takes is a little kindness and I break apart. There are no words for grief. There is only the hollow cry of mourning.
It has become harder to write. All my words turn into tears. I choke up. I stop. I have nothing to say.
My heart aches constantly. My head hurts. There is too much to do. My dreams are interrupted. I cannot catch them.
My friend tells me that good days lie ahead–that the sun will come again. I grab hold of those words and hold them like a promise.
I am afraid of being left behind. Of losing everyone I love. Of becoming a burden that is too hard to bear.
My quiet moments are curtained with tears.
Comfort me, I say to those I love. Send me smiles. Send me hugs.
I know I cannot ask anyone to carry my grief for me.
I will make a nest in the attic for me and my children. Up there, where we can look up at the sky through the wide window. Perhaps, if we look up long enough, if we hold each other close enough, we will be able to find the path of our dreams again.
For now, I continue to be grateful for warm hands, warm hearts and for the knowledge that we are still surrounded by love even if we have lost someone we love.
My sister is arriving from The Philippines today and I am so thankful for that. But my joy at that reunion is dimmed by the decline of my youngest son. That grief manifests in physical pain is true. Going to school has become the height of stressful experiences. He’s aware that he must go to school, but he is in so much pain that he experiences this as a pain in his physical body. He throws up, has headaches, feels feverish and whimpers in his sleep. For a short period, the symptoms seemed to let up. We slept through the night and he didn’t cry as much. Today, we’re back at square one and I tearfully phoned our doctor as well as the school to let them know that our boy won’t be at school and all is not well with him.
A great part of my pain comes from seeing my children suffer. My eldest son maintains a stoic facade. He’s unable to cry. He tries to go on as if nothing has changed. He does his best at school. I worry–how long will that facade hold?
And my youngest–when his teachers told me about the worries he brought to school with him, I broke down in tears. My children are in pain and there is nothing I can do to take it away. This is what hurts most of all.
I try to look to the future. I remind myself that these too will pass. But right here and right now, I feel like I’m drowning.
Someday, you’ll look back at this period in your life and you’ll laugh. I know you, girl.
Really? You’ll say to yourself. Was it really so hard to accept that this was a journey I couldn’t take all by myself?
You’ll laugh when you look back because right now, you’re in this awkward phase where you don’t know what to do. One moment, you’re up; the next, you’re a mess of tears. You don’t want to burden others, and yet you can’t make it through the day without borrowing the strength that’s offered.
This is where you are right now. You’re not superhuman and you shouldn’t aspire to be. Living is hard enough. Putting one foot in front of the other is tough. It’s not your fault if you take people at their word when they say you can lean on them. Don’t be scared to ask for help. Don’t be afraid to reach out.
I know you want off of this rollercoaster. The thing is, it doesn’t stop on command. It’s gotta roll until it’s done rolling.
It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to be a mess. It’s okay because you won’t be like this forever. This mess, it’s gonna take a while. Maybe months, maybe a year, maybe two years. Who knows. The important thing is to remember to be kind to yourself.
I’m giving you a hug, girl. A super big hug because you need it.
There’s still today and there’s still tomorrow and there are still all the tomorrows yet to come. You don’t have to smile all the time. Tears are a good.
My friend tells me that it takes time. First, you cry everyday, then every other day…
I remember a dialogue from somewhere where a character says: How can I share my heart with you when you refuse to show me your tears?
In the years of our marriage, the only time I saw my husband cry was on the night after he came to pick me up from the Clarion West writing workshop. I later found out that he was crying because he was afraid that I would leave him. He was so frightened by my love for Nalo Hopkinson, that he decided to ignore all wisdom, hop on a plane and come to Seattle when I had already told him that I was coming home.
Of course, I love Nalo. Who doesn’t?
Why in the world do you think I would leave you when we have children together? I asked him.
The next day, he bought me a pair of butterfly shaped earrings as an apology. I loved the earrings, but that wasn’t the reason why I forgave him.
For many Filipinas, the vow of marriage is sacrosanct. No matter how difficult it becomes, no matter what trials take place, once given, that vow holds until something happens to make the breaking of that vow inevitable. Sometimes, it is violence. Sometimes, it is betrayal. But almost always, it is death that breaks the vow.
My husband died and suddenly the world has become this strange place. The order of things and the shape of my life have all become more complicated.
Seventeen years ago, I had to learn to forge a new path in this strange land. Seventeen years later, I am once again having to learn how to create a new path. The physical landscape remains unchanged, but the inner landscape is no longer familiar.
Five years ago, my mother-in-law died. Three years later, my father-in-law passed away. Eighteen days ago, my husband died.
It’s not rare, the undertaker said. For us to hear of partners following each other into death so very closely. But for a child to follow their parents so very soon. . .
I know what she wants to say, it is as seldom an occurrence as my husband’s childhood trombosis.
As I write to my friend, I wonder how I did not see the onset of my husband’s heart failure. Three of his major arteries were clogged–this means that heart attack was just waiting to happen. I think of broken hearts and grief and I think of how my husband left me and my children on the day his mother died. Instead of coming home to us, he chose to remain behind and weep with his father.
When he came home, he did not cry. He did not show me his grief. He did not share with me his pain. He locked himself away behind a wall I could not breach.
I ask my friend, how it is possible to share a life with someone and to never have shared their grief.
I loved my husband and I wanted to be the one who he could lean on. I wanted him to be the one I could lean on as well. But for all that I loved him and for all that he loved me, I never knew if he was ever lonely or sad–if the heart he carried inside him was already broken by the early loss of his mother and by the eventual loss of his father.
Aliette reminds me that my husband fell into the dangerzone category. When many men are prone to heart attack and women are prone to cancer.
Beyond all logic, I wonder if I could have done something to prevent it. I am left with my hands full of questions.
Eighteen days have passed and already, I am tired of weeping. I am tired of feeling out of sorts. Of not being able to sleep. Of breaking down at unconvenient moments.
Mom, my eldest son says. It’s okay to be sad, but please think about how embarassed I will be if you break into tears in a fitting room of all places.
And just like that, my heart lightens. I have my children still.
We’re sitting in a restaurant in Amsterdam when grief becomes an almost tangible thing.
Can I ask you a personal question, I ask one of the guys.
Sure, he says. It depends on how personal that question is.
Just a while ago, you said it’s been four years since. . .
Four years ago, tomorrow, he says before I get to asking.
And just like that, I find myself fighting tears, struggling to find the center of control even as I lose it.
It’s okay, Mom, my youngest son says. He pats my back and whispers something about sadness and how it’s okay to cry.
Do you want a hug? One of the girls asks.
No, I say. I’m okay.
What I really mean to say is: if you hug me, I might break down completely in public and do more than just let the waterworks go.
I am thankful that she doesn’t get up, thankful that the people at our table, do not do the thing that will make me lose it completely. Instead, they let me weep. They allow me the time to swallow my grief.
How long does it take before you burst into tears at random moments? I ask.
It still happens, the one I was talking to replies. It happens in the most random places, like when I’m in the supermarket.
There is no timeline for grief. I know this. There is no quick cure, no easy panacea. I am thankful for the gentleness that embraces me. For how my friends let me find control without fuss and without comment. They let me weep. They let me find my quiet and when I’m ready, they agree with me when I say: I think this is an ice-cream moment.
The macha ice is not too sweet. It tastes just right.
To be amazed, to be captivated, to be moved.
Today’s workshop at Eschacon reminded me of the joy I feel when I see writers embracing their art with passion.
When I was in New York, Janis Ian talked about the obstacles that keep us from practicing our art. She also spoke of art as living–of how our lives as artists and our art practice are closely connected.
To be heartened, to be reminded, to be woken up to life, to realize that time has not stopped but is steadily moving forward. Life beckons, art calls, I can no longer live in a state of limbo–denying pain, denying agony, denying the discomfort of learning to breathe within this new skin that is my life.
It hurts to live, I said to Aliette.
Give it time, Aliette replied.
There is no hiding from pain. There is no way to bandage the wound.
In the past week, I leaned so hard on the shoulder a friend offered me, and selfishly clung to the idea that by filling up the hours with something, I would be able to move past this grief.
Pain can make us selfish–can make us forget that friendship is a two way street. Not simply taking, but also giving. It means seeing that person for who they are and caring about the things they care about too.
I am better than that. As I talked about writing from the body, about tapping into that deep well from which our stories are born, I understood how failing to acknowledge my weakness, my pain, my selfishness, my grief, was hurtful to those around me–was hurtful to my art; was hurtful to my life; was hurtful to those I cared for.
Regardless of what is offered, no matter how broad those shoulders are, it’s not right to ask a friend to carry my burden.
I must learn to accept the absence. I must learn to acknowledge that it may take time before I cease to be messed up. But I know that there are things in this world that cannot shake me. I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death. I left a loved one there. Now, I must venture forward. I have no doubt I will spend many more tears. But my shoulders are broad enough and my spirit is strong. I am here. I stand in the land of the living.
Loss is still too sharp, too fresh for me to write about remembrance. All through the day, we kept the candle lit. Because his presence is still here with us.
Yesterday, while waiting for the train, my youngest son said: “We used to be four waiting on this platform. Now, we are only three.”
Our favorite shops, the streets we walked, the museums we visited, the places we ate at–Once we were four. Now, we are three.
I watched my eldest son wrestle with a technical problem. What’s an HD cable again? The little things we take for granted take on gigantic proportions.
Who will build my legos with me? My youngest son asks.
Let’s go traveling, my eldest son says. He taps the floor with his foot restlessly. I understand the hidden message in his words.
If it were possible to leave this dream, if we could wake up in another place, in another time, would we find the one who has left us behind?
I am filled with an urge to bundle up my children and take them with me everywhere.
Instead, I remind them to go to bed early. I remind them there are classes in the morning. That each day is a fulfillment of the promises they made at their father’s deathbed.
You must be happy, I tell them. You must become the best you can be. This is what your father would want.
We hold each other when we cry. We hug each other and say: It’s okay to be sad. Our tears are like tiny lights that guide the footsteps of the dear departed.
We are surrounded by love. We are surrounded by light. We lighted the candle this morning, a reminder that these dark days will also pass. Time will come when our smiles and our laughter will no longer carry the echo of our grief.
From the Beloved Country 