The inescapable grasp of sorrow
An unexpected, heartbreaking loss and my continuous beef with grief
[Content warning: death and loss]
Any writer with a proper head will not start their journey with Death. Death is the period. Death is the end. Death is when the juice pitcher falls off the edge of the table and the glass shatters into many hundred pieces, in shapes and forms it couldn’t be miraculously put back. It’s when the hot, hot fries (or any other food of your liking), slips off your hand and fall straight into the muddy ground. The five-second law does not take effect. There’s just sadness, regret, the painful alas! and lots of tears.
For the last few days, there was nothing here but tears.
Uncle Ed died on a Friday. It was an ordinary morning on a prolonged lockdown (complaining about the government’s failed attempt to control this pandemic is another story). Papa was in his room, typing his morning sermon. Mama was at the back of the house, singing songs to her plants. And me? I was wide awake, wondering how another writing day will work out for me. Because they rarely did. Most of the time, it was just me staring into my screen and typing and erasing until it was nothing.
And then, there was a shout at the other room.
When something happens, Papa’s tendency was always to call Mama. It was always like that. They take turns in being each other’s peace. And that morning, when I heard a loud, panicky, “What?” and a troubled, “Ma?” I immediately rushed out of my door to see Papa, who carried his iPad and a piece of news we never expected.
The Facebook Group post said we lost Uncle Ed that Friday, 6:45 a.m. It was some seven-thirty in the morning when we read it, and nobody else in our family was posting anything. It must be fake news. It’s got to be, right? A few weeks ago, Uncle Ed was still taking Zoom classes with Papa. They were talking about their churches. Their ministry. He was ready to dive back in after a talk with SBD’s council.
And so, we began the calls. Quick, calm, suppress-these-fears calls. Uncle Ed’s sisters heard nothing about it. His kumare, who cried when she answered the phone, said she was so stressed to even look at any other news. Papa tried calling one of Uncle Ed’s children.
So did I.
Moy picked up the phone after a few rings. The first thing I asked was how they were (Uncle Ed’s family got slammed by Covid-19 and were quarantined). You don’t start with “We saw a Facebook post and we’re anxious to know what happened?” I couldn’t even bring it up.
His tone was normal. There was no shaking in it. No signs of breaking down. I took hope. We all had to take hope. Small little ropes we could hold on to.
And then, I asked him about Uncle Ed.
I’d forever remember the way Moy told me this because it was in a strikingly audible strength and assurance.
“Let me confirm that Papa has passed away.”
I made a confused, “Huh"?” before going blank. Before breaking into tears.
Uncle Ed has survived so many things. Some twenty years ago, he got into a car accident that nearly cost him a leg. I’d remember stories of him getting his finger stuck in the door of the MRT and got past a bus accident unscathed. He lived on to tell the story. Such funny stories, they were. He was always funny. He made it a point to be the jester of the party, throwing nonsensical jokes to break the ice.
I’ll miss those, Uncle Ed.
Ninang Leny would always call him pilay, just for fun, even though he could walk straight (this is not a form of belittling, they were supremely close and the term was always spoken fondly). He was, like Papa, part of a group that distributed Bibles for free, part of the Lay, and then, ultimately, a Pastor. He was a Big Man from a Big Bank, but instead of choosing to spend his days in his very comfortable home, he allowed himself to be assigned to a small, forgotten spot where, and this was from his words, folks would drink liquor out of Sprite bottles. He volunteered himself and his wife to an independent ministry they both loved, and would go out of their way to join the group even the farthest lands to bring hope to the youth and the not-yet-reached.
Uncle Ed was always there. That’s how I grew up. With his big, jolly presence filling the cold space in the air. We go to the same church, one they’d travel a whole province to get to every weekend. We belong to the same family (he was, legitimately, our lolo, blood hierarchy-wise). We’d celebrate parties together and drive long convoys together. Whenever Papa would be in his phone for hours, I’ll only guess it was Uncle Ed talking with him and spilling jokes, and I would be right. He’d call me, “daughter” (he had so many adopted daughters) and I’ll go ahead and tap his big belly because it reminded me of Papa’s.
He was Papa’s best friend. They grew up together as boys of the 1950s with ugly haircuts and good old games. They became teens together. Joined many ministries together. Whatever faith-related event Papa was to attend, Uncle Ed would be there. Whenever we had family gatherings, Uncle Ed would be there. He was a constant. Much more constant than our close kin.
He was always, always there.
And he was just gone.
I didn’t see Papa cry when he heard the news. Papa had always been like that. Maybe his sorrow was too precious, too sacred for him to share it with us. Maybe he didn’t want to burden us with it. Feelings were heavy things.
Fathers were supposed to be pillars. Fathers were supposed to be strength.
He was, in that morning, full of remarkable strength.
When he finally had the chance to talk to Aunty Lyn, who, at that moment was strikingly brave, Papa heaved a deep sigh and spoke only of prayers. It was as if an invisible tide of light washed him over. It was like Death and the other side of it was not some faraway, distant thing, but an unsurpassable truth. That he himself must be trudging the same path, and would get there, sooner or later, on a day like this.
On a very ordinary day.
Mama cried in her corner when she heard Moy confirmed it. Her tears were always quiet. Not repressed. Not a loud bawling or breaking down. I watched her remove her glass and wipe her wet lashes. It was sorrow falling over us like light ashes on our heads. But, if there was anything truly remarkable in that morning, Aunty Lyn spoke with brimming assurance, like a person who found their peace after wrestling God for a miracle.
Maybe, in a way, this was the miracle.
I didn’t fully understand it. All I know was we lost someone we loved, and it was very, very painful. So I cried my tears and took to writing. Exhaling it all. Finding answers. Finding comfort in the unraveling of words. Maybe peace would be there, in between the lines. I took words and used them as my power. I sent the family a message with trembling hands, trying to frame my feelings in hope rather than despair.
Secrets shouldn’t be told, but I’ll tell you one now: I write hidden notes for myself on Facebook. Facebook has some use after all. It brings back posts from the previous years, and I want to tell my future self what I went through to get to her. And I wrote a lot.
It startled me to hear a voice not break at the death of a family. What strength. The culmination of restless nights and baited breaths and holding on to hope. And then, finally, God puts a period on it. A decision was made. All baited breaths now let go. And you accept. You can only be grateful for everything that happened. I wish I'd have the same strength. The same resilience. They fought hard, truly. And are still fighting. It will be a forever battle, to see familiar places empty. There is no breakthrough after death; we will forever be in sadness, but there will be glorious glimpses of joy. Joy eternal. Joy awash with the promises of forever, of meeting again. I wish to take hold of that joy when I am called in the middle of this struggle.
written on March 26, 8:46 AM
Oh, child. One day you will see so many sorrow your heart will learn to accept the bitter reality of death and teach your raw heart to grow some bones.
written on March 26, 12:23 PM
But grief isn’t a tide that ebbs away quickly. Grief is a still, misty fog that hung in the air before the breaking of the dawn. It was still not dawn to me.
I was not used to a loss. Even if I had daily thoughts about the Impermanence of Things (tell me, a person with a slight manifestation of GAD, who tremble at being suspended and could think of many possible ways one could die, from slipping in the bath or getting their eyes poked by the sharp edges of the metal fence). It was like I was being hyper-aware of death without it ever touching me. Without it being an actual presence.
Until this. This very real loss. It shook me. It told me Death was very, very near. It told me Death could come whenever it wished and take the people I love away. I had no power over it. Not my anticipation. Not my hyper-awareness of it.
Nothing.
It will just come,
And we will just be shattered.
I hate Facebook, truly. But I’m really glad it saved all our bright, smiley memories with the people we love. I visited Uncle Ed’s profile and all I saw was him having a grand time. He always had. He loved being surrounded by people. He glows. He exudes warmth. He has always been a lovely company. Maybe scary to some. A Big Man from a Big Bank must have been intimidating. Strict standards. High goals. But I’m glad to be among the people who were close to him and saw him differently, a humble man who loved to make people laugh.
It was hard to not cry for him. I thought that was disrespectful. It was hard not to think of his family. That would be cold. If we could, we would have checked in on them every now and then. But they were grieving. They were the ones who lost a husband and a father and a grandpa. They were the ones most shattered And all I could do is to reshape pain and write it as hope. Because it was always supposed to be hope. Pain was a process of healing. Pain was a process of growing.
I want to tell Aunty Lyn that she was a very brave woman. That, even though she was not there to hold his hand before God’s breath escaped from Uncle Ed’s lungs, she was there. She was always there. She fought for him and wanted him to stay, and he knew it by the many times he was revived. Her love held him, accompanied him, and walked him past the Finish Line. She was there, his true partner, in both ministry and family. He didn’t go alone.
I want to tell Moy that from here, God will transform his path into something new. Something inconceivable. And all those times when gratitude was unspoken, I am most sure that Uncle Ed found comfort that Moy was there, by his side, and stuck with him. That Uncle Ed must have been relieved to know that he left with Moy accompanying Aunty Lyn in that far-away room with just a fan and loneliness. That Moy kept it together and became a pillar himself.
Oh, I want to say many things. And those things, made only of hope and faith and love, I was sure of.
Every time we get news about death and dying, I always ask, "How close will it be to us next time?" Do we even have the right to ask for Death to skip us when it has taken so many beloveds? The answer is always no.
The answer is that Death is an inexplicable, wayward thing, and never listens to pleas. That no matter how much you avoid eye contact as it passes by, it will, in time, find you, and come for you, and tell you, "There you are. Let me take you home."
The answer is that Death is a truth that requires acceptance, and a different pair of eyes to see a newly-shaped reality where there will be empty seats and empty bedsides and empty holes in the heart. And you just got to live on with that.
The answer is that Death, and this I want to believe, comes gently like a kiss, and tells you, "Close your eyes, child. It’s been a long journey, and we're going to walk past the Line." The whole world boils and churns and writhes in pain, but the Sleeper falls in an everlasting lullaby.
Until he wakes up. And we will all be there.