A friend died several weeks ago. At her wake, her youngest brother shared that when she was healthy, they would often find each other awake and online at 3 a.m., exchanging a quiet “Oist, tulog na.”
When she became terminally ill, she advised him, “Palita imong mga luho”—buy the luxuries you can afford, not for the items themselves, but to remember to treasure your passions while you can. He honored her wishes. Beyond the objects, her core message remains: “Live a life that matters. Live a life of love.”
One never fully heals from losing a loved one. The pain may ease over time, but memories return, pausing us to savor them and long for their presence. Despite my own losses, I still feel at a loss on how to console the bereaved. My unsolicited advice to those who have not experienced profound grief is simple: listen to the family’s stories. Sharing them is their first step toward healing.
I once had someone question why I was still grieving years after losing my parents and brother, mentioning how she traveled abroad shortly after her father died. That experience taught me that grief-shaming reveals more about the shamer than the grieving. Grief has no deadline.
My parents and brother all died within a single year after prolonged hospital confinements. Daddy and my younger brother were hospitalized at the same time until my brother passed away. We couldn’t bring ourselves to tell Dad that his eldest son had died. We cried in my brother’s room, wiped away the redness in our eyes, and walked over to Dad’s. As the eldest, I stayed at my brother’s wake, my sister stayed with Dad, and our youngest brother handled the funeral arrangements. Daddy died two months later.
Months afterward in our Corrales home, I would hear Dad whistling, Mom calling my name, or see my brother standing by my door or reflecting in my laptop screen. I was never afraid; I only wished they were truly there.
My younger sister, who stayed by Daddy’s bedside, died two years ago. That memory remains painfully fresh.
