my thoughts in bare

It's been 10 days since you left, and I still can't believe you're gone. Every time I go downstairs in the middle of the night, my eyes still search for you, just like they always did when I was working the night shift. For a split second, my mind still expects to see you there. But now, all I see is Mama sleeping alone on the same bed where you took your last breath. What confuses me the most is that I still haven't cried the way I thought I would. Even on the day of your interment, the tears never really came. While everyone around me was grieving so openly, I felt like I was just moving through the motions—doing what needed to be done, making arrangements, taking care of things. And now that everything has quieted down, I find myself wondering if there's something wrong with me. Does the absence of tears mean I loved you less? Did I not care enough? Deep down, I know that's not true. Maybe I'm still in shock. Maybe my heart is carrying more than it knows ...

I shed a few tears the moment you stopped breathing. After that, I didn't know what I was feeling anymore. I just started doing everything that needed to be done for your funeral, going to St. Peter, buying your clothes, arranging food for the wake, and taking care of all the other details. I don't understand how some people are able to cry out loud when they lose someone they love. I don't even know if what I'm feeling is sadness, grief, depression, or something else entirely. When someone told us to talk to you, I just stared blankly at your casket, lost for words and emotionally numb.  But when night falls and the world grows quiet, that's when it hits me. My chest starts to tighten, and the weight of losing you becomes harder to ignore. 

We were in and out of clinics and hospitals since October last year because of your stroke and dementia. Last May 25, after your 74th birthday, Kuya called and asked how old you were. You answered, "Malapit na." 😥 We knew it. We knew that day was coming, but we kept pushing the thought aside. You had your ECG last Saturday, and you were supposed to have your follow-up checkup and other laboratory tests at NCMH on Friday, June 5. But these past few days, you've been a little more unresponsive and haven't been eating well. Deep down, I had a feeling this day would come and that you wouldn't make it to Friday. Still, we pushed through with your scheduled ECG last Saturday. For the past few weeks, you've been calling the names of your siblings, those who have already passed away and those who are still alive. You kept wondering where they were and why they hadn't come to see you since you got sick. We never had a perfect father-daughter relationship. You were...

Last April 13, around noon, we started going from one public hospital to another, hoping someone could finally help us, just to check my father’s sudden weakness and why he was becoming unresponsive. One after another, we were turned away. At one point, seeing the situation inside a provincial public hospital made us feel even more lost… like we didn’t know where else to go. Out of desperation, we went to a private hospital just to have him checked, even if we had no clear plan on how we’d manage the expenses. After he was treated, we were told they no longer had a charity program. We had no choice but to have him discharged from the ER because we simply couldn’t afford to stay any longer. That night, we went back on the road again, hospital to hospital, hoping someone would finally admit him. It wasn’t until around 3 AM the next day, at the fourth public hospital we went to, that he was finally admitted. I can’t even fully describe the frustration and helplessness we felt that night, ...

Living with my father now feels like I’m constantly bracing myself for something I can’t control. His dementia and the way he gets agitated drains me in ways I didn’t even know were possible. It’s not just tiring, it’s consuming. Some days, it feels like I’m just surviving, moving through everything on edge, waiting for the next outburst, the next shift in his mood. Every little change in his tone, his reactions makes my chest tighten. I overthink, I worry, I prepare myself for the worst even when nothing has happened yet. And people say, “don’t take it personally, it’s the disease talking.” I try to hold on to that, I really do. But it’s hard, because sometimes, it doesn’t feel like the disease at all. It sounds like him. The same words, the same actions, things he used to do even before he got sick. And that’s the part that breaks me the most. Because I don’t know anymore where the illness ends and who he used to be begins. And honestly… that’s what makes it so exhausting.

Lately, I’ve been feeling this strong urge to isolate myself and just carry everything on my own. I don’t want to disturb anyone or drag them into whatever I’m going through. I keep telling myself they don’t deserve to feel the same stress and heaviness I’m feeling. They already have their own battles — I don’t want to add mine to the pile. But at the same time, there’s this quiet part of me that wishes someone would just be there. And that’s the confusing part — wanting support while also wanting to disappear. I don’t want to come off like everything is about me. I don’t want to look weak. So I stay quiet… even when I’m tired of being strong on my own.

Earlier today, we visited my father in the mental hospital. I thought I had prepared myself for what I might see but nothing could have prepared me for what was actually there. The image of him, in his current condition, is something I know will haunt me for a long time. Photos and videos aren’t allowed due to the hospital’s privacy policy. Because of his fragile medical state, they wouldn’t let him out during visiting hours. Instead, they allowed us to step inside the ward for a brief look. It felt like walking into a prison, metal grills lining the hallway as we made our way in. We weren’t allowed to go near him. We could only see him through those metal bars, his bed about twenty feet away from where we stood. He was lying there, arms and legs restrained for his safety and because of his behavior. His body looked so thin, so frail. So unlike the father I knew. I asked a few questions to the nursing attendant assigned to him, trying to steady my voice. Then it was time to leave. We h...