my thoughts in bare

I cried so much when he got sick and during the worst stages of his dementia—more than I did on the day he passed away. Most days, I'm okay. Sometimes, I even feel guilty for being okay after he died. Shouldn't I be crying? That's how people grieve, right? I don't know. God, forgive me if this is wrong, but somehow, I felt a little relieved afterward. A few months before he passed away, I even thought I had an undiagnosed mental disorder because I kept choosing to set aside my own health instead of getting myself properly checked. During one of his emergency room visits, a psychiatrist assessed me and said I might have Caregiver Depression Syndrome. All those sleepless nights, panic attacks, constantly being on alert, overthinking, days of nonstop crying, and the overwhelming mix of sadness, stress, exhaustion, and every emotion in between. There were times when it didn't even feel like I was dealing with the disease anymore, especially during his severe episodes of...

Every time someone tells me that you must be proud of me, I feel a little pain. I don't know what to feel. We had a lot of misunderstandings and argued a lot. I wasn't able to give you the life you dreamed of. All my life, I struggled to meet your expectations and earn your approval. I worked so hard, but it always seemed like it was never enough. Now that you're gone, I still find myself wondering if you were proud of me, of the person I became and of the things I've accomplished. During your final moments, Mama's friend told us to talk to you and say whatever we wanted to say because you might still be able to hear us. I stared blankly at your frail body and didn't know what to say. I watched my sister cry beside you as she hugged you for the last time, and my brother held your hand as he cried silently. I stood in the corner of our house, my mind completely blank. Life goes on after you've passed away. Most of the time, I tell myself I'm fine, but the...

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.