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 agitation. It felt like we were just trying to survive.
Now, all of that is gone.
I remember one of his worst episodes. I was crying so hard that I found myself wishing he would just die so all the suffering would finally end. Looking back, I realized I didn't actually want him to die. I just wanted all the suffering—the exhaustion, the pain, and the helplessness—to end for both of us.
There are still days when I feel empty and can't even describe what I'm feeling. Most of the time, I tell myself that maybe that's okay.
I think I started grieving long before he passed away. Somehow, I knew this day would come as I watched his health slowly decline. Even then, I still held on to hope and continued taking him to every check-up, hoping things would somehow get better.
Every night, I still find myself looking for him whenever I go downstairs. I've stopped checking the CCTV because that was something I used to do every night while working, just to make sure he was okay and sleeping peacefully.
Before I fall asleep, I always hope to see him in my dreams. I hope to see him happy, at peace, and smiling the way he did in his old photos when he was young. I hope to hear him tell me that he's okay—that he's no longer suffering, and that he's not angry with me or with anyone anymore.
I still find it hard to understand grief. Maybe there isn't really a right or wrong way to go through it. Maybe this is simply what mine looks like.
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