Pieces of grief

Throughout my life, death was merely an idea—an unfamiliar concept that floated far away in the depths of my consciousness. Ignored. It was something that happened in stories, or to people I didn’t know. And I was lucky enough that it was so. Until one day, when the mother of one of my closest friends passed away from cancer.

I remember coming home, feeling grief, yet at the same time, barely able to imagine the full force of my friend’s despair. I remember putting my arms around my own mother and wondering why my friend, as kind and good as she was, had to be dealt with such a tragedy so early in her life. That was my first piece of grief.

I made the decision to spend as much time as I could with my parents. I made sure to eat the delicious dinners my mother made every day. I told them about my day and how much I loved them. I also made a promise to myself that I would pursue happiness and good experiences, because that’s what my parents would want me to do with the life they’ve given me and the opportunities they’ve worked hard for me to have. Half of me will always be my mother, and the other half will always be my father. My happiness, therefore, is their happiness. Being happy is the greatest thing I can do for them.

When the pandemic began, I thought it would go away as quickly as it came. I was very wrong. It first took lives one by one, then in the hundreds, and then thousands. Soon, millions of lives were lost to that insidious virus. I thought my family and I could escape it unscathed. Until one day, when my father came home coughing.

Soon, he tested positive for COVID-19. After he was admitted to the hospital, my mother talked to us over dinner. With exhausted eyes peeking over her face mask and an equally tired voice, she gravely told us to take care of each other if anything ever happened to her and my father. I remember crying in bed that night, faced with the reality of the mortality of people I loved. The next day, my mother was admitted to the hospital herself. In a room beside my father, she listened to his incessant coughing as she was hooked up to Remdesivir. That was my second piece of grief.

I prayed as much as I could each night, begging God to keep my parents alive. Once again, I was reminded of the finiteness of the time each of us had on this earth. Eventually, both my father and mother’s symptoms improved until they could return home.

Sometimes, I have nightmares about losing either one of my parents. A white casket with my mother’s photo above it. Calling out for my father and receiving no response. I’d always wake up with a start, drenched in sadness, as if my heart had been split into two. The sight of the sun arrives with relief, however, and I make my way downstairs. My mother is sitting on the couch, playing the Wordscapes she enjoys so much on her phone. I peek through the door, and my dad is in the garage, poking around his countless metal and wooden contraptions willy-nilly. And everything in my world is right again.

My fear and anxiety have taught me to value every little moment a little more—making my mother laugh when we unwittingly match outfits, watching my dad take his selfies with the same angle every time we eat out, and every time we get to laugh together as a family.

Earlier this year, my family made the trip to Baguio for my dog’s seventh birthday. Out of nowhere, he started limping while exploring the vast forest of Camp John Hay. Knowing that he was nearing a senior’s age, we feared that he had arthritis. Even if his limp eventually faded away after we let him rest more and walk less, the vet said that he may be experiencing early stages of arthritis. That was my third piece of grief.

I once watched a YouTube documentary by The Guardian about terminally ill patients. Whenever I wonder about the finiteness of life and the sadness it brings, I like to remember what the palliative care doctor in that documentary said: “Life is temporary. I feel grateful for the fact that I won’t be here forever because it forces me to make meaning with the time I do have.” And like the protagonist of my favorite TV series once said, “Nothing lasts forever. But that’s not always a bad thing.”

These days, death is no longer a mere idea—it’s a fact of life. A full-fledged possibility. These pieces of grief serve as quotidian reminders for me to live my life meaningfully and prioritize what and who matters the most. Though death scares me, it strengthens me to go on living. Though it fills me with fear, it also fills me with love.

Margarita Beatrice Uy Cabochan, 17, is a freshman studying political science at the University of the Philippines Diliman.