She now lives in a castle

It is as though the sun no longer shines as bright since my sister, my Manang, passed away a year ago. And while I can usually keep the sense of loss at bay, it’s harder now that it’s winter, when the slightest chill feels like a cold embrace of her absence.

I saw her in 2019 when she and our brother, Toto, dropped me off at Naia, arriving too early for my flight to Japan because I wanted to eat with them at Jollibee. I told them that when they come to pick me up again the following year for my vacation, I wanted my first meal when I land in the Philippines to be at Jollibee.

But I was only able to go home in September 2022, Toto waiting for me alone in Naia. I knew through video chatting that he lost a lot of weight, but there was something new about him that I was only able to fully comprehend when I later saw our parents and younger siblings. They all looked broken.

I wonder if I looked broken, too, and it’s the reason why well-meaning friends have been telling me to consider therapy to deal with my grief.

Grief is strange though.

I don’t know how to explain that despite the knowledge that my family and friends love me, I wake up every day hearing my heart shatter. I’d hold my breath for a second, hoping that somehow, I can trick my body to forget the pain. I’m not sure if anyone will understand if I try to say that her death was like a restart button. All the feelings I had, both good and bad, died with her.

Manang died of tuberculosis, like a character in a novel set in the 1800s.

Toto took the earliest flight from Capiz, our hometown, to Manila when we learned she was severely ill. The restrictions imposed due to COVID made traveling for our family very difficult. Hospital admission was also nearly impossible.

Her condition got worse that one night, out of desperation, they drove around the city, Manang plastered to an oxygen tank, and begged several hospitals to take her in. She was finally able to get a bed at Child’s Hope, where she stayed in the ER for four days. She messaged me she was scared of being there all by herself. No one was allowed inside aside from patients.

Through Child’s Hope’s efforts, Manang was transferred to Pasig City Medical Center, a tertiary hospital where she was able to get better medical care. She had a room, and Toto was allowed to stay with her.

They were in the hospital for a few months, Manang very apologetic about the situation. She told me she’d close her eyes out of shame during diaper change; our brother shouldn’t be doing this. She said she was very sorry that she had to trouble us every time.

Medication did not work. We were told she needed surgery, but her body won’t be able to take it and had to wait until she was stronger. Carol, a good friend from work, helped us get in touch with another lung specialist and heard the same thing. As advised, they took her home and continued her medication, but after a few weeks, she was rushed back to the hospital.

A strange voice on the phone—it was Papa telling me she was declared brain dead, and we had to decide if she will be put on life support. I could hear the rain in the background, my father sobbing, he did not want her to suffer further so we must let her go. Toto and I convinced him not to give up just yet.

On Oct. 4, 2021, Manang passed away. She was 30 years old.

In the three weeks that I stayed with my family during my holiday, without fail, Mama would light a candle for her every 6 p.m. The only times we seemed to forget about our pain was when we did karaoke at home. I especially loved it when Papa sang classic OPM because I got to hear his old voice again, not this new one where he sounds like he may end up crying, the voice he used that somehow stuck with him when he told me we will be flying my sister’s remains to Capiz instead of having it cremated, so her little boy can have a sense of closure.

Liam, her four-year-old son, explained to me his mom died. “She lives in a castle now,” he said. He offered to show me his memory with her. As we were looking through their photos, he said his mom was beautiful. His words and innocence gave me peace. This child is my religion.

In the chaos of the pandemic where there was an overwhelming number of stories of patients randomly classified as COVID-positive, I am grateful that ours was different. She tested negative, and we were able to give her a proper burial. The medical staff patiently provided my family updates about my sister’s condition when she was in the ICU despite the stress they must have been facing. Her doctor was kind enough to tell Papa she woke up a few hours before she died and told him she wasn’t in pain.

I wouldn’t have survived without my friends in Japan—Su for crying with me when I heard the news and embracing me and my pain, Gen for dropping plans when I called so she can hold my hands, Ria for always listening, Natalie for staying out with me when I was so scared of the silence in my apartment, Bianca for assuring me I will be able to live through the pain, Quima for reminding me we all cope differently, and Carol for generously calling in personal favors to help and for being around every time I was in terrible need of emotional support.

I miss my sister, my Manang, but missing her is like a disease without any cure.

I hope Liam is right: that she now lives in a castle, near the sea, where the sun shines brightly and never sets.

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Flora Bisan, 28, is a paralegal currently based in Osaka, Japan.