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vicjrcajilig · 7 years

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The Color of Grief: A Brother’s Reminiscence and Unsaid Eulogy

Disclaimer: This post contains more than 2,000 American English words, making it a five-page read. If you get bored easily with reading, feel free to discontinue. This is nothing like the stuff you see on Facebook that uncomplicatedly tickles your fancy. This is of somewhat eulogistic nature.

It must be one of the deepest cuts made by pain, if not the deepest and worst, to have ever known by the human body. It’s not the kind of sadness you will ever want to feel one more time for the strange, selfish purpose of just feeling something. It’s not the spur-of-the-moment kind of sadness or that sadness you get on Sundays because it’s Monday the next day. It’s worse than disappointments or goodbyes leading to long distance relationships. As a matter of fact, to my surprise, it feels dark. I’m not sure how dark feels like but it’s the best way I can describe it, if I were to, from how my senses translate. It’s too dark of a feeling I can’t even cite a shade or color to resemble its darkness. You can’t say it’s grey, though grey denotes gloom, but it’s still too bright for me; never dark, never gloomy. If there had ever been a shade darker than Cimmerian or ebony or pitch-black, it must be it. But there’s none; black is the darkest. So it has to be black—nothing else. Maybe that’s why mourners wear black to mean they’re grieving. Maybe that’s why death is always visualized in black.

My friends, meet Grief. I’m talking about grief, that deep cut inflicted by pain itself; that feeling of blackness.

What do I know about pain and sadness, anyway? How was I able to know which sadness is worse? How dare I? Well, trust me; I have known them… until I met grief. And so far, it’s not nice meeting Grief. It’s the darkest, darker than vengeance or romantic heartbreak or have them combined. Ultimately, it’s grief at the peak of the pyramid. It’s too dark you can’t even grope yourself, let alone grope for support while in it. The feeling of getting lost and emptiness has never been so true.

All of this is unprecedented. I never saw bereavement until this. It’s a personal life record. I was born without grandparents hovering and playing strict and overprotective around me like how yours do or did around you. I’ve known the concept of funerals but I wouldn’t know how it felt like for those in loss. I’ve seen a few burials and it was not quite a sight to see (and hear). And twelve days ago, life’s roulette stopped at us—we sent our eldest to her grave. Oh what a black, black picture to look at.

Funny how I’d found it a little inhuman when Casey Affleck’s character in “Manchester by the Sea” reacted to his older brother’s passing. It was a phone call. He never shed a tear; neither was shocked nor seen in pain. But just like him, I got to shrug it off. Casey Affleck won Best Actor here so I ought to trust his emotional interpretation and I was also taking into consideration that maybe it was some typical American behavior or accustomed manifestation of machismo because even the son of the dead brother was never taken grieving and despondent. I’d carried on, ending up loving the movie anyway. Then, one Tuesday noon, it was a phone call too. An unregistered number rang me up to tell me that our eldest sister was found dead, that she apparently took her own life (as what was also impetuously blazoned on social media for the intention of gossiping and for the self-gratification from gaining likes which by the way reached one of my then unknowing brothers. Just one of the many reasons why I’ve loathed Facebook. It’s brimming with fake news and thirsty users. Dude, if you’re reading this shit, hope you rang up your purpose!). I was shocked, yes. I was clueless and in utter disbelief, too. I felt my body temperature rose like fever but maybe much worse. It was one typical, sweltering day but whatever temperature upsurge I felt was no way caused by it. I was stuttering throughout the call, too shaken to ask my hows and whys. I managed to do so but I couldn’t seem to absorb every excruciating fact the caller had to say. I felt no imminent tear to complete the mood, though. “Manchester by the Sea” was nothing less than emotionally accurate, I accordingly conclude. It was not something only Americans could pull off. To hear it first before anyone from my siblings was something I would never ask for; to hear real-life tragedy from my ear through my head and heart to imbibe was, however, something I would never want. Who would, anyway? I’d finally cried before that unforgettable Tuesday ended.

Ate Eng died alone. She died alone and probably in pain. She died on the floor behind a locked door, alone. She died ALONE that one night and wasn’t found until the sun was fully lit up in the sky. Her heart stopped while mine kept beating. I woke up that following morning; she did not. She wasn’t at least rushed to the hospital for the hope of performing anything medically useful for the chance to make her breathe the same air I breathe now and that she freely used to. These truths will forever wound my heart. This will forever be torturing. This will forever be haunting. Ate Eng, how I wish I were there with you that night. But if that was incontestably your last night, well at least you did not die alone… at least you were found earlier than noon.

Or you could have at least gasped my name.

I would love to blame myself just for the sake of putting the blame, but this was clearly nobody’s doing. And from the bottom of my heart, from the littlest string of it to each of its beating, I am still thankful to those who found you. I could only imagine their anguish finding you. There. Alone.

Ate “Eng,” born Florvic, was our eldest sister. Her demeanor and tone might’ve stricken you for someone of strong personality but she was fundamentally sweet and generous; to others, helpful and cheerful. If you’d ask me what can possibly be her impalpable legacy, it’s her cooking, for she was the best cook in the family, even way better than Mama. It must be her twists to typical dishes and the span of her culinary skills. I remember how she’d used to love cuddles in bed when I was still small enough for her tight embrace; when she’d loved clothing me with OshKosh B’Gosh; how she’d mashed Libby’s Vienna sausage to mix with my rice then loved it so much I could have the same thing thrice a day; when she’d cleaned my ears with “Baby JR,” as she called the Q-tips (cotton buds); when she’d supported me in my childhood Teletubbies collection and the BeyBlade frenzy; when she’d gifted me so much Ragnarok Online merchandise on my high school graduation that unexaggeratedly filled a big bed; when we’d used to hang out in Glorietta, her favorite mall, at Timezone when we were kids and watch movies and pig out when we grew older. These times will additionally remind me how she’d used to require sticking either of my hands into her jeans’ back pocket to keep me close through crowded malls; when she’d gone with us and paid for our school supplies; when she would intone, “So sad!” under so sad situations. And more little things such as her snorts, her sneezes, her loud laughter, her teenage fondness for Looney Tunes and Mickey and Minnie Mouse, her premium taste in shoe wear, flip flops, and smartphones; and the mosquito nets customized to serve as her blankets. She was a sweet sister to me from my Baby JR years even until I’ve outgrown the cuddles she loved and the OshKosh I didn’t really like. She was the reason behind my most coveted Canon, most significantly. It’s a material thing but, mind you, because of it, I will be forever indebted for making me believe that dreams can still come true.

She was not invariably the ideal flawlessly sweet sister though, because she was ill-tempered at the most part. She was temperamental, choleric. Scolding my twin brothers had been a common scene among them like how she used to do with me when I was their age. As she aged and so did all of us, her string of patience towards us seemed to have never been any lengthier. Maybe that was one way she was aging. The same sweetness we grew up with lingered nonetheless; she would always be the sweet sister, as sweet as the bars of chocolates she would hand us as peace offering after getting herself at the top of her lungs. Now, in return, I wish I could hand her anything more than the beauty and fragrance of pink flowers and the wisps of smoke from candles or even this writing. Little did she know we are not big fans of chocolates. But I would love to let her know that we will forever be a fan of her sweetness, untainted throughout the years.

Death is real, so I have realized. I know people naturally die but you will never understand until it’s right there at your face. Losing someone for good is real. I’ve never seen my father cry before nor seen my mother in so much misery as I kept her in my arms (just imagine their pain sending their child—their eldest to the grave). Hence, death. We’ll never see her on her pink scooter again. Hence, death. We’ll never smell her perfume or her hair shampoo or her body lotion again. Hence, death. We’ll never hear her laughing again that everyone but our family will remind them of her. Hence, death. We’ll never taste her Java Rice, baked mac & cheese, lasagna, crab omelet, panna cotta, and well-spiced sunny side-up again. Hence, death. We, the seven children, will never be seen seven again. Hence, death. We can see her smiling again only in pictures and see her alive on videos (how I wish I had more pictures and videos with her!). Death, so now I’ve realized, is real. And it pains to think about it. It pains worse to accept it.

What hurts me even more is that everything about her is now was. Everything about her is now in past tense. She’s now was.

In this ordeal, I have found out that strength of one’s soul is also real, that the soul has to be taken care of for the sake of holding up well. You don’t simply hold up, you have to hold up well. You have to keep your soul intact. You have to keep sane (what kept us sane was our first ever nephew. Without Allen, this could’ve been more of a struggle. Without him, we could hold up, yes, but could never hold up fast and well). Lastly, you have to be strong for the people around you who need strength. Strength is contagious and in fact absorbable. Trust me; it’s true. The first week was the worst for me. Well, of course. I couldn’t stand being alone in one room. I consistently longed for another human presence, particularly of another family member. I couldn’t listen to sad songs (much less danceable and happy ones) or play Ragnarok or read George R.R. Martin to at least divert my attention even for a short while. And my appetite was fucked up. My system was all down and out, seemingly too tired to normally function. It just happened that I have a bunch of brothers and an irresistible nephew, so I am pretty lucky. I’ve never felt guilty of walking at the mall while there she lay in her casket (because I had thought I could distract myself that way).I've never felt guilty of delighting in good food while there she lay in her casket, probably starving. I’ve never felt guilty of wearing bright colors while there she lay in her casket (though I would love to be clad in black every day, only I ran out of black t-shirts shortly the second day). I felt like I didn’t deserve happiness and enjoyment in any way while she lay there in her casket. Oh fuck—the thought of her lying like a log, breathless in a rectangular container so-called “casket” was too true to accept as true… until I saw her that night. There. In a beautiful white and gold casket beneath a white canopy of lacy textile and the crucifix. There I looked down at her for the first time since her death with all-out agony and sympathy. There she lay, looking like Mama. Stiff. Lifeless. Nestled in the mergence of scents of death and candle and pink rose and white daisy and dahlia. A scent that is now imprinted in me as the scent of death and grief, and nobody’s but only hers. White… Can grief be as pure as white?

Just like that, she’s now dead and gone. And she’s only 35. She never had the chance of bearing a child, of playing the part with motherhood. Of being a wife, she will never walk the altar in white (I couldn’t imagine her in traditional wedding dress, though! I just can’t hahaha). She could have done more things in life, especially plans for their future. But along with her, that future withered away. But I can say she was at least happy, thanks to her partner Kuya Marvin. She did not take her own life, by the way, as clinically affirmed. She might have been ill-tempered and anxious at times but she was a woman of hope and strength. The strength of her soul had always been unswerving and she was surrounded with love (as shown by the number of people who went to her 14-day wake until the pre-burial mass). Suicide is the last thing she could’ve ever had in mind.

I wrote this down not for owning up my regrets, for there’s nothing I’ve regretted. I had better memories with Ate Eng. All I want to say, however, is I’m certainly going to miss her every single day as long as I live. Her presence may be gone, her body may have been buried six feet down the ground, but she will forever be in our hearts, never for a second be forgotten. I can light a candle every day for her if I could. I will make sure it’s pink, too—hold up now, can’t it be pink? Can pink resemble this grief? It’s her favorite color anyway. No?

So, this is how grief feels like. Now I know. And it’s been empty and dark, like you’re the one buried. For those who are putting up with this darkness, be strong. It substantially means you should keep eating and keep sane. Then take time to grieve—cry away. It’s okay. Get as much hugs as possible. I know it’s not going to be a walk in the park. I should know. I know it’s black and dark but light will cut through as you heal over time. Don’t let its blackness discolor your soul all over. Just remember that there’s no sadness in this short, borrowed life that will stay ubiquitous and can remain tender forever. There’s no such thing as incurable unhappiness where the cure is not something you take orally but can only be wrung from the strength of the soul with what and who surround us. Hugs and crying also help.

I told you, it’s really black. I was born colorblind but I know what black is. It’s in fact my all-time favorite color and I bet Ate Eng knew it. I was born color deficit but I know how black feels now. It’s more than a color or a shade now. Now that I know what grief is, I don’t want to feel it over again. It cuts too deep.

Black will do, but just in case you find a shade darker than black, oh please let me know. Help a colorblind. Help a grieving colorblind. Help someone who’s been feeling black.

“The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same nor would you want to.” ― Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

I will miss you every single day of my life, big sister. Every. Single. Day.

-Baby JR

20 October 1981 - 23 May 2017

#grief #holding up #death #agony #sorrow #sister #family #black #eulogy

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