Coping Mechanism

(written Friday, June 19, 2009)

I learned of a friend's father passing yesterday morning. I didn't get a chance to meet him, but I know that loss is always a tragedy.

Last night, Ellis and I were in bed as we're reading our friend's email. He sounded strong, despite his obvious pain. And suddenly, everything came crashing back. I felt like I was 10 again, standing in the back of a dim-lit room, as people came up to a bronze casket 15, maybe 20 feet away from me.

At first, it was great seeing all my friends and family gather and celebrate my mother's life with stories of her glory days. A lot of people tried to keep their tact, as if I might feel tortured by stories I might never have with her--adventures to foreign countries or wining and dining with my mom's big-shot friends. No, I didn't know my mother in that way. I think I liked my version of my mother better--elegant, caring, giving, and though she was the life of gatherings at home, she never failed to share the light. So they had their stories. And I had mine. It was okay.

The worst was when it gets quiet.

Sometimes, I'd sneak into my yaya's quarters in the middle of the night, just to listen to her tell me stories of when my mom was a little girl like me, or when she was growing up, or when she started dating my dad. Like a junkie, I became dependent on the stories. It kept me alive for that one-week wake, never shedding a tear, never blinking an eye, never counting sheep.

The day of the funeral, everybody was exhausted. And I guess for the sake of solemnity, nobody spoke much. I remember getting antsy. But I knew I had to stay strong.

I came up to the podium for the eulogies. I had written a poem expressing my goodbyes. Surprisingly, I got through it fine. Still no tears. Still no blinking. Still no sheep. Two other people spoke for my mom that day. My uncle was bawling throughout his speech. I still had no tears, no blinking, no sheep.

It was when they were slowly pushing her bronze bed into the cement confines built for her in the family mausoleum that the crowd burst into wailing. I started feeling that unease in the pit of my stomach. So I tried to tell myself stories but it got too loud, I couldn't hear myself think. And it got so frustrating I broke down, not because this what IT, but because I couldn't hear the stories.

When people started to leave, everything got quiet again. And I cried all over again. This time, for my mom. This time, because it finally sunk in--things are never going to be the same again. When things go bad, she won't be around to make things better. And when things are good, she won't be around to make it a celebration. She's really gone.

Gradually, the stories stopped coming. It's not that my family forgot about my mother. It's just that now, people have accepted the circumstances. Maybe it was easier that way.

Sometimes a story or two will come up at family gatherings, mostly at weddings, when they do the whole couples-growing-up video. But all my cousins are married now, save for a couple closer to my age. Since the funeral, I've started shedding tears when the topic of my mom comes up. They say it's healthy. And I've started counting sheep, hoping she'll turn up in one of my dreams. She hasn't yet. And I'm still waiting.

Now whenever I hear about losing someone dear, I can't help but feel sad, even though I don't know the person. Everything comes rushing back, and it pains me to know, this is just the beginning for them. The pain is still raw, and it'll feel like there's no end to it. Truth is, the pain never goes away. But you learn to live with it.