Good Mourning

He ended her story in the morning of November 21.


The news reached me through my mother's text in the middle of external genitalia lecture. I felt my heart accelerate and knees wobble as an internal turmoil encouraged sneaking out to the comfort room or any far-flung corner until it all passed. But the uncertainty of what to do there kept me in my seat, silent, with eyes transfixed on the screen too weak to withhold emotion. Fortunately, every attention was deeply absorbed on their heavily taboo-shaped reactions about the body parts displayed in front.


I took off the moment my seatmate decided where she'd have lunch. PGH was calling. It lead me to where I last met my relatives. A desire to return to Bed 43, and have lunch with its present occupants slowly crept. Not knowing what to tell them and what good it would bring, I just stood outside Ward 4 and hid my sad self beside a pillar overlooking the first floor garden. I would've sat there to eat, but the chapel was calling. The innermost bench at the back was empty and there, I dropped my self control. I would've just stayed there and excused myself from afternoon dissection had the noon mass not began its prayer recitation.

I don't remember when but a verse popped into my head. Jesus wept. 

I've always wondered why we grieve when someone departs, even when knowing that they're headed to a better place. Why didn't Jesus rejoyce knowing Lazarus would be with the Father? Why is death such a sorrowful event? Perhaps simply because it meant the loved one wouldn't be with us anymore. That's a thought sad enough. Though better than anything, eternity with Him is unlike this life-- she'd no longer be the aunt, the sister, the mother, the wife. And Jesus allows us to weep. He understands; he went through it himself. Crying isn't lack of faith.

Somehow, I didn't lose my appetite. I ate in a dark corner in the second floor of the college building, with a couple of direct entrant I-med batchmates to whom I appeared sleepy. Though I didn't learn much, I got through afternoon dissection. I got through TRP chorale practice.

Several times, I thought of telling friends because I asked them to pray for her the day before. But the laryngeal muscles wouldn't budge. They volunteered nothing but unrelated speech.

Grief feels different since I let Jesus in. I can tell no one nothing, yet never feel alone. Comfort from another's words is never sought, because nothing they say ever comes close to His word. To share with friends feelings, to me, is simply to inform.

He joined me watch the Taft sidewalk performer from the platform of Pedro Gil station. I thought of sometime dropping in the alms box a portion of the transportation allowance an epidemiology research gave me for participation. The musician is admirable for earning a living that way. I bet he'd be elsewhere had a stable job been available. People gave, but not enough. Never enough. We watched as a lady, who I presume to be his wife (due to age, and behavior), handed him food. As he took a break, I embraced the feeling of how close He was. Right after the meal, the musician sang a Christian song.

Secure, I wallow in thoughts of all the birthdays she'd miss, the food she'd never cook, the people who didn't get to spend a last moment with her. . . It is strange to be telling the descendants she'll never meet of how she was the first of the siblings to go. Sometimes I'd wonder if we hadn't begged enough for her life. Several moments I wanted to ask Him why. I knew the answer, though. It's how He is most glorified.

It's the first in the long while that I actively seek to be miserable. When my maternal grandfather died, my grade-two-self tried blaming his death on ignoring his last request to watch the news because the selfish girl was watching Two Stupid Dogs. The thought is so ridiculous that my own reason rejects it, but I never liked that show again. The fact that I can't even blame myself scourges me.

This time, I want to blame myself for not praying unceasingly. Haven't asked enough people to pray, to beg. And the opportunity to pray with her was forever lost the moment I ignored her request. The most tormenting thing about it is that I know I am forgiven, yet the regret still isn't enough to eliminate the awkwardness of the task. I would still act the way I did if she asks me now.

It is perfectly clear that much of these thoughts are useless and counterproductive, not to mention fallacious, but the miserable insist on them anyway. She's the first death directly intertwined with my own path. She's as much a character in my story as I am in hers, and yet, her part ended just when I desire to know more about it.