This past two weeks got me thinking about how
life can sometimes be so generous and shitty at the same time. The night before
Ama passed away I was walking to work and I had my phone out because I was
reading this article about shipwrecks and grief and how it comes in waves.
While I was walking I was like “Fuck. That was profound.”
So it got me thinking about this other quote
by Henry Longfellow. I am pretty sure that most of you have heard of the phrase
that goes something like this: “We are all ships passing through the night.”
According to linguists/literary scholars,
this phrase is sort of metaphor for two people who meet for a brief intense
moment in their lifetime and then part ways never to see each other again. But
let’s be honest here. We all know they’re just all waxing poetic.
We are all ships passing through the night – to
me this means that life…and all the relationships we have through the duration
of it, is fleeting. It’s that simple. Sometimes, if we’re lucky enough, we get
to be on a cruise and the sea will be smooth-sailing most of the time if not
all through out. Sometimes, if we’re really super lucky, we meet someone like
Ama. Someone who is quiet but steady and strong and true.
To people who’ve seen me grow up know how my
relationship was with Ama. Was. That’s a shitty word don’t you think? Really
shitty word. Anyway, you know how he’d bike me around until I fell asleep. You
know how he’d take me to and from school since I started studying. What some of
you may not know though is that he is also the man who taught me how to count
by teaching me how to play tong-its. He’s also the man who taught me how to
ride a bike and how to fix or change the tires of said bike. He’s the man who
carried me inside the house even if he knows I’m only pretending to be asleep.
Even after I got too heavy to be carried, he carried me anyway. I don’t really
remember this memory but they told me that when I was about 2 or 3 years old, I
wouldn’t drink my milk if it wasn’t him or Uncle Pog who made it. So yeah, the
man is basically my hero.
It may not also be common knowledge but he
was supposed to follow his siblings who are already in America but allegedly I
told him that if he goes there, no one would take care of me anymore. I say
allegedly because I really don’t remember telling him that. They’d tell me, “He
didn’t leave for you.” Now, people have been asking me for months why I haven’t
left the country yet…I normally don’t answer but the truth is, I couldn’t leave
because of him. I was afraid that when his time came I won’t be here and so
here we are.
Remember that article that I was talking
about? The one about shipwrecks and grief? It goes something like this: A
reddit user posted a question. His best friend just died and he didn’t know
what to do. Many offered their condolences and
advice but one of them stood out the most. GSnow said:
Alright, here goes. I'm old.
What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known
and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers,
grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host
of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to
lose a child. But here's my two cents.
I wish I could say you get used
to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me
whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it
to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My
scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with
that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a
testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply
and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and
continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever
was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't
see.
As for grief, you'll find it
comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage
all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and
the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is
float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe
it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's
a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay
alive.
In the beginning, the waves are
100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and
don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and
float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are
still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still
crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can
function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song,
a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just
about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is
life.
Somewhere down the line, and
it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or
50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see
them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare.
You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it
washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other
side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the
wreckage, but you'll come out.
Take it
from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want
them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And
you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots
of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.
This past two weeks I have been reminded
several times that it was my birthday yesterday. This past two weeks no one has
really seen me cry. Truth is, this past two weeks I have been trying hard not
to lose it. The waves are a hundred feet tall and they have been coming in
quick successions and I have been gasping for breath. So no I couldn’t cry yet.
I have to survive first.
Tomorrow I go back to work. Before, Ama would
always say “asikasom so laman mod tan anak a.” Take care of yourself, he’d say.
I won’t be hearing that from him starting tomorrow. So fuck it.
Weeks, or months from now maybe it won’t be
so hard. Maybe the waves of grief would stop coming in so quickly. Maybe they
won’t be as tall now. I don’t know. What I do know is that not all heroes wear
capes. Ama is proof of that. Logic follows that I was raised by a hero.
Therefore, one would deduce that I am resilient. I’m a tough cookie and I can
handle the waves.
