Perfect Storm

On the fourth month after Karlo’s death, I found myself grappling with guilt. I’ve read that those who were bereaved by suicide have 2 recurring questions: 1) Why did he/she do it? 2) Could I have done anything to prevent it? For me, the latter is the one that rears its ugly head from time to time.

Images from that night started to resurface even though I tried my best to keep them at bay. His color was the most distressing detail. Since we were married, I’ve always been keenly aware of him, using small visual cues to gauge how he was feeling. Like whenever we were out drinking with friends, I could tell by the color of his lips when he’s had too much to drink. I’d tell him gently to ease up and he trusted my judgement. And the time when he dislocated his shoulder after he came home from the gym — he fell down in pain and I ran to him when I saw how pale his face was. We were able to reduce his shoulder back into its socket and his color returned. But that night was different. When I found him, he wasn’t even pale anymore, his skin was sallow and mottled. I was too late and I felt like a failure. I felt like I failed to protect him, to take care of him, to keep him alive.

My rational brain knows that these thoughts don’t make sense, that I shouldn’t feel this way and that I shouldn’t dwell on it. But feelings are irrational, they know no reason. Emotions sometimes demand to be felt in all their intensity until they ebb away. So I let myself run through the day’s details all over again, even though I wanted nothing more than to forget about everything.

I was actually in the garden earlier that afternoon and I wanted to check on him in the guest room. But I remembered that he said he usually went there to talk on the phone with the person he was dating, so I wanted to give him some privacy. He felt caged in enough with the community quarantine and I didn’t want to add to that.

I thought back to the past two times that he was suicidal — the first one was in June last year and I had no idea that he was feeling that way. He did something nice for me that afternoon and I appreciated it so much, that I felt like giving him a hug. I looked for him upstairs and started getting worried when I couldn’t find him in the usual places. I finally saw him sitting by himself in the lower balcony, livid with rage at some argument he was having in a group chat. When I saw his face, I sat with him and listened while he shared his anger and disillusionment, until he started sobbing and admitted that he needed help.

The second time was in December, a day after I came home from a 3-day out of town trip. He was already living on his own by that time, but stayed here at home with one daughter while I was traveling with the other. It was a hectic weekend for the both of us, and it was such a relief that the weekend was over, and that we both were able to cover all parental responsibilities. I knew he was exhausted from being one of the chaperones on a school field trip and having to complete one of his deliverables at work, so with a sheepish smile, I asked him if I could just finish my coffee before I dropped him off at his place. There was something in the way he looked — puffy eyes and hunched over while sitting there, waiting for me to drive him back to Berkeley. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but he looked utterly defeated. I tried to cheer him up by talking about the guy he was dating, tangentially at first, to kind of let him know that I am aware of it and that I’m fine He smiled and tried to hold up his end of the conversation for a few seconds until his face suddenly crumbled and he blurted out what he was planning to do when he was alone at his place.

In both of those near-misses, I had no idea that he was at the end of his rope. I just happened to be there at the right time. With his third attempt, my gut instinct failed; I felt a heavy knot of worry in my stomach hours too late.

I know it’s ridiculous for me to shoulder the guilt, but it just won’t go away. I feel like I should have done more, tried harder, followed him closely or something. I started doubting my decision to give him space on that day, and in the previous months in general.

I was aimlessly reading “Not by Sight: A Fresh Look at Old Stories of Walking by Faith” by Jon Bloom, when I came across this line: “Therefore I tell you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven — for she loved much.” I got stuck there for a while and started tearing up. 1 Peter 4:8 (NLT) floated into my mind: “Most important of all, continue to show deep love for each other, for love covers a multitude of sins.”

I tried to think back on how I dealt with our separation after I was done with my knee-jerk reactions of anger and lashing out and all that. Giving him the space that he needed and respecting his decisions were based entirely on (agape) love. I loved him as a person, an adult with his own wants and needs; I didn’t just want to preserve a version of him that suited me and my needs, but accepted that complex human being, flaws and all. I want to believe that that is enough. I want to believe that that was what he needed to feel during his short stint on earth.

Moving Out

It’s been three months since Karlo passed away. It’s been three months and I still wasn’t ready to empty his condo unit, but it had to be done anyway. The contract was up and the lease coordinator said that the building management was finally allowing non-residents to enter again.

I scheduled the move on a Friday because I knew that I would be completely useless afterwards. I took time off from work and asked Jun to come with me. I originally wanted to wait until Mom and Dad flew in, but given the current situation, that might not be possible for another couple of months.

The flashbacks were a beast.

The first time I walked down that hallway, I remember feeling hopeful for him. Sure, I was miserable for myself, but I was genuinely happy for him. He had so many things to look forward to. He was starting a new life, a chance to correct his “mistake”, a clean slate. The unit was small but beautifully designed, perfect for a single occupant. It was fully furnished and it stood out against all the other units that we viewed that day.

The last time I was there was in February. The girls were running way ahead of me, laughing and shouting “Daddy, Daddy!!!”, proudly showing me that they knew their way to their Dad’s place. We were all going to go swimming on that particularly hot day.

I got his keys from my bag and opened the door, and the familiar smell of his laundry and sheets welcomed me at the doorway. Scents have always been my strongest memory triggers and it smelled like he had just left the room a moment ago. I damn near cried right there, standing awkwardly at the doorway. Thanks a lot, amygdala.

I looked around before touching anything, just soaking in how he had left his room before he returned home to stay with us during the enhanced community quarantine. A few things sent sharp pangs of heartache here and there — the framed motivational quote that I made for him as a moving in present; the girls’ drawings and little love notes that he kept on his desk; the comb on the table close to the bathroom. He never used to own a comb or a hairbrush, but he finally bought one at some point so that the girls wouldn’t look so bedraggled every time they came home from his place.

Two of Karlo’s uncles and two other companions drove all the way from the south to help me haul everything back home. There wasn’t really a lot to bring home, just 3 moving boxes and a couple of bags, mostly containing clothes, kitchen stuff and some personal effects. I carefully decided on which items would go at the very top of the boxes, so that I can grab them right away without having to go through a million memories that I wasn’t ready to wrestle with at the moment. The sheets and Snorky the Snorlax plushie were at the very top; I was planning on dropping them off at the laundry shop the very next day. The file case with a few important documents, and his laptop computer were right underneath the bed sheets, to be kept safe in my office. The rest will just have to sit there in their boxes until Mom and Dad get here.

When we were done, I took one last look around at the empty unit, checking if we had overlooked anything. I could almost hear Karlo’s usual corny reply to my did-we-leave-anything last scan before checking out of hotels and resorts. He would always feign alarm and say, “Wait!! We did leave something…*deep sigh*… MEMORIES.” Sobrang baduy, nakakainis! I always rolled my eyes at him, but I think this time, he would be right. He did leave memories here. I wasn’t part of those memories, but they included his solo bonding moments with the kids. It was their cool after-school hang out with a swimming pool. It was his own space where he lived, no matter how briefly, as an independent, working adult.

I was glad that Jun and I had other people there with us, or we might have been stuck in that room for ages, drowning in sentimentality. It was easier to pull myself together and just kind of hold it all in while we had company. Jun was the last one to leave, and I jokingly told him that I’ll just sit there and cry for a while after he drives off. It turned out not being much of a joke after all. I did end up sitting in our garage for about half an hour, just letting it all out before I had to run upstairs and observe the girls participate in their trial virtual classes for the coming school year.

I went back to the building today to settle Karlo’s remaining utility bills and I waited for the lease coordinator at the lobby. I suddenly recognized the song playing the background — it was “10,000 Reasons” by Matt Redman, a Christian worship song that the girls and I listened to at bedtime since they were toddlers. I’ve never heard worship songs being played in the building lobby before, but I’m glad I caught my favorite part of the song:

“The sun comes up

It’s a new day dawning,

It’s time to sing Your song again,

Whatever may pass

And whatever lies before me,

Let me be singing

When the evening comes.”

I definitely needed to hear that today. ❤ Bye, Berkeley.

Grit and Grace

“He made me this way. Why would He make me this way and then say it’s wrong to want what I want?”

That was Karlo’s major faith struggle. He walked away because he couldn’t understand why a ‘loving’ God would let anyone’s life be so miserable. The first time he realized that he liked men, he was mortified. He didn’t want it. He was a teenager at a new school, living in a different country, away from the rest of his family. He wanted to be ‘cool’, to have friends, to fit in, and he thought that being gay would lead to complications that he wasn’t ready to deal with.

Any sort of answer, even hypothetical ones, always led to dead ends. I gave up trying to find answers for him; it was really a conversation between him and God. He knew that because I openly said so. I told him that I wasn’t there to tell him what was right or wrong, that I didn’t have the answers to all the why’s, and that I didn’t have solutions to all his troubles. I was just there to walk with him through that turbulent road, just so that he wouldn’t be alone.

We used to have objective conversations from time to time when we talked as friends, not as husband and wife, and it felt so rewarding to get him to talk to me like he doesn’t have to tiptoe around fragile glass. In one of these conversations, I remember telling him that it seemed like he was living out of boxes, kind of like someone who moves houses so frequently that they don’t even bother unpacking anymore. My heart ached for him. I wanted him to have a home, to have a place where he felt and knew he belonged. During these dialogues, I felt like he unpacked a little bit more – the good, the bad, the ugly. And over time, I learned that I was able to accept him more, even when we didn’t always agree with each other.

I’m not some superhuman angelic being with a high tolerance for everything. I have always been bull-headed and temperamental, or at least I was, before I sincerely pursued my walk of faith with Jesus. With my relationship with Karlo, the one thing that held me together was grace.

I spent some time last night reading about grace before going to bed. It sounds like a plain enough word, like something you say before meals or another term to describe elegant movement. So I Googled it, searching specifically for its use in the context of Christianity. Simply defined, grace is “the freely given, unmerited favor and love of God.” I wrote down other memorable quotes on grace in my (resurrected) journal:

“Grace is love that cares and stoops and rescues.”

“Grace is unconditional love toward a person who does not deserve it.”

“Grace is mercy, not merit.”

“Grace is the opposite of karma, which is getting what you deserve.”

And the source of this grace is God Himself, as shown in the life of Jesus. After witnessing all the crimes and depravity that humans are capable of, Jesus did not recoil in revulsion or distance Himself from the “unclean” ones. Instead, he sat with them, shared meals with them, let them feel that there was Someone who loved them still, and ultimately died on the cross so that we can all have a shot at going to Heaven when we die.  That is pure grace, and that was what I wanted to extend to Karlo, who has been avoiding God and faith and anything spiritual in the past 2 years or so.

I remember praying about it one time, asking God to MAKE him listen, to MAKE him turn his life back around but His answer in my heart was, “He is running away from Me, but he still listens to you.” Seriously, that wasn’t the answer that I was hoping for. I knew it was going to be an intensely challenging and emotionally draining task. It was going to be tough, but I made it my mission of sorts to keep the line of grace open in Karlo’s life.

My obedience to God’s will at that time forced me to grow – I had to reexamine my motives in all my interactions with Karlo and be mindful of my thoughts and words. I had to keep going back to the Bible (mostly 1 Corinthians 13:4-7) to measure my love against the only acceptable standard for me. Not pop culture, not relationship or self-help books, none of those things…I wanted my love for Karlo to replicate God’s love for me, so I knew which standard to choose.

I wanted nothing less than pure, untainted grace.  I wanted Karlo to remember what it felt like to have God’s grace carry him through the deepest valleys and how that same grace can help him soar through triumphs once again. And in order to do that, I had to draw from my own personal experiences of God’s saving grace. I am stubborn by nature, and I’d like to believe that God used my stubbornness as a starting point. Like a potter (Jeremiah 18:1-6) or a silver smith (Malachi 3:2-4), He built on it, reshaped and refined it until it turned into grit.

My grit comes from grace, nothing more, nothing less.

And I will continue to draw from that same grace to fuel my grit — this time, for my daughters and for myself.

Grief to Gratitude

Yesterday was Karlo’s 40^th day. I was reminded of this about a week ago, when the Feast of the Ascension was announced in our community chat group. In the Christian faith, the Ascension is the 40^th day after the Resurrection of Jesus. It was when Jesus had left the physical world, was taken up to heaven to take His seat at the right hand of God the Father. Catholics hold some sort of memorial for the 40^th day after death. I’m not sure what other Christian denominations do, but whatever it is, I feel like the event is more of a traditional thing meant to comfort the bereaved family. I don’t know if I’m supposed to do anything special or something new — I’ve already been praying for Karlo long before we separated, and I still think about him several times a day. What I did do was to kind of check in with myself and see if there were some thoughts or feelings that I’ve been dodging.

I’ve mostly gotten over the Shoulda-Woulda-Coulda’s by now and the grief has somewhat faded. I was honestly taken aback by how hard grief hit me in the first place because I thought I had successfully distanced myself emotionally from Karlo. We were in a neutral yet comfortable territory of co-parenting while reestablishing our friendship post separation. I asked him to stay here with us when we first caught wind of the government’s plans for an Enhanced Community Quarantine, and we were doing okay except that I frequently nagged him to take a shower (not always successful by the way…LOL! Sorry, Karl!). In any case, relationship-wise, we were okay.

What I had come to realize was that the grief that was unleashed was not just from his death, but from the whole experience of loving someone fully, to having to yield and let him go from my life, and THEN *actually* letting him go from this life onto the next. I played it so well and had hidden my scars from the past year, so that he wouldn’t drown in guilt and have a chance at finding his happiness. The finality of death and not having him around to be on the receiving end of my pain gave me the freedom to open Pandora’s box and just let it all out. It’s been cathartic.

I recently reposted something about a ball in a box hitting a pain button as a representation of grief and I would like to add that, at least for me, every time the ball hits the pain button, it loses some energy and shrinks a little. That’s what I’ve been doing in the past couple of weeks – I just let that ball hit that button over and over, as much as it wanted, until it has gotten smaller and smaller and has lost most of its force. So, yeah, I’m doing okay (so far).

The kids are doing even better. They have recovered far quicker that I did, and I sometimes worry that they might be in denial or something. But then I remember that I prayed for that, for God to protect their hearts, so I really shouldn’t be surprised. I’m chalking it up as an answered prayer. Sometimes, I start feeling guilty for going back to my usual routines and having good days, but didn’t I pray for my heart too? Guilt loses its grip when I remember Who is helping me get back on my feet.

Karlo will never be forgotten. He was and always will be a part of me. Like a reflex, I know how he would react to certain situations – how he would laugh at witty memes that we loved to send to each other, which kind of smile would light up his face whenever the kids did anything funny or adorable, how he would tease me when I’m obsessed over a new plant…he has left the physical world but still lives in my mind and in my heart.

My prayers have also evolved in the past weeks from praying for his soul to find peace, to thanking God for bringing him into my life. Like an ostrich getting its head out of the sand, I’m starting to look around, taking stock of the things that I need to get back to. It’s a pretty long list, but I know Jesus is looking over my shoulder at that list, and I trust Him to walk with me as I take baby steps, one day at a time.

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Judges 18:6 (NLT) — “Go in peace,” the priest replied. “For the LORD is watching over your journey.”