Since my father died in 2022, I realized that the first year truly had been the hardest. I felt that Papix’s absence would've been unbearable had I gone through it alone. Thanks to Owen, Zk and Rn, there were several moments when they kept me alive—in the sense that I still had moments to appreciate life and be in it.
During the second year since his death, I’m not sure if I was already conscious of the “switch” that had been randomly triggered in the previous year. It now gets turned on and off at more controlled intervals. Although once it’s switched on, I cannot stop myself from feeling all the emotions of losing Papa again. Those memories come rushing in like pictures flipping randomly—very fast—but there would be specific ones that appear microsecond-slower than the rest. One of my favorite cards would probably be that snapshot of our Saturday routine breakfast at McDo Bajada when I was still in college. (I tear up as I type these words...) I remember one time when, instead of honey, I poured vinegar on top of my pancakes. The bottles looked almost indistinguishable due to their similar colors, and I immediately got irritated, wondering why they weren’t labeled properly so I could just enjoy my pancakes. But my father offered his pancakes instead so we could move on with our meal, discussing different topics that I deeply miss—his brilliance, the raw and impromptu thoughts about whatever I found interesting to talk about.
Papix, in this moment and in all other moments—not just for me, but for Mama, my sister, and my cou-sisters—was always that person with the highest level of patience. He would even try to be funny whenever possible to make the mood a bit lighter for everyone. Like in my next card—the scene where Papa would drive me on his motorcycle to Babak Wharf so I could attend my college classes in Davao (via pump boat—I wasn’t renting a room yet for a few weeks at that time). He’d be driving, wearing just a sando shirt, while I was in a jacket in the very early 5 a.m. trip from Penaplata, knowing how cold it would be. He would always joke “igang” while driving, while I was almost always freezing from the cold wind.
Another similar card comes from my college days a bit later. After a week-long boarding-house stay, I would again ride on Papa’s motorcycle by Saturday from Babak Wharf, finally heading home. One time, it was raining very hard, and Papa gave me his raincoat while he only wore a jacket. We would savor the little punches of rain on our faces, and he would joke in between—making the ride much more enjoyable than what could have been a miserable rainy moment. Imagine—he had just come from a full day of work, teaching Master’s classes on part-time role while taking PhD classes at the same university I attended. Yet he still treated our time together as a good brain break—and a Papa-daughter bonding.
Unlike the first year, my second year was more of a controlled “grief work” I must say. I learned to navigate the phase more effectively—especially now that it’s just three months away from entering another year of Papa-less reality. I’ve come to realize, more conclusively, that a major loss is not something we can say will never happen. It will happen, no matter what—because we all die at some point. But learning how to recover from it, and how to become “grief fit” allows us to make better choices in our current relationships—with the world, with people, and even with time.
My grief recovery—if done visually—looks like color-coded boxes, meticulously labeled and accessed through two-way authentication. The brain provides the code; the heart uses it. It’s not about being insensitive to the nature of grief, but about finding a way to move forward—knowing that Papix would have wanted me to do it my way, with the resilience he modeled for many years: structured, yet deeply felt; organized, but still full of emotions.
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| Among my color-coded boxes are my Papa's girl memories that I hope to write about someday. |
