A DIFFICULT DECISION

 DECIDING how to approach the bar exams is one of the most agonizing crossroads a working law student will ever face. Initially, when I was advised to resign or take a long leave of absence to concentrate fully on my review, my answer was a resolute no. I simply couldn't afford to leave. I needed a regular income to provide for my family. Beyond that, I required extra capital for my daily allowance during the review period and to cover my share of the rent, in case my friends and I pushed through with our plan to secure a review boarding house.

Caught in this dilemma, I constantly asked myself: How do I maintain absolute focus on my review while reporting to the office every day? I knew that dedicated study time is crucial to passing the bar, so I tried to engineer a compromise. My proposal to my boss was to compress my hours—working longer shifts from Monday to Thursday—so I could be completely free on Fridays and Saturdays to attend review classes.

Yet, the math of that compromise simply didn’t add up for my personal life. To hit my contractually required 40-hour work week in just four days, I would have to report early and come home late. The resulting schedule would be highly disadvantageous to my family, and I would rarely see my children. How could I explain the concept of "sacrifice"—of giving up precious time together for a higher, long-term goal—to minds so young?

Desperate to find a balance, I spent weeks coordinating with my parents and sister to hire a household helper. But that introduced another paradox: if I eventually had to take unpaid leave, how would I even afford the helper's salary? No helper materialized, and the walls began closing in.

Then, a shift happened. The internal pressure cooker broke, leading me to a decision I initially thought impossible: I decided to leave my job at Rex Publishing for good, a bare three months after my graduation from law school.

When I finally walked out of the office recently, my departure was wrapped in secrecy. I hadn’t formally submitted my resignation letter, planning instead to hand it to my boss the moment I received my final paycheck. Because of this, my coworkers assumed I was merely taking my planned long leave of absence for the bar. I had already cleared my desk, emptied my cabinets of personal files, and wrapped up my pending assignments. Yet externally, nothing openly broadcasted that I was leaving Rex forever.

It was a bittersweet departure. I truly loved my job and had spent nearly half my life in that line of work. When I returned to Rex in 2006—having previously served as a proofreader and art editor in the late '90s, and it was here that I met my wife—I was given a flexible schedule as the editor-in-charge of preschool books. That flexibility, negotiated directly with the CEO, was what allowed me to go to law school in the first place.

But corporate environments change. Following multiple reorganizations, shifts in departmental leadership, constant internal intrigues regarding book errors, and the immense stress of chasing impossible deadlines set by management, the workplace transformed. Quality suffered, and so did my morale. At one point, a former department head even tried to push me out by offering to transition me into an outsourced, take-home editor. I rejected the offer back then for obvious reasons, though, ironic as it is, I would gladly accept it now. Ultimately, I realized I had to leave anyway, with or without a safety net. I just needed to breathe new air.

Right now, I am a cocktail of conflicting emotions: sad to leave a lifelong career, yet happy to be free; feeling a sense of "finally-it-has-come" relief, mixed heavily with doubt, resignation, and fear.

Even with the workplace behind me, the transition has not cleared the path to my books. I expected to be diving full blast into my review materials, but the momentum isn’t there. My mind is burdened, severe migraine attacks are hitting me at close intervals, and the chronic stress has completely compromised my focus. In fact, I haven’t even managed to attend my review school for the past two weeks.

I am giving myself until the first week of September as a strict deadline to clear these distractions and take decisive action. If things do not improve by then, I will have to bid the bar exams goodbye—either for this year, or for good.

WATERPROOF SPIRIT

EVERY ONCE in a while, I come across pictures that snag my attention and give me a good belly laugh. Just like jokes, funny pictures can lift everyone's spirits and divert the attention of social media users—like myself—for at least a few seconds. For that, we should be grateful.

Whenever I scroll down my Facebook feed, humorous images pop up like zombies from a popular video game, interspersed with event invites, unsolicited photo tags, and self-indulgent updates. The internet is a crowded highway of content being thrown at you constantly. However, I actively seek out the funny stuff. Finding things that truly make me laugh has almost become a lifelong quest. I even save some of these images—ranging from the witty to the outrageously funny—for my personal file, though I rarely repost them. The deeper I venture into the web, the more comedic gems I uncover.

It is no surprise that a vast majority of these viral images are created by Filipinos—a resilient race known for finding a quick laugh despite life's hardships. The subject matter ranges from incompetent government officials and the candid antics of Mommy Dionisia Pacquiao, to daily life sarcasm and popular movies. Even images that barely fit the current news cycle somehow find a second life on the internet, dipped in humor.

Recently, during the intense and prolonged monsoon rains of 2012—dubbed Habagat—that ravaged Metro Manila and nearby provinces, a specific image began circulating like a wildfire virus. It coincided perfectly with the closing ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics. The viral photo featured a simple but powerful translation: "You’re only a flood; I’m a Filipino."

This serves as definitive proof of the unique Filipino ability to cope with almost anything. Three cheers for that sunny disposition! Filipinos withstand whatever nature throws their way. Even when floods reach their rooftops—an occurrence that feels almost monthly or yearly in some areas—resourceful and flexible citizens always manage to raise themselves above water.

The Filipino has truly acquired a "waterproof spirit," a resilient trait that even impressed Canadian singer Nelly Furtado during her visit to the country. This explains why millions of us, even in the dead center of a natural disaster, still enjoy communicating with friends and family, trading jokes, sharing amusing snapshots, and venting about whatever strikes our fancy.

These circulating photos are a strong validation of how Filipinos utilize the internet. We are known for an easygoing attitude and a sharp sense of humor, which reflect strongly in the Photoshopped images tailored to suit our fun-loving personalities. If there were an Olympic gold medal for digital editing and the lightning-fast speed of sharing, liking, and tweeting masterpieces across the world wide web, Filipinos would win it every time. Despite systemic poverty, we are a deeply social people born to entertain.

Before these "waterproof spirit" memes took off, social networks were already abuzz with parodies of the Department of Tourism's campaign tagline, "It’s More Fun in the Philippines." Naturally, netizen culture took that pitch to a whole new level, using it to satirize their own dire situations during severe weather. What makes these images stand out is their razor-sharp truth and impeccable timing ("tayming na tayming," as we love to say). They drive the message home perfectly. Comedy in this country clearly survived, even after the passing of the legendary King of Comedy, Dolphy.

Of course, some of our countrymen strongly disagree with or are disappointed by the "waterproof spirit" label. To them, it serves as evidence that we do not take critical issues seriously. They argue it highlights a flaw in our culture: that we would rather make jokes about our misfortunes than demand actionable solutions. It is like saying, "Since we endure floods so well, we must love doing it." They bemoan the lack of public outrage regarding our pitiful infrastructure, pointing out that decades of devastation are the direct result of neglect and a lack of foresight by leaders, from Malacañang Palace all the way down to local barangay councils.

For now, however, people simply want a reason to smile. As the saying goes, when the world gets crazy, Filipinos seek out comedy. Come hell or high water, nothing can strip away that crisp, hearty laughter—the malutong na tawa we all love to hear. Filipinos make light of tragedy, shrugging off disasters as just another chapter in a long history of struggles.

Ultimately, there is nothing wrong with seeing smiling faces when neighbors are helping one another survive. While the government expresses its usual annual sympathies, we can only hope our leaders finally view our vulnerability to natural calamities as an urgent call for a comprehensive drainage master plan—and not just a laughing matter.

Until next year's rainy season, then!

Images used in this post are all shared photos. Acknowledgement is due to their owners, creators, or original sources. 

A YEAR AFTER THE LOSS

Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery’s shadow or reflection: the fact that you don’t merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief.” – C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed  

TODAY marks the first anniversary of my wife’s death. Exactly a year ago, my wife of 14 years passed away at PGH-Manila due to breast cancer. The fateful scenes of that August night remain fresh in my mind.

Eight hours after I left my wife resting in her hospital bed, I received a text message from her niece, Joan, pleading with me to return to her bedside as soon as possible. I had gone to work that day because she seemed fine when I left her. In that instant, I knew right away that the day I had feared for so long had finally come. Please, Lord, not now, I prayed repeatedly as I rushed out of the office and headed for the nearest bus stop.

When I called Joan back, her words were drowned out by her sobs. I tried my best to calm her down. She urged me to hurry, assuring me that her aunt was still breathing and that the doctors were doing everything they could to keep her alive.

It was a Friday, the day devotees of Jesus the Nazarene flock to Quiapo Church. A monstrous traffic jam choked Quezon Boulevard, a major artery midway through my route from my office in Quezon City to PGH in Ermita. I was completely stuck. At five-to-ten-minute intervals, I called Joan for updates, fighting hard to keep myself from breaking down. From my bus window, my eyes locked onto the open doors of the church, where I caught glimpses of the faithful praying inside. Every Friday, crowds pack the church, beseeching the Lord and offering up their myriad intentions. They looked so calm, so confident. I’m here, Lord. Please listen to me.

As death approached, two conflicting thoughts occupied my mind with equal force. The first was to accept the possibility of losing her and face the truth with equanimity. The second was to view the prevention of this natural course as an impossibility, choosing instead to disregard the painful reality until it finally arrived. It was this second thought that allowed me to hold onto a slim shred of hope—hope that my wife would survive this night. I wanted to talk to her one last time, to tell her so many things, and to express how deeply sorry I was for not caring for her with the absolute best I had. Please, Lord, not now.

I arrived at her room at 9:15 p.m. She lay motionless in her bed, unconscious but still breathing. The life support machine stood on standby, ready to be used if she made another gasping attempt for life. However, the doctors gave me a grim reality: if the electrocardiogram monitor flatlined again, it would be their last chance to revive her. They explained that a third attempt to pump her heart beyond the standard time would be fatal to her internal organs; it would be futile.

My wife's family and a few close friends began gathering around her bedside. Our three children had been left at home in Bulacan, and a relative was already on the way to fetch them. Everyone's downcast, glassy eyes mirrored the collective fear of the impending loss.

When I held my wife’s hand, it was still warm, yet stiff. I tried to wake her, talking to her continuously, telling her that I was there and how deeply I loved her. Then, I felt a slight movement—a tiny jerk from her hand—and watched as an almost imperceptible tear rolled slowly from the corner of her eye. That was her final movement, her last tear, and the ultimate sign of life I would see from her.

After a couple of minutes, the green line on her heart monitor slowed and flattened. The room grew frantic as we called for the doctors, who made their final attempt to bring her back.

In that single instant, the unbearable weight of grief befell my life like wayward rocks crashing from a cliff. It remains a mystery to me how I was buried by that sudden avalanche, helpless and entirely unprepared, yet somehow survived. But my world would never be the same again. For the first time, I truly understood what people mean when they say life is no longer worth living.

How have I spent these past twelve emotionally agonizing months? How do you go on after losing the person you loved so deeply?

I tell people I’m doing fine, or at least trying hard to be okay, just as my friends wish me to be. They tell me to be prayerful and strong. I try to put the loss into a tolerable perspective, telling myself “It’s God’s will” or “God didn’t want her to suffer any longer.” But honestly, working through these past twelve months has been an uphill battle, and I came dangerously close to dropping out of law school.

I’ve noticed that interacting with others takes an immense amount of effort now. It is no longer natural; I constantly wear a mask, even if tears do not come easily anymore. It feels as though a thick barrier now separates me from the world I knew before the tragedy. I want to let go and feel free in that old world again, but I cannot.

Solitude provides the focus I need to do what I love. I read and write extensively to divert my mind from the gnawing guilt, sorrow, and lingering anger. Even while reviewing for the upcoming bar exams, my desperate need to unburden my chest drove me to read more fiction than my actual law textbooks and review materials, just to find a sense of calm.

I decided to revive my blog a week after her death. Since then, I have been posting about my coping journey to help both myself and others who might be navigating the same dark waters. It offers a form of release—an emotional catharsis. I am entirely open to telling and retelling my story, just as I have done in the opening paragraphs of this piece, recounting her final hours on that August night. Healing, I was told, begins by speaking about the loss of a beloved partner. It is as if the bereaved must subscribe to the ancient Turkish proverb: “He who conceals his grief finds no remedy for it.”

Yet, when I am at home, I do my best to keep busy. My kids give me a reason to keep going every single day. It isn't just that I am lonely; rather, I carry an profound, extreme sadness that simply refuses to leave. I cannot force my grief to end, leaving me with only one choice: to accept it or resist it. I have chosen to learn to accept whatever it is I need to accept.

Only time will help me make it through. It is a heart-wrenching journey, and I still have a very long way to go. The loss may never fully be over, but I continue to walk forward.