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.

REMEMBERING MR. SORIA

IT WAS 3 o’clock on a Thursday morning, right when I was growing weary of reading a law book, that I decided to browse the recent posts on my Facebook account. This is something I seldom do since enrolling in a bar review school. That was when I chanced upon a post in our high school group account announcing the death of Mr. Marcelino Soria, our former high school teacher, on July 10. He was 80 years old.

So, while most Filipinos had been flooding the blogosphere with tributes to the Comedy King, Dolphy, who died on the very same day, I chose to reserve this space on my blog entirely for my old mentor.

It is a profound truth that you never truly know the importance of a person until you have lost them. Only then do you weep for the squandered opportunities to talk to them just one more time, or to thank them deeply for the guidance that helped shape who you are today.

Mr. Soria was far more than just a teacher to me. He remains an integral part of my high school years in Narvacan. He was our Social Studies teacher, our Citizens Army Training (CAT) commandant, and, most importantly, my mentor in campus journalism. I now carry the comforting awareness that I was one of the many, many students who benefited from a single, highly productive aspect of his life as a writer and educator. He was the adviser for our high school paper, The Pioneer, where I served as editor-in-chief during my senior year.

I still remember when I first took the competitive test to join the school paper. I was a second-year student, having just transferred from a private school in another town. First-time applicants like me were asked to write a feature story about a person. Despite knowing many people well, I chose the school janitor as my subject. I painted a picture in words of how Manong Temyong would push his wheelbarrow, filled to the brim with dried leaves and litter collected around the campus. He moved along unmindful of the midday sun and the sea of students milling around him. I described how the muscles and veins bulged in his arms as he pushed his rickety cart, sweat streaming down his face.

A day or two after the exam, Mr. Soria peeked through the window of our classroom. He asked the class adviser to have "this boy Valdez" stand up. I stood up before a middle-aged, medium-built, bespectacled man who possessed a ready smile, chinky eyes, and a raspy voice. He instructed me to come to The Pioneer office during my vacant period. I learned later that he was so impressed by my feature story that he wanted to personally seek out the boy who could write descriptions so vividly.

Soon after, he handed me a bundle of back issues of The Pioneer. He wanted me to immediately study everything about the campus paper—its structure, parts, and contents. This marked the beginning of my three-year journey as a campus writer under his dedicated tutelage.

I eventually learned from him that our school had not won the overall championship in the Division Secondary Schools Press Conference (DSSPC)—a provincial-level competition for school publications—for seven long years, not since 1981. Mr. Soria was under immense pressure to train his staff to be the absolute best they could be to reclaim the title.

Once, he shared with me how he had gotten hooked on reading early in life, spending long hours devouring books under the shade of a tree. This story deeply endeared him to me, because I used to do the exact same thing in our barrio. Sometimes, I would bring a book along when I drove our cow to the pasture, reading under the shade of a camachile tree, beneath an electric post, or along the ridges of the riverbanks.

In the classroom, the man was both strict and incredibly funny. He would berate a student for a bungled recitation much like a grumpy old colonel addressing a clumsy private. His now-classic warnings, “Likkabek ta durekmo” (I’ll scrape out your earwax) and “Isab-itka dita dingding” (I’ll hang you on the wall), were among his most famous and beloved expressions in class. Yet, when telling funny stories, he could easily mimic a neighborhood tippler—most of his tales carrying the sharp, witty imprint of a pilosopo. It was always an absolute joy to listen to him.

While I was still a beginner on the staff, Mr. Soria chose me to compete in the feature writing contest. I only placed 11th in my first outing at the annual provincial competition. The following year, I was promoted to associate editor and qualified for the tournament once again. That time, I managed to secure top-ten spots in both editorial and news writing.

The strength of my relationship with Mr. Soria was truly tested during my senior year. Although he had already appointed me editor-in-chief, I decided to try my luck in campus politics without consulting him first. I ran for fourth-year representative in the student government. However, an incident occurred during the campaign period that nearly resulted in the expulsion of myself and four of my classmates.

With no other choice, my classmates and I admitted our mistake, and our parents pleaded with the principal to give us a second chance. We were given a reprieve, but I was officially disqualified from running in the election. Some teachers went so far as to ask Mr. Soria to revoke my appointment as EIC of The Pioneer. But he steadfastly refused to remove me.

Receiving that unwavering trust from him was the defining moment of my high school life. It sparked a very intense, highly productive period of training under his wing. I even began joining him on his trips to a printing press in Laoag to proofread the galley proofs of our school paper.

Learning from him never felt like hard work because I genuinely loved reading and writing. It was during this period, bolstered by the confidence of being editor-in-chief, that I began writing poems and short stories. Ultimately, our hard work paid off. In my final year competing at the DSSPC, I captured the highest individual honor: the overall individual championship for earning the most points across the annual competition. Best of all, The Pioneer won its first overall championship in eight years. I had not failed my mentor.

When he learned that I would be attending UNP Vigan for college, he challenged me to earn the top position on the university paper. I did exactly that, serving as the editor-in-chief of our campus paper, Tandem, for two consecutive years.

After graduating from college, I was hired as a part-time high school teacher, filling in for my father who had taken an indefinite leave of absence from a private school. Naturally, I went to visit Mr. Soria, who was retired by then. Just as a loyal student returns to an aging master, I wanted not only to report what I had achieved but also to seek his guidance for my career path.

I visited him at his rented house near the high school campus. I told him I would be teaching journalism and taking over the school publication. Merely five years after leaving him and The Pioneer upon my high school graduation, I had become a school paper adviser myself. I told him that I wanted to be a good mentor—just like him—who would train and inspire future generations of writers. His invaluable support during my youth, paired with his fatherly advice that afternoon, will never be forgotten. It will always hold a lasting impact on my life.

That was the last time I ever saw him in person. After only a year of teaching, I moved to Manila, found work in a major publishing house, and eventually settled down in Bulacan. Now, I feel a profound sense of loss, realizing how much richer our relationship could have been over the years if only I had made the effort to keep in touch.

Even so, I feel incredibly fortunate to have been the kind of student who took all of his lessons completely to heart. Hopefully, I will pass that identical spark on to my own future students, should I ever find myself teaching once again.

PO-ON: SELF-SACRIFICE AND NATIONAL UNITY

BEING an Ilocano myself, and having grown up knowing much of our history and language, I take great pride in having read F. Sionil José’s Po-on (Dusk), the first novel in the five-book series The Rosales Saga. Reading it evoked the same profound sense of pride I felt, as a Filipino and a member of the Malay race, after finishing the English translations of Noli Me Tángere and El Filibusterismo, the two classic masterpieces by José Rizal.

While the setting of Rizal’s companion novels is the fictional town of San Diego, the issues they raise transcend any specific locale. They depict the collective struggle of Filipinos against the abuses of the Spanish friars and expose the deep-seated ambivalence of the local ruling class. It was a snapshot of a time when the Philippines was still under the colonial thumb of Mother Spain.

Sionil José’s Po-on, on the other hand, begins in Cabugao, Ilocos Sur—my home province—before shifting its focus to Rosales, Pangasinan, the author’s birthplace. The narrative initially captures the plight of the Ilocanos at the hands of cruel Spanish officials during the twilight of their regime, before moving into the dawn of the American conquest following the Spanish-American War. Ultimately, the heart of the novel delivers a powerful message regarding nationalism and the very definition of our identity as Filipinos.

The novels of both Rizal and Sionil José confront the harsh realities of poverty, broken governance, and human rights abuses during the colonial era, aiming their sharpest criticisms at the corrupt, potbellied friars who oppressed the native population. However, while Noli and Fili view these struggles through the eyes of an ilustrado (Crisostomo Ibarra, later transformed into Simoun the jeweler), Po-on approaches history through the perspective of a poor indio named Istak (Eustaquio Salvador/Samson). Istak is forced to lead his family on a desperate exodus from Ilocos to Pangasinan to escape the wrath of the authorities after his father kills a tyrannical parish priest. The family's tragedy-laden journey draws a striking parallel to Tom Joad’s family in John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath—they eventually reach their promised land, but only after making immense sacrifices in the name of duty.

Moved by the powerful, intense narration of Po-on, I felt a sudden pang of conscience. I regretted having read so few emotionally charged works by our own nationalist authors—stories that truly reflect our past, our present, and our future. Before discovering Po-on and Rizal’s twin novels, my exposure was limited to Gagamba (also by Sionil José), Ilustrado by Miguel Syjuco, and an anthology of short stories by the Mindoro native N.V.M. Gonzalez. Yet, none of those works spoke so directly to the history of the resilient and frugal Ilocano people like Po-on does.

We Ilocanos are scattered across all corners of the country and the globe, accounting for a vast majority of Filipino immigrants worldwide. People often say this diaspora is a result of our geography. The Ilocos Region, or Ilocandia, is one of the narrowest strips of land in the country. Sandwiched between the West Philippine Sea and the rugged Cordillera mountain range, the region offers very little arable land for a highly industrious population. Surviving in such a harsh geographical environment is a challenge. It is no wonder we are stereotyped with traits vital for survival: tenacious industry, perseverance, resilience, frugality, and a pioneering spirit. Because space is at a premium, Ilocanos are almost duty-bound to migrate in search of better opportunities, working not just for themselves, but to uplift their entire clans.

In Po-on, Sionil José highlights a darker catalyst for this migration: the political persecution of Ilocano indios under Spanish rule. Long before Istak’s story took place, the Spaniards found the Ilocos region incredibly difficult to tame. Ilocanos were among the first ethnic groups to stage organized revolts against colonial authorities. Two of our nation's most remarkable uprisings occurred there: the Basi Revolt of 1807 and the 1762–1763 rebellion led by the lion-hearted Diego Silang of Aringay, which was bravely carried on by his wife, Gabriela Silang, after his assassination. The Silang revolt, prominently mentioned in Po-on, was fueled by deep grievances against Spanish taxation and abuses. Though short-lived, those early uprisings set a precedent that wouldn't be mirrored again until the final decades of Castilian rule during Istak’s lifetime.

Even though an exceptional, kind-hearted friar raises young Istak like a son—teaching him how to pray, write, and speak Spanish and Latin—the colonial system generally forbids indios from entering the priesthood. Thus, despite his advanced education, Istak is forced to return to his family to work the soil. Misfortune strikes when his father, Ba-ac, begs the town's new priest to admit his son to the seminary. During their argument, Ba-ac realizes this new friar is the exact same man who had previously ordered his arrest and brutal punishment—hanging him by his arms—on a false accusation of malingering from forced road labor. In a flash of blind rage, Ba-ac strikes and kills the priest with a heavy crucifix.

The family is forced to flee instantly, taking hidden back roads to evade Spanish guards. Traveling alongside other displaced relatives who have been driven off their ancestral lands, they become fugitives. Along the perilous trail, they cross paths with feared tulisanes (bandits) and brutal Spanish patrol officers. Amidst these harrowing dangers, the story weaves poignant threads of love and devotion—particularly between Istak and Dalin, his devoted wife and savior—while celebrating family solidarity and traditional values.

By the end of the novel, the narrative shifts to the arrival of the American forces. The Filipinos quickly discover that these new occupiers are just as cruel as their predecessors, witnessing American soldiers torture and abuse the local population. Don Jacinto, a sympathetic landowner who helps Istak's family establish a small farming village in Rosales, is deeply involved in the revolutionary underground. Istak eventually joins the cause, especially after an encounter with a revolutionary intellectual known as "The Cripple" (Apolinario Mabini), who seeks refuge at Don Jacinto's estate.

Ultimately, Istak is tasked with a dangerous mission to deliver a vital dispatch to President Emilio Aguinaldo. His journey leads him to Tirad Pass, where he joins the historic, tragic last stand of the revolutionary army. It is there that Istak is shot and killed by American troops.

Istak dies a true martyr, his final moments glowing with patriotic fervor. He dies understanding that love for one’s country—a love that demands total sacrifice—is essential to discovering the true meaning of existence. He brings honor to his people by proving to the foreign invaders that Filipinos are capable of laying down their lives, not just for the survival of their clan, but for the freedom of the nation.

Sadly, this standard of patriotism seems confined to history. We now live in a confusing era where many Filipinos dream of becoming Americans or Europeans, and a tragic number of our politicians are entirely bereft of patriotism in their service to the nation. The words spoken by The Cripple in the novel still ring with absolute brilliance and chilling truth: “There is so much that the past can teach us... Diego Silang more than a hundred years ago, what did he prove? That with a brilliant and selfless leader, we can be united the way he united the north. And united, we can then make Filipinas strong, formidable...”

Of course, today we no longer have foreign colonizers to fight, but we are still surrounded by wars. We are fighting a war against poverty, rampant government corruption, broken leadership, and a never-ending struggle for true national unity. Po-on serves as a stark reminder that our dream of producing selfless leaders who understand the value of sacrifice, alongside a citizenry united for the common good, remains unfulfilled. It is an absolute must-read for every Filipino who wishes to understand the heavy price paid for our freedom, and the glorious, complex history that defines us.