Missing you always

It always hits you. Again and again it hits you, the sense of loss.

You do things--wake up, fix the trash, come home--and remember how it used to be when she was there, your baby, your baby.

How terribly empty life has been since she died, how terribly ugly it has been.

Every day is a reminder of what you've lost and what will never be again.

The desolation is immense, seemingly endless.

There is no mercy in surviving.

"Say Goodbye": A poem for Vixen, of Vixen, seven months after her death

How do you say goodbye? When do you do so?

Do you say it when your love is buried,

unable to hear, cremated, or earlier, too weak,

maybe too delirious to hear?

Perhaps you say it when you know death is real: it is inevitable,

and goodbye must be said—if only to unhearing ears,

as sight and hearing and understanding are gone.

Will your love understand your touch,

the pain throbbing through your fingers and the unseen tears?

Will your love comfort you when your love knows only pain?

How do you say goodbye?

How can you?

Life suddenly is nothing, meaning only life is gone

or will be, when your own hearing and seeing and your breath are gone.

How do you say goodbye

to your love who is to die?

How do you say it when goodbye offers you no comfort,

just the realization:

your life, your love, is dead.

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Almond, December 16, 1994-June 2, 2007: Remembering my baby, now five years gone

It's been a sad day from the start. Five years ago, also on a Saturday, I lost my baby, my Comebaby, my Almond, my Mondy, my Alimondmond.

Five years to the day. I weep as I write this.

I saw you die, one twist and you were gone. I thought you were just stretching, but then you were gone. You were sick for about two weeks, red discharge coming out of your vagina. That last day, you ran out and vomitted, you wouldn't eat. You had lumps all over, said the vet. Then you were gone, just like that.

My baby, how could I have survived all these years without you? I guess I had Vixen for consolation, a reason t live, to smile, to laugh. Now even Vixen is gone.

I miss you so much, my Comebaby, and the tears keep coming.

Oh how I wish I were with you again, if only in death. No need for an afterlife, just to be with you in nonexistence, gone together, as we were in life together.

My dearest Almond, my dearest Comebaby. Why am I not with you in the bliss of death?

That lingering sense of loss

The sense of loss is everywhere.

I feel it everyday, from the moment I wake up. I start down the stairs expecting to hear Vixen's footsteps, to see her welcoming me. I do repairs and I look to where she used to sleep; I keep taking care not to disturb her, but she's no longer there. I do some hammering, expecting her to bark, or to run where I am and to look on. There is always that expectation of her being there--and always that painful realization she is not. I leave the dried urine outside alone; the sun and rain will eventually dry and wash the smell away.


For years, everything I did at home and away was with thought of my babies, of Boobie, Almond, and Vixen. These past four years everything revolved around Vixen. This overbearing emptiness continues. I keep looking for her, watching for her, listening for her, waiting for her, as if somehow she'll be there.

What do I do without my dearest baby?

The days have no meaning now.

Living without you

My dearest Vixen,

More than a day has passed since you died, and this world has become unbearable without you. I wake up waiting to hear your footsteps, only to find silence. I look to where you used to sleep, knowing I will never see you there again. I come home knowing you will never be there again to welcome me. I hear the rain knowing you will never again shake upon its sound, terrified of thunder. All the cares and worries that concerned you, all gone now, save for the memory of what once was.

When Boobie died, I had you and Almond for comfort. When Almond died, I had you. Now that you're gone, I have nothing. How many times have I asked you, in the silence of our hearts, not to leave me? How many times have I asked the fates or whoever is in charge of the universe to let me go first? The time for your feeding comes: you are not there.

Of course my surviving you is better for you. Who else would take care of you? The thought makes the pain no less. There is this awareness of your absence everywhere at home, even outside.

You are gone, and I can hardly bear it.

I walked around early tonight, almost in a daze, but not quite. For the first time in more than four years, I had a drink. I had three--J&B, straight up. I drank to your life. I thanked you for all that you were and always will be to me. I drank to following you soon.

Vixen, September 1, 1998-December 20, 2011

My Vixen is gone. My Babes, my Sen-sen, all those loving names I called her.

She was with me for more than thirteen years, literally from the moment she was born, the only female in Boobie and Almond's second litter. I had to put her to sleep today, December 20, 2011. A cancer was taking her body; there were lumps on her liver, her lungs, her ribs. She could hardly walk. All her life I took care to make her happy, protecting her always, making sure she would never suffer. I had to let her go before the pain became too great.

She had been sick since the end of October. I feared the end was coming, but I held back my tears and held on to hope till yesterday, when it became clear she had to go, for her sake.

I don't know how many times I've cried or how hard. What does it matter?

My baby, my Vixen, my Babes, my Sen-sen, my Vickisensen is gone.

There is an emptiness inside that is almost unbearable. It hasn't even been a day, but weeks seems to have passed. It takes forever for a simple hour to pass. Time moves so slowly. I have lived too long.

With Vixen's passing, an era ends. Boobie came to me in 1991, Almond in 1995, Vixen in 1998. Boobie died in 2005, Almond in 2007, Vixen in 2011. My babies are gone. For the first time since 1991, I am in a house without babies.

Goodbye, my Sen-sen, my lovely. Thank you for for all the years of joy and comfort that you gave me.

Time moves so slowly, and life is dark now. Yes, I have lived too long.

They who love little

An employee in the company I work for was buried today. I never knew her. She was on a mountain in Zambales province with her mountaineering friends, crossing a creek, when she was swept away by the rampaging waters brought about by typhoon Fensheng. That was Sunday, June 22. Her body was found some time Monday morning. Jhoanna, as her name was, was an only child. She was also single.

How bleak the world must be today for her parents. When you lose your only child, what have you left? Where lies your consolation in a world gone mad, a life suddenly turned upside down? Darkness comes more grimly somehow, the silence more oppressively. In times of grief, you survive by holding on to what you have left. But when it is an only child that you lose, finding that "something left" must be next to impossible.

I know the pain of loss. Even with the passage of time, it creeps up on you every now and again, making you pause to reflect on life as it has been ever since such loss--and wonder what is left. As you remember the good days, the days ahead seem even more daunting.

How we who grieve envy those who love little. They never will know the pain, the loss, the utter helplessness and hopelessness that we feel upon a loss. They may lose their loved ones, but they get by well. Their lives, after all, are focused on other things.

And they who love little are not as uncommon as it may seem. Rather, they are everywhere, focused on their careers, on accumulating wealth, on reaping honors, on making discoveries.

In a season of loss, such as I have known, it is easy to envy them--those people whose lives center on their careers, their work, their art, their science. For them, after all, what is there to lose that they cannot have again? Careers can be replaced, so can jobs, so can the outlet for artistic expression or scientific pursuit.

But how do you replace a life? A life lost is lost; there is no replacement. The world changes dramatically, and the change is irreversible.

Indeed, how bleak the world can be for those who have loved much and lost. How envious we become of those who love little. They can never really be hurt.

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