Finally, after two years… I’m able to talk about it.
Not because the pain is gone.
but because I’ve carried it in silence for so long.
Hindi talaga gumaan. Mas lalong lumalim.
Mas mabigat. Mas mahirap.
But I owe it to Ian.
And I owe it to myself.
To tell the truth of what happened.
To honor the love, the loss, and everything in between.
This is our story.
June 23, 2023.
I was physically, emotionally, and spiritually drained. I hadn’t slept. I watched over you all night. You slept too soundly this time… something felt off.
That morning, you pointed toward the door.
You said, “May lalaki diyan.”
I told you, “Walang tao, Daddy. Wag ka magturo-turo.”
You pointed again. “Ayan si Kuya… sasamahan ako.”
I shut the door. The kids went to school.
I was scrambling, messaging anyone I could for help. We didn’t have the money to bring you back to TMC. But you were clear with your last message to your siblings:
“Wag niyo ko dalhin sa Mandaluyong Medical Center. Mamamatay ako don.”
They agreed. We called the ambulance. Off we went.
Even then, you thought of others, telling me to give the ambulance staff some money and thank them.
When they moved you to the ER, you vomited blood everywhere.
Still, you fought.
Then you said, “Go eat lunch outside.”
Still looking after me.
Doctors said you needed ICU again.
Blood transfusion. Dialysis.
Your hemoglobin was dangerously low. BP unstable. They had to wait.
You asked me to change your diaper. You had pooped and needed help.
I called an attendant. You were too heavy for me alone.
A nurse came in and said they needed to insert an NGT. You hadn’t eaten all day.
I begged them not to. I knew how much you hated it.
But the nurse came back with a doctor. He gently explained it was necessary.
You nodded, but you weren’t yourself anymore.
They brought in the long hose. I was asked to step aside.
I stood near your feet. I needed to see you. Needed to stay close.
You kept looking at me, and I was terrified.
Then, I saw it.
That blank, far-off stare.
The machine alarmed.
They called your name.
You didn’t respond.
Somebody yelled, “Code!”
Chaos filled that tiny ER cubicle.
I was crying as they tried to bring you back.
A doctor climbed over you, doing compressions.
There was blood everywhere. On you, on the floor, on their hands.
Thirty agonizing minutes.
Someone shouted, “Pulse!”
I held onto that.
Then it dropped again.
I did a video call to our family group chat with Ates and Kuya.
I showed them what was happening.
But I couldn’t hold it together. I ended the call.
Right before 9 PM, a doctor came to me.
They had done everything they could.
But you didn’t make it.
The room cleared.
And I was alone.
Staring at your lifeless body.
I couldn’t even hug you.
You were soaked in blood.
I kissed you. Held your still-warm hand.
I whispered everything I needed to say.
I knew your spirit was still there. Confused maybe.
Still asking me to help you.
I called Gabby and Nicco.
They were home, probably asleep.
They were expecting you to come home again like before. You always pulled through.
But this time was different.
You were too young.
None of us were ready.
The days that followed… Cremation, funeral, all the formalities
I thought I was holding it together.
But on the 9th day, it hit me.
A wave of panic. My chest pounding.
I felt like I was going crazy.
That was when it sank in.
You were really gone.
And I was drowning. Emotionally. Financially. Completely.
I worried for Gabby and Nicco.
Gabby in college. Nicco in senior high.
Bills piling up. Hospital debt. Unpaid loans.
You handled everything at home.
The cooking. The budget. The kids.
I just worked. You ran the household.
You always made sure I was part of every decision.
Suddenly, it was all on me.
I had to make impossible choices.
I pawned the bracelet you told me never to pawn, just to pay Gabby’s tuition for a semester
So she wouldn’t have to stop school.
I sold the extra fridge. Your sneakers. Your unworn shirts.
Eventually, the car. Your motorcycle. Your bike.
But I kept your watches.
Your favorite bracelet.
Your clothes. Nicco wears them now.
You told me not to throw them.
I won’t.
Gabby and I carry names for the ache now.
Major depressive disorder, they said.
For me, anxiety and prolonged grief too.
But long before the diagnoses, we already knew something had broken deep inside us.
The days blurred. The nights were heavy.
Our world didn’t just fall apart. It collapsed in silence.
And we’ve been learning how to breathe in between ever since.
Now, the house… your family’s home… is up for sale.
We don’t know exactly when we’ll have to leave, but I know the day is coming. It’s where we raised our kids.
Where Gabby and Nicco grew up.
Where we dreamed, struggled, laughed, and fought.
It’s more than just walls.
It holds the life we shared.
Letting go won’t be easy.
But we’ll carry the love, the lessons, and the memories with us, wherever life takes us next.
Now, it’s slowly fading.
But not you.
You are with us still, in everything we do.
Don’t worry, Dad.
We will rebuild.
We’ll carry you in our hearts and souls.
Always.
Two years. And it still feels like yesterday.