Sometime in July 2022, I decided to make a playlist for my grandfather to surprise him when he comes to Manila for his annual medical check-up. I named it “Angkong would like this” so that I could easily associate it with the songs I knew he loved to listen to on his old iPad. It comprised masterpieces by musical veterans such as Frank Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, and other 60s classics. In November of that year, he died of pancreatic cancer in the province with no one but my aunt and his two caregivers by his side, without getting to hear the songs on the playlist I made just for him.
Before his death, grief was an unfamiliar feeling. He was the first in my immediate family to pass. So, the moment my mother broke the news, I went about my day as usual, finishing my chores and assignments. When I woke up the next morning, it was as if everything was normal. It felt wrong and weird that everything went as if no one had just died. I was waiting for the next move from my parents for the funeral, but I was okay. Maybe I just didn’t know how to process and react to the news because it all happened so quickly––he was diagnosed in late September and lost the battle not even two months later.
I was fine the first year after his passing until sorrow hit me one random afternoon. As I browsed through my laptop, I accidentally stumbled upon the playlist I never got to give him. I then realized that I rarely thought of him. I recall when he was still hospitalized in Manila, I would only visit him for 10 to 30 minutes. I kept making all kinds of excuses to leave straight away even though I wasn’t busy during those times. I couldn’t pinpoint why I was so eager to leave when I just arrived at his room.
“What right do I have to mourn him?” is a thought that lingers in my head. As his granddaughter, I lacked the effort to speak to him while I was in college and learn about him during his lifetime. I merely knew him as my grandfather, the father of my dad—nothing more, nothing else. I had not taken a single portrait of him to preserve memories. I don’t even remember if we had proper conversations other than the occasional “How are you?” considering he wasn’t much of a talker. My only memories of him are his constant presence and questions on how to use the television, phone, and iPad; to which I would get annoyed if he didn’t get my instructions. Now that I’m missing him, I can only reminisce and regret.
I thought I would have moved on from my grandfather’s passing after a year. The amount of remorse I have for thinking his illness wasn’t that serious is something that I will always carry. I am now just mourning his absence, feeling guilty that I did not spend enough time with him when he was still alive. I knew how much he liked it when he was surrounded by his family, yet I did not see him often.
I wonder if these feelings about his death would be different if I never found the playlist that I hadn’t thought about in a while. I almost deleted it, hoping to avoid feeling bad because he didn’t get to listen to the songs I prepared for him. I was too complacent, thinking that he was going to live for a couple more years and that it was alright not to visit him at the hospital all the time. I never understood why my dad went to his grave at 5 pm every day. Now, I keep wishing that I had taken that flight home to cherish with him his last moments and wondering what his final thoughts were.
I now understand and empathize that grief is not linear. I would forget that he already left us, thinking he was still sitting in his big old brown office chair in the living room of our home; I haven’t fully processed the thought of him being no longer alive. It’s an unexplainable feeling that feels empty and weird. I openly express that I miss him but always finish my sentence with “but not in a sad way.” Longing to feel his presence whenever I visit home is now an uncomfortable feeling. I’m so used to seeing him sitting on his chair, but I am only met with a large picture of him that was used for the funeral. There would be times when I thought I had moved on because I would remember him and not feel sad. Grief unexpectedly strikes me amid my happiness.
These words seem like a clumsy attempt in trying to make up for lost time. Knowing him, he had already forgiven me. So why must I continue to belittle his granddaughter for not spending enough time with him? He would not have liked it if every single thought I had was wishing I did what I should have. He always told me he was proud of me every time I accomplished something in school, my organization, or life in general. Grieving and forgiveness is a tough journey that everyone else feels differently at any point in time. It is a natural process for the loss of a loved one.
So, if you’re taking this as a sign to forgive yourself, take a look at where you are right now in life and always remember, “Angkong would like this.”
This article was published in The LaSallian‘s June 2024 issue. To read more, visit bit.ly/TLSJune2024.
