Though our losses are different, the feelings are the same. Though our journeys are different, the path leads the same – we move on, we move through. And we remember.

There was a time not so long ago when the things that used to bring me joy, couldn’t. When I couldn’t trust both mind and body that I needed to pause, even teaching and clinical practice. And when I did tend to concerns outside of the house, I did so on autopilot, neither here nor there, but adrift. When my feable attempts at yoga or jogging couldn’t bring them happy hormones to work that I gave it up all together, taking on the calories like they were long lost friends and packing on the pounds I knew I’d have to shed later on. I knew she wouldn’t have approved but I didn’t have the energy to care. I felt it was what my spirit needed in those moments.

There was a time when writing about my grief was torture. When the mere sight of the words on paper was as painful as the thought of writing them down. There were times when her absence was so palpable the pain became visceral. It came just as my heart was in despair for my son’s sorrows, a double whammy of heartaches. And so it came as bouts of heartburn, persistent tics on my eyelids, migraine attacks, occasional heaviness on my chest and more than ten pounds on the scale. There were times that first Christmas when the smiles were for the kids and the revelry was all hollow. When together we strove to feel merry but lay in bed at night, each drowning in our own sorrows. Still, we rise every morning, each lost in grief.

There were times when I almost felt normal. When I felt I could finally be coming out of that long and dark tunnel. But grief crawls like a thief in the night and steals the light again, without regard to time or place, or whether I’m alone or in the middle of the room with my trainees. But mostly, it strikes when I’m in the car, whether alone or driving for my kids. That car heard a lot of prayers and pleas for help in those days. I was driving too when the realization first hit me. When I first found out about the hyperleukocytosis and what it meant for her and for our family, I had to stop the car to let the tears run their course. Someone said she could tell that night that I already knew. Perhaps the doctor in me knew it too well but the sister in me refused to believe it. Or perhaps, I really didn’t. Because all the while I was clutching on my rosary bracelet my vision was of us walking out of that room together.

There was a time when I used to wait for a vision, a voice, a dream. I never dreamt of her but she came to talk to me twice, both times during that moment between sleep and wakefulness. At one time, a whisper, “Mama” and I knew it was her and I knew what she meant. And one last time when she said something I couldn’t remember anymore because I was desperately trying to see her, but knew she meant for us to always take care of Papa and Mama. On both occasions, I didn’t get to see her but I heard her and felt her.

Then there was this day on the 10th of January, eighty days after losing her. After several weeks, I was finally feeling like the plunge is coming to an end and I’m finally starting to come up for air. Most sunsets here hid behind January clouds, but not this day. It was a beautiful sunset worthy of salutations, even some photo ops with my son. Later after that, when I was alone on the rooftop, I lay on my mat in savasana. I must have gone deep into savasana like I’ve never had before because suddenly she was there, her face directly in front of mine but upside down, like in that movie. Her face was framed by a radiant light coming from behind her and she had on her usual cheerful smile, so alive and fresh I half-expected her to say “Boo!”. The tears came just as I felt myself smile and heard myself say aloud “Hi, Zhai!” And then she was gone just as quickly as she came. My smile stayed and my tears flowed, but they were cheerful tears. She showed me what I needed to know to go on: she is happy where she is and she is happy where I’m finally going.

I tried to post this once on social media, but the server just wouldn’t work, at home or in the hospital or through my mobile data. After numerous attempts that day, I finally understood what she wanted to tell me. This memory is meant for me alone, and perhaps much later shared with those who truly matter.

I have started the next phase of moving through my grief. My clinical practice has resumed. My teaching load is back. I now have the energy to care about losing lots of excess adipose that accumulated. The words have started flowing, still with the tears, but more easily now, more naturally. The thief still comes, wherever and whenever it chooses. The tears still flow, mostly still while I’m driving. When they do, I close my eyes for a while and I see her face when she visited me that day and always find myself smiling back.

I practice yoga more often now. It can finally make me feel better again. The happy hormones are finally able to do their work. The flows come easier now, gentler. The breathes come softer, fuller. I know more than to look for her in shavasana. I know she’ll only visit me when I need her. But at the end of every flow, when I finally close my eyes in shavasana, there’s always that spark of hope that maybe, just maybe I’ll get the chance to see her again and say “Hi, Zhai.”

Photo credit: Karl Cedric Gonzaga