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Devastating. This is the only word I could think of as I watched the horrendous aftermath of Typhoon Frank that swept the Philippines last week. Destroyed homes, power disruptions, food and water shortages in provinces like Iloilo marked the fury of the storm. But of all these, Frank showed the full force of his wrath with the sinking of MV Princess of the Stars in Sibuyan Island, Romblon. Only a handful of the more than 800 passengers on board survived the tragedy.

As I watch on TV the family members of the passengers of the ill-fated vessel, I can’t help but empathize with their grief. Those faces that are at all at once hopeful and yet hopeless, expectant yet resigned, mirror sorrow in its most profound form. Not knowing what has happened to a loved one, whether a child, husband, wife, nephew, niece, uncle, aunt, grandparent or friend is still alive or already dead is perhaps the worst form of torture imaginable. How could there ever be closure for them?

Having lost my father recently, I understand the importance of holding vigils, saying prayers and finally, of laying him to rest as vital in the bereavement process. This period somehow eases the initial shock of losing someone so dear, and these ceremonies, if they so be called, smoothens the transition of letting go, and of ultimately accepting the reality of death. I am by no means done with grieving. I don’t think one can ever be “finished grieving.” Perhaps, only time can assuage the pain that death brings. But my only consolation is that deep in my heart, I know that my father is in a far better place, and this helps me a lot in being able to go on with my life.

But what about those whose family members are still waiting for news of their loved ones aboard MV Princess of the Stars? The agony of not knowing where they are, the torture of not being able to give a proper burial- these intensify the feelings of grief a million times over. I can only pray that God give them the courage and the faith to face this trial in their lives. I also hope that the shipping company understands and takes to heart the needs and requests of these relatives. The news on TV features them complaining of their requests going on deaf ears, of not being given sufficient information, of being left in the dark.

I hope that Sulpicio Lines doesn’t treat the passengers on board their boat as mere statistical losses. Everyone on board that ship was once a flesh-and-blood member of a family. He or she had dreams, had loved, had cried, had trusted the shipping company’s judgments enough to travel in the midst of impending storm. Thus, the concerns of their loved ones must be addressed and heard.

Frank’s wrath has subsided for now, but we are left to grapple with the devastation and ruin that he brought on us as a people. Let’s take a moment to say a little prayer to those who were lost in the storm, holding on to the faith in our hearts that though their families may not see them again or may not have the chance to lay their bodies to the grave, God has already brought the souls of those who had perished to the tranquil seas of their Heavenly Home.

What happens now? This is the question I always ask myself now that my dad has already been laid to rest. People around me say that life doesn’t stop with death, that there are a still a lot of things that those of us left in this mortal world have to occupy ourselves with, that there are still people who need us. Relatives and friends remind me that I still have a daughter who is only two years old who is dependent on me for everything. And I know that.

Despite this, however, there are moments when I simply can’t move or do what needs to be done. Grief can be very crippling and though I try so hard to let go, part of me seems to want to hold on to the memory of a father who lived so bravely and loved ever so deeply. This might sound too emotional but I know that nothing will ever be the same, that a part of me has died too.

Writing seems the only release for me now. But this I can’t even do without shedding a tear, and I feel so tired and drained at this constant sorrow that hangs over me everyday. How does one cope with such loss? What happens now? Will I ever heal? These are just some of the questions that I ask myself during these trying times. I only pray that God and Mama Mary will give me the strength to go on living. I need that very much.

Every parent waits for the time when their little one utters that first word. The day they say Mama or  Dada is a cause for celebration, and to the more sentimental of us (me included), the date, time and place gets recorded in the our sacred baby books. We make a big deal of every mimicked word, every comprehensible utterance, every understandable expression. And when our children don’t start mumbling those precious words by the time the guide books say they should, we start to fret and redouble our efforts to read, talk and teach them every word we feel they ought to know. Truly, a child’s journey into the word of speech is both an exhilarating and gripping experience for any parent.

Since my daughter was born premature under the most unsuitable of conditions (she did have to contend with radiotherapy, chemotherapy and large doses of antibiotics in the first trimester of pregnancy), I am perhaps, more anxious than most mothers regarding her growth and development. When her first set of teeth didn’t come out until she was nearly two years old, I panicked and began seriously wondering if modern science had already invented dentures for toddlers. Only when her precious whites miraculously popped up one after the other just a couple of months before her second birthday did I start to relax. Naturally, when she didn’t start to mumble intelligibly (for her age, that is) when she was about one year, I panicked and began giving her lessons which went something like this:
“Baby, look at Mommy.” (This would necessitate cupping her face to make her look at me.) I would then point to a picture in her book and say: “This is a cake. Say ‘cake’.” To which my pupil would simply reply with a defiant nod of her pretty little head and a surprisingly strong push away from me, and to whatever it is that got her attention. I got so exasperated that I would carry her back to bed, determined to sit her down until she said “cake.” My husband, perhaps alarmed at my seemingly irrational behavior, had to tell me quit it. Of course, she wouldn’t say cake or cat or apple or whatever it is that I was teaching her because she wasn’t ready.

I realized that learning can’t take place if the child isn’t prepared—mentally, physically, emotionally. Comparing the progress of one child to another does not do good to the child and to the parents. It merely pressures the child, takes the fun out of learning, limits their exploration of their environment, and gives us parents undue stress when we should be enjoying every little facet of every tiny bit of information our children absorb as they grow.   

But now, oh how she speaks! Just a year later, she can say not only cake or cat or apple, but cow and duck and fish and bird. She can command me to “dwo pish” (draw fish, that is), her dad to “dance,” and us both to tell her an impromptu (those extemporaneous speaking contests we participated in college were useful, after all) bedtime story—in which she decides who the characters are—whether it is Mr. Cow or Mrs. Duck or Mr. Fish. She tells us if she doesn’t like a movie being played, whether she wants to see the MariMar or Michael V’s dance videos, and when she wants to wash her hands or take a “showel” (shower, that is). And when it rains, she expects us to let the poor chickens inside the house when she says, “’icken showel luoy” which basically means, “poor chicken-she’s wet”. To make caring for her more convenient, she can tell us when she wants to potty and if anything hurts.

It is wonderful, this gift of toddler gab, truly what every parent awaits in the progress of their young. And it never ceases to amaze me as I listen to my little girl how someone so little could speak so much.