Content warning: This essay discusses the deaths of some COVID-19 patients.

I was never really good at goodbyes. 

I was only two years old when our family migrated to Saudi Arabia for a better life. I don’t recall saying goodbye to my cousins, aunts, uncles, and even grandparents before we left. 

Fortunately, we were able to go home every year to see them. Because of this, I spent a lot of my childhood in airports. I remember how I’d stare at kids throwing tantrums because their parents had to leave them behind. I used to wonder why they were always bawling at the entrance gates. I didn’t understand it.

Even when I left Saudi Arabia to attend college in the Philippines, I didn’t feel the need to cry or be sad about it. I just moved on. 

But in 2020, I experienced harsh lessons that helped me truly understand the value of goodbyes.

To my second mother, to whom I should have been kind

“Magpagaling po kayo diyan, Tita. Ingat po kayo. (Please get well soon, Auntie. Be safe.)”

This was the last thing I ever said to my godmother, Angela Antoinette Amorganda, or Tita Jig. In less than a week of trying to fight for her life, Tita Jig passed away on October 4, 2020 due to COVID-19. 

When I first heard that she’d been rushed to the ICU due to difficulty breathing, I was still cynical. Even after she’d tested positive, I wasn’t worried. There wasn’t the tiniest doubt in my mind that she would make it. 

She was a very tough woman who had been through so much, so I thought COVID-19 would just be another obstacle she could conquer. She was an opinionated woman, and a dreamer. She made things happen with hard work and persistence, never letting rejections, mistakes, or disappointments topple her.

Growing up, I didn’t understand why she favored me. My mom and aunts would tell me constantly how she’d treat me like her own child. She never had any of her own. But despite the unending love I received from her, I constantly rejected this love. I didn’t like how she would hug me or talk to me in sweet tones. I didn’t like how loud and energetic she was. 

She was expressive; I wasn’t. She was extravagant; I wasn’t. She was everything. 

But I did love her. I might have not expressed it well, but in my own way, I truly did. 

I failed to realize that, because of her pre-existing health issues, her body wasn’t strong enough to fight the disease. On the day she passed away, there were 5,776 cases of COVID-19 deaths in the Philippines. When I saw those numbers, I froze. She, my second mother, who had cared for and nurtured me, was one of those numbers. 

When family members gathered in a Zoom meeting to discuss what had happened, I stayed silent. My mind was blank. I didn’t know the right words to say. I didn’t know what the next steps should be. I didn’t know how to react. I just sat there, feeling helpless. I hated it. 

We couldn’t hold a funeral since she was a COVID-19 patient. We couldn’t see her personally for the last time. We couldn’t whisper in her ear how much we loved her. The last image I ever saw of her was through a phone screen. She had a ventilator on, and was struggling to speak.

I had taken everything for granted.

To the mentor I should have thanked

When news of Tita Jig’s death came, I was also reminded of another person I couldn’t move on from – my mentor.

On August 29, 2020, a kuya and former co-worker of mine passed away from chronic kidney failure after also testing positive for COVID-19. He left a 3-year-old daughter and wife behind. His name was Deomar Oliveria or Kuya Deo.

Kuya Deo was an only child. His father died two years ago, also due to kidney failure. His mom is a retired teacher, and their only source of income was his salary as a graphic artist and his mother’s monthly pension. 

I was in one of the darkest moments of my life when I met Kuya Deo.

Back in 2016, my former university forced me to stop my education due to administrative errors. With two years on standby, I decided to work for the meantime in a non-profit foundation as an editorial assistant. I was 19 years old at the time. 

My cubicle was right next to Kuya Deo’s; we were in the same department. I learned a lot about him during lulls in the office – how he met the love of his life, how he ended up with a bad kidney. The stories Kuya Deo told me, though delivered with humor, always had a lesson in them. 

“Don’t drink too much,” “Always take care of yourself,” “Don’t rush into things,” he said. He stressed that we should treasure the life we’ve been given, since we never know how much time we have left. 

Back then, I was still unfamiliar with layouting and graphic designing. He sometimes showed me how he would work on a project so I could also learn. He would ask for my opinions on his work, training me somewhat to have an eye for design. 

Half a year later, I was able to enroll in my dream university and continue my education. As part of student organizations, I’d apply the lessons he taught me when I edited pubmats, videos, and posters. I never forgot how he had awakened the artist in me. 

When I heard about his death, I didn’t know how to react. Seeing a screenshot in Messenger announcing his passing felt surreal. “Why?” I asked myself, thinking about how his daughter wouldn’t get the chance to hear the same stories I’d heard back then.

I realized I was too late to thank the person who had guided me and humored me at a time I needed help the most. I wasn’t able to tell him how grateful I was for the little lessons he’d imparted. I wasn’t able to say goodbye. 

To our loved ones who have gone

We lost a lot of loved ones in 2020 – those who were close to us, those who made an impact on our lives.

At a time when personal interaction is limited and daily news of deaths has numbed us, what do we do? How do we say goodbye? How do we send off the people who have made our lives brighter, richer, and fuller? 

Maybe it can be through talking about the precious lives that have nurtured, moved, and loved us. Or it can be through a different medium – painting or drawing their faces, writing songs about them, or even continuously living out the lessons they have taught us.

For someone who was never really good at goodbyes, I now realize that, despite how heartbreaking these goodbyes could be, they are valuable. These acts signify the love we have for them. We set aside how far they may be from us now, or how long we would be separated for. – Rappler.com

If you wish to help Kuya Deo’s family in their time of need, you may still donate to help cover his hospital bills, doctors’ fees, and/or expenses related to his passing. You may find different ways to donate here in this form: bit.ly/helpsavedeo

Christina Quiambao is a 4th year journalism student from the University of the Philippines-Diliman. She is a Rappler intern.