Last weekend, I finally opened the Mass cards we received when Mike died a year  ago. Three huge bags filled with Mass cards lay for a year on my dining room cabinet, unopened, calling out to me silently, each passing day a guilty reminder to send thank you notes to those who reached out. Truth to tell, I could not bear to open them. It hurt too much.

For Mike’s first year death anniversary, we compiled some of the testimonials friends and family shared along with pictures and prepared an e-book tribute to Mike. I spent the weekend sending them out to friends and family. As many of our friends are in Facebook, I tried posting the e-book but learned that it was not possible to do with a pdf file. Converting it to jpg took a while as Mike was not there to teach me. He was always my knight in shining armour when it came to technology.

We hurriedly printed black and white copies which we distributed to those who joined the masses at St. Therese Columbarium and at St. Pauls in Alfonso the weekend of March 9. Not a few shed tears reading them. I still do each time. Several came forward and told me they felt the love we had. He was a good man. Nay, he was a great man. And he was my man. My husband. My partner. My lover. My children’s father. My best friend.

His clothes hung in our walk in closet, a silent reminder. A fervent, desperate wish that perhaps, he may just walk in and put them on. I could not bear to put them away. When natural disasters struck and people needed help, I gave away his everyday clothes. I kept his favourite shirts, the ones he would use to lounge around the house or Alfonso, watch movies or write. I used to tease him about certain well-worn shirts that were old and tattered, but which he loved to wear because they were comfortable. I threatened to throw them away, and would buy him new shirts to wear, but still he continued to wear the old ones. At night, I would wear them, just to feel him close to me, embracing me.

Mike’s suits, barongs and formal shirts stayed on. I urged his sons to take what they wanted, but Mike being a big man, there was not much that would fit them. Who could I give them to? Friends would advise me to hold a second hand sale of his clothes. What a terrible thought! I would much prefer to give them to friends who would treasure them, or to those in need.

Just before she left for Boracay to take on a sous chef position at a resort, Cara found Mike’s iPod. It had long been missing. When Mike took ill, he stopped listening to it. I was overjoyed when Cara gave it to me! I could now listen to Mike’s music. I plugged it into my computer to charge it, unknowingly erasing all its contents in the process as it synced to my empty music list. I felt as if I had been punched. I had so looked forward to having something of Mike in my life again, but it was gone. Forever, I thought. Inconsolable, I cried myself to sleep that night. I woke up with a puffy face, unrecognizable. Just as I looked each morning for months after Mike’s death.

My grief over losing Mike was very physical. It manifested itself in hives, and I would wake up with a swollen face and rashes all over every morning. I could hardly walk from pain. I suffered a slipped disc as a result of an accident in early February. The doctors told me not to bend or carry anything heavy, while going through therapy. But Mike was ill and needed me to help him up, dress him, fix the easy chair, and so on. I didn’t listen to the doctors, and so my back problems went from bad to worse.

After Mike died, I had to wear a back brace and walk with a cane. It was agonizing to stand or sit or lie down. My friend Evelyn got me a walker to help me get up and move around in the mornings. Travel required wheelchairs. For several months, I was popping all sorts of pills for the hives, to sleep, to ease the pain. But nothing worked. It was the pain inside, which I refused to face, that kept me from getting well.

Guilt was eating me up. I felt guilty that I was not there every moment that Mike needed me when he was ill. I told myself I had to continue working, running TeamAsia, and delivering on client commitments. Bea was away at graduate school, Cara at work in Boracay, and Niccolo finishing up high school. As soon as work ended, I would rush home to be with Mike. We stopped having dinners in the lanai, near his beloved koi pond. We stopped going to our weekend retreat in Alfonso. Instead, we would have dinner in the entertainment room upstairs so Mike need not go up and down the stairs. Bugsy would sit at his feet. Bugsy was an even better companion than I was.

Because of my work schedule, Mike went alone to chemo or stem cell sessions, accompanied by one of our maids, or our driver. Sometimes, a friend or a son would stay with him. Whenever I could I would go with him, but most of the time I was able to escape work only to get to the hospital in time to talk to the doctor, pay the bill and bring him home.

My life had revolved around Mike. He was the centre of my family life and my work life. We loved each other deeply, raised a family, worked together and lived together. I hardly ever went out without him. It was thus a big change working alone and living alone. Emptiness was my new companion. I felt like I was on a raft out in deep water, buffeted by the wind and waves, without a shore in sight.

I continued to attend my Bible studies and go to church. But more often than not, I ended up with tears welling up and brimming over, questioning what had happened. I was so angry at Mike. He had promised we would be together forever, but he left me. I wanted to be with him, to leave everything behind, and wished it over and over again. I knew I was spiralling into deep depression, but seemed unable to stop it.

One day, a friend brought someone to the farm who said she could communicate with dead people, and that Mike wanted to talk to me. Alone, we “conversed” and Mike’s message was that he was at peace with God, that there was so much love where he was, that Jesus was the only way to salvation. He told me he loved me and the children, but that I had to stay behind for now, and accomplish what I had been sent here to do. Through her, he recounted the moment he died and left his body, when he was calling out to me but that I could not hear as I was crying, how an angel came to fetch him and urge him to go through pitch darkness, how he resisted because he was afraid, but after going through a deep and long dark tunnel, he reached the blinding light of heaven where Jesus welcomed him.

I was crying as I listened to her tell me this, but at the back of my mind, there was the nagging thought that she was making this all up. Until, she laughed and shared that Mike had told her that his favourite past time was to watch movies on DVD (true), and when she told him that they shared the same past time, he told her they were different because he only watched genuine DVDs and not pirated ones (how very true!). This banished any doubt I had that it was really Mike I was talking to. Pirated movies were banned in our home as Mike fervently believed in Intellectual Property and would only watch genuine DVDs. Now, how would this person have known that?

A week later, a staff member asked if she could talk to me. When I asked her why, she said she had dreamt of Mike. He was happy in heaven, and he was with Jesus, and he wanted to tell me I would be alright. This comforted me. Later, I remembered that over the years, when Mike and I would talk about our faith, we promised each other that whoever went ahead would tell the other if heaven was true. You see, Mike’s faith was always much stronger and deeper than mine, and he brought me closer to God.

In November, I went to Barcelona for a conference, and then to Italy to meet up with Cara. I needed that break, as it took me out of my usual environment, met new people, had different experiences. I also reconnected with two of my favourite angels on this earth, Dada Conchi and my sister Pinky. I took to writing (finally!), started a blog, and began painting once again.

Slowly, slowly, I felt like I was coming up for air. And learning to smile again. Through all these months, my beautiful children were there, taking care of me while struggling to come to terms with their own pain of losing a father. They say time heals. I say, it numbs the pain, taking off the razor-sharp pangs of despair and softening the jagged edges of sorrow, like balm on a red hot burn.

Early yesterday morning at the Retreat, I went to the gazebo armed with my box of coloured pencils and laptop. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here, with time on my hands. The mahogany trees have grown so tall, their leaves obscuring the mountain side. I put on Mike’s music, and basked in the peace around me. I ended up painting Mike, as I remembered him, smiling kindly at me, his eyes a startling blue. Oh, how I miss him!