In 2013, probably.
HR: “What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?”
I paused. Thought long and hard. I wanted the conversation to be meaningful, maybe even memorable.
But all I could say was, “I don’t have anything, to be honest.”
HR: “Really none? Oh, you’re so lucky then.”
I remember feeling disappointed in myself. Why didn’t I have an answer? Why did I feel like I needed one? I even laughed at the absurdity of wishing for something tragic—just to have a story. I shouldn’t have been mad at myself for that. But what did I know back then?
Now, if I were asked again, I can easily answer that it was my brother’s death. Not just the worst thing—but every synonym of sorrow you can imagine.
That Christmas, I was in Lincoln. We had a video call with my siblings. The moment our faces appeared on screen, we broke down. No words. No “Merry Christmas.” No “Happy New Year.” We’re just sobbing in chorus. We were transported back to that day.
The three of us had witnessed his suffering together. We took turns visiting him in the hospital, caring for him, watching over him. Each day felt heavier than the last. On the first day, I was terrified—I didn’t want to see him like that. The hospital didn’t even have an MRI. We had to transfer him elsewhere just to get the scan. And when the results came back, there was no doctor available to read it.
Every hour mattered. He was already having multiple seizures. And we were just waiting. Waiting for answers. Waiting for help. That week felt like a lifetime.
We were transferred to a much bigger hospital (which later we found it sucks too, I don’t want to talk about it, waste of space here) for my brother’s operation. We are momentarily happy, relieved to the thought he’s now in a big hospital complete with facilities and all.
That night, I ordered McDonald’s for all of us.
After the operation, I remember how loud my eldest sister’s voice was (close to shouting) while chatting to another person in the ICU waiting room. It was loud because she’s nervous or relieved, I couldn’t tell.
I hated people that day. All of them. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I prefer that people don’t talk to me at all. Why are they happy? People I passed by in the hospital’s hallway—nurses, visitors– I hated them, why they’re smiling, laughing, having a good time while me, us in a room worried for my brother’s life. Worried about my brother who was clutching his head in pain. How dare they be okay. I’m angry. How people laughed, worked, and moved forward—when my world had come to a standstill. I wanted the world to feel what I felt. I wanted everyone to be miserable. I hated myself for thinking that. I hated life for making me feel that way.
This is probably the reason why I felt strangely connected to the person in the ICU waiting room, we both shared the agony of waiting, we both shared and understood that kind of pain. The kind that doesn’t need words. Waiting for news, waiting for hope.
Three or four hours after the operation, they called me in.
An ICU nurse said, “Your brother’s eyes aren’t responding. His blood pressure is low. We need to inject something to stabilize it.” I said, “Okay, do that.” Then his first doctor came in. “He’s in a coma now.”
I don’t remember the rest of what she said. I just remember the frustration rising in my chest. I snapped, “Tell that to my sisters. I don’t understand what you’re saying.” She looked startled. Maybe even scared. I didn’t care. I was angry. Confused. Why and how does it happen? I was left all alone in the room then I made a phone call to tell my family.
It felt like he was on top of a building, one hand clinging to something fragile, ready to fall. And I was on the ground, looking up—helpless. So many things in life, I’ve managed to fix or it just magically sort itself out, why not this one? Why can’t I fix this one? Why not this one?
I was sobbing in our room fixing sheets, while my father said, “That’s how life is”.
I blamed everything.
If our hospitals had free monthly checkups, free operations, free medicine—maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
Well, if Filipino parents don’t commodify their children so much that their children feel guilty if they don’t have work for a longer period of time. But we don’t have that luxury, we don’t have that option, we have to continue working.
Well, Capitalism innit? People will tend to look at their loved ones as commodities ( I think Family Commodified in Capitalism is a great topic for a thesis by the way).
Also,this isn’t to say our parents don’t love us.
We blamed ourselves, too.
If only we knew someone—someone who was the best neurosurgeon.
If only the first hospital had an MRI machine.
If only a doctor had been available to read the results right away.
If only we hadn’t pushed for the operation. Maybe he’d still be alive?
People say, “You don’t know.” But I do. We do. And then I cry.
There’s a scene from Dawson’s Creek, when Dawson’s dad dies. At the funeral, Dawson says: “Nothing feels real. It’s like I’ve been transported to some alternate universe where we’re just walking around outside all day long.”
That’s exactly how it felt at my brother’s funeral. Like reality had cracked open and we were just drifting through the pieces. You replay the memory thousands of times, hoping for a different ending. But each time, you arrive at the same unbearable truth.
Come back to us my beloved brother. I’ll treat you to every food you love. I’ll buy you new shoes every quarter. I’ll spoil you. But you’re not here.
I will always remember and preserve his memories when he was still here. When his laughter filled the room and his hugs wrapped around me like sunlight. Sometimes, i still stop and hoping to hear your voice, your laughter. That somehow there’s a rift in time and we’ll be back where we were – you’re living and breathing.
And this grief that I’m still trying to sort through, and I know now that I may never fully recover from it in my lifetime. It’s a part of me now, woven into the fabric of who I am.
And you know what, Immortal Superpowers don’t appeal to me ever since. It’s unbearably painful to be left behind.
Joan of Art's Ship of Imagination 