“Grief is in two parts. The first is loss. The second is the remaking of life.” Anne Roiphe
It was declared void ab initio. Our marriage was void from the beginning. It started with a piece of paper signed by a marriage celebrant in the sunny Mosman house along Dalton Road in December 1989, and ended with another piece of paper signed by a Judge from a Makati Courthouse in February 1998.
We were the best of mates at the outset – blessed with a beautiful child four years after we got married and a business that was taking the industry by storm. But unlike fairy tales that have happy endings, our marriage suffered major setbacks from which recovery was not an option – so we separated and went our own ways after discussing the best that we could arrange for our son.
That was the first time I lost Tim, my ex-husband, the father of my only child.
Hard as it was to imagine the effects on me were, it was harder to comprehend what it was like for a four-year-old to see his parents separate. Such is always the case, the children almost always suffer when marriages break down. He left the country to live in Thailand and Sydney and Oliver (my son) and I stayed in Manila, our home.
In 2012, Oliver moved to Australia to study with the prospect of getting to know his Dad better. Unfortunately, things got in the way for him to get to know the father who had been physically absent from his life. Oliver noticed behavioral and personality changes about his Dad that were difficult to explain then. He let his Dad be – thinking that he needed time to fully absorb the presence of his son in Sydney.
It was a couple of years later when Tim was diagnosed with early-onset fronto temporal dementia – a cruel disease that damages the brain “causing the typical symptoms of changes in personality and behavior, and difficulties with language.”
At first, Oliver noticed slow signs of the disease that crept on his Dad. Tim was saying fewer words when talked to, he no longer showed any interest in the sports that he used to love; and he could barely remember his friends and family members’ names, while his sense of balance was affected.
And it got worse, exponentially as the days passed into years, until Tim required nursing services because he could no longer perform basic tasks such as operating the cooking appliances. He was said to struggle more with language, finding it harder to communicate what he wanted and needed. And he was only in his late 50s, living alone with dementia.
For years I haven’t had any communication with Tim, so Oliver and I decided that perhaps it was time for me to see him before the disease completely takes over. I booked a flight to Australia last week of November and told Oliver that I would like to see Tim on the 1st of December. The day of reckoning came and nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.
I stared at the man I married 27 years ago who was looking at me with quizzical eyes and a puzzled look on his face. He appeared perplexed, eyes now devoid of any recognition of Oliver or myself.
There I was, face to face with Tim, now reduced to a shell of the man who mentored me about life and love nearly three decades ago. Here was the man who launched Medical Observer by transcribing and writing scientific lectures into readable prose but could now barely utter more than seven words. It was heart-wrenching to see the father of my son now dependent on other people for something as basic as putting one’s clothes on.
This is early-onset dementia – wreaking havoc on the life of my ex. Not the easiest scenario to witness without one breaking down. And I did. I lost him when we separated back in 1998, and I felt that I lost him, for the second time, to a cruel disease.
What an overwhelming grief it was to see only the shadow of my ex’s former self materialize before me. No amount of words could diminish the loss of a loved one to dementia – it is tragic to see someone alive yet so devoid of life.
When Oliver and I left Tim in his Manly apartment that 1st day of December, my son suggested to my sister-in-law that perhaps, it would be best for Tim to go back to Manila where he could have 24/7 care vis-à-vis the one-hour-a-day nursing care in Australia. The idea was to rent a house in the same compound where I live and get Oliver’s former nanny to look after him together with full time nurses. I would have to supervise all of these arrangements which I embraced wholeheartedly.
The plan was set into motion the moment I returned to the Philippines.
Twelve days later, Oliver called me up, inconsolable, to say that I can stop making arrangements for Tim’s transfer because Tim died that day. As with some dementia patients, Tim over estimated his swallowing capability and choked on the meal that he was eating. He was with the nurse who performed first-aid on him without success.
He was only 59. And I lost him for the third and last time.
The years of separation do not diminish the grief that one endures when losing an ex. You grieve for the passing of a friend, the father of your child, the partner you once had, and the love that you once shared. Divorce, annulment – or whatever it is called – has no meaning in death. Loss is loss – irretrievable and final. He was once a part of my life, and he always will be, because of my son.
Life is too short to nurture hidden hurts. I am just grateful that I was able to see and speak to him just days before he passed away. Somehow, a sense of relief washes away some of the grief.
So how did I deal with the sadness of losing an ex-spouse?
1. I shared it with my son – I talked about Tim with Oliver lengthily and how we can move on with our lives. This was especially helpful as my son knew the reason for the annulment. Grieving together with someone who feels the same sense of loss is cathartic.
2. I jotted down how I felt – You write it down. Either one word or a thousand words don’t matter. But releasing it by conveying your innermost emotions on a piece of paper helps unload the varied emotions that your friends might not comprehend.
3. My son made sure his support system surrounded me – Oliver asked his friends to take me out to lunch and coffee days after he told me that Tim died. Not everyone will have this privilege, but you can call on some friends who would understand.
4. I cried – I just let the tears flow and felt the cleansing power of crying. This will have a cathartic effect on anyone and it sure brought relief to me when I remembered all the things I shared with Tim.
I would be interested to know about your experience in the comments section below.
Musings from Manila 