Which Loss Is Worse?

by guest columnist Jenniffer Velasco

Everyone has losses, each one unique. It can make one stronger, or it can make one a victim.

For me, it’s the feeling that something is missing permanently.

It’s too difficult to re-examine the overwhelming losses in my life. I’m too busy right now, creating a life from pure dreams and fantasy.

So I leave journal-like writings that ache and bleed… still.

I tried to write in the Arboretum’s Japanese garden, but it was so zen; too peaceful, too calm. I ended up forgetting about loss; pretending I was a coy fish.

I attempted to write about loss in a coffee shop, but it would be too intense to cry in public. I’m so focused on plans, schemes, schmooze, booze, friends, art, and, oh yeah, life.

My apartment is open and friendly; yet the space where I sleep celebrates my sacred losses. One is of my failure to see my grandma, who raised me and protected me from the bad men. The other is the loss of being a mother.

In my bedroom, I’ve placed a painting of my grandmother Lola, half-young and half-old, and a painting of myself holding a child in my arms before giving him up for adoption at age 17.

Aug. 28, 1993

Brandyn:

It’s been a month since I last held you. It had been so difficult that day. You looked so beautiful. How could anyone with a heart give you up without feeling?

But in my tears and heartbreak, I still put your well-being first. This is what matters to me: That I’ll know for sure you’ll be OK and well taken care of. In my ease of giving you up, I am giving up the chance to know or feel love for you. Your love will be for other parents.

I’ve been through a lot with you. You were born three and a half months before your time. I wanted to keep you. I fell in love and saw you in the prenatal hospital often, holding you for hours at a time, just enjoying my few moments.

It hurts so much to love you, knowing I’m going to lose you in a matter of time.

But I’ll tell you this: I was never afraid to love.

Sept. 7, 1998

This month has been testing.

I’ve been working hard, trying to save money for a ticket to the Phillipines. My mission was to see Lola (a Filipino word for “Grandma”). She is my mom’s mom.

I’ve been through an attempted muging for $400, the only way to buy a plane ticket. My Washington ID has been lost.

I waited for six hours with my dad, racing against time. The clock ticked away. I fought the passport agency–crying, yelling, hating everyone. I ended up having to drive to my old high school to get my freshman records, just to verify that I’m an American, I’ve lived here all my life.

In all this, I was thinking only of Lola. I needed to see those kind eyes of hers just one more time. I felt sick inside with fire and anxiety; trying to cut the red tape.

I finally relaxed, thinking all the proper papers are in order. I was finally going to see Lola.

As I was cleaning my closet, my mother called from New York, telling me Lola was dead.

I HAD KNOWN the love of my Lola. The fried rice with eggs in the morning, Sleeping next to her at night, arguing–me in broken Tagalog, her in her brittle English. She died thinking of me.

But with my child, I felt a slower grieving. I was too young and naive about my love for him; waiting for the hope the he’d look for me to explain how much I’ve wept for him. Every Christmas, every birthday, every Mother’s Day, every baby I see reminds me of my life without him.

The sun is coming up. It’s Thursday, I think. Many pains have carved my existence; yet I don’t identify with them.

I am at this moment, not by what I’ve lost but by what I’ve gained.