Red robins

I woke up from an afternoon nap following an oddly unproductive work day, a deviation from my routines, with a terrible migraine. Sure, this was not the first time I had a headache, not that it was a common occurrence in my life, but tonight was too painful inasmuch as my tears would not let themselves be hampered by sheer self-control.

I pushed myself out of bed when I remembered I had stolen forty winks because I was planning to pull an all-nighter. I felt nauseous, almost to the point of vomiting.

Having lived on my own and away from my family for nearly a decade now, I learned to keep a steady supply of all sorts of medicine, just in case. Oddly, again, I ran out of ibuprofen. Recently, these little things that were far from usual have been becoming more and more embedded into my life. I thought I’d meditate while my boyfriend ran to the nearest drug store. Meditation had, at least once, in my personal experience, eased some physical discomfort. Maybe it could help. I laid back in bed with my phone resting on my chest, a meditation app playing some audio instruction. I focused on my breath, but halfway through the half-hour practice, I just had to give up. The pain was too much, and it demanded all my headspace.

I am writing this a few hours since then. I’m feeling better now. I’ve decided to not push through with the all-nighter because, while I deeply believe I have an abnormally high threshold for stress in any form — whether physical fatigue, mental distress, or psychological trauma — I had resolved to acknowledge the importance and necessity of rest.

“The migraine may be a culmination,” Nigel told me after I had my fill of penne carbonara and cheesy baked macaroni. Pasta had always given me comfort.

“Of what?” I may or may not have asked. I wasn’t lucid enough to remember. I do recall thinking that the migraine was a physical manifestation of my grief, though. Three days short of a month since my younger sister died, mourning still escapes me. My friends keep telling me, in varied iterations, that we all grieve differently. My former boss, whose brother died of sickness years ago, shared grief will come in waves. My current boss pointed out that, at least, I am not denying the loss of a loved one.

There is no point in denying that Maricel died and that she died by suicide. It feels like a disservice to bury the fact that she felt she had to do it when she did, discomfort notwithstanding, because this is precisely the kind of conversation we should be having on mental health.

Death is a natural part of life. Why are we so afraid of it?

The first thing I did upon waking up this morning was to check my phone for notifications and news updates. Former Philippine president Benigno “Noynoy” Aquino III was said to have been rushed to the hospital. Several minutes later, news organizations have been quoting sources who were confirming that Aquino had, indeed, passed.

It’s Thursday. On this day of the week, my sister died, too. Exactly a month ago, and around this time on May 24, we had our last conversation via Messenger.

A new day will begin in a few hours, yet I can still vividly recall the dream I had a night ago. That’s another item off a series of oddities this day has brought me. I do believe I dream often — and if psychologists and their definition of REM sleep were true, then this happens to all of us — but I barely remember them now that I am an adult.

When I was a child, I used to keep a journal of my dreams and had a book interpreting them. But growing up meant a redirection of priorities. As soon as I wake up, I think about what I needed to accomplish for the rest of the day. There’s no more room for needless pauses to savor subconscious images.

I digress.

In my dream, I was back in our house in Laguna. I was nursing a hurt red robin that I found in our gate entryway, protecting it from the curiosity of cats, well-meaning they may be.

While I searched online for home remedies for my migraine, pending my dose of ibuprofen, I also looked for images of robins. Even if birdsongs are my idea of calming music, I am not particular about the species and the sounds of their chirping. I just wanted to be sure I identified the right bird that occupied my dream.

And it turned out, I was right. It was a robin, all right.

If dreams were truly an amalgamation of unprocessed images from our days, I wonder where had I seen, heard, or even thought of a robin. I couldn’t remember any recent instance.

As I typed “red robin” on the search bar, Google tried to auto-fill my keywords into “red robin spiritual meaning”. It reminded me of my childhood fascination with dreams and their symbols. No harm in searching for that, too, right?

Apparently, robins symbolize hope and renewal, moving forward with grace, letting go of what no longer serves one, and accepting new beginnings with faith and trust in the process. Robins, too, were said to appear following the passage of a loved one.

According to myths and legends, robins appear once a loved one is dead. Allegedly, the robin is often seen after you encounter a loss of someone you love, who is the spirit of the deceased person trying to tell you not to worry and that they love you. A simple message from heaven, that this loved one is watching over you. Many people have proven this legend true. Robins also appear spiritually to remind you to uncover the happiness... Robins are also associated with the end of an old phase and the entering of a new one. To see a robin means you need to let go of what no longer serves you and find something else to bring you joy and happiness. The robin is encouraging you to be brave again. (Source: auntyflo.com/magic/robin)

I am not superstitious, but a book a friend suggested I read — Dying to Be Free: A Healing Guide for Families After a Suicide by Beverly Cobain and Jean Larch — included a chapter on interpreting signs from a dead loved one. I remember wondering if Maricel would do that. Like myself, I doubt she believed in souls and after-life.

After her pasiyam, I went to my favorite coffee shop for some time for myself. They played the song used in her memorial video. Could it have been a sign I ignored?

Thing is, I’d been trying to schedule writing about my feelings about her death for a while now. It’s always been included in my to-do list, but it was also always relegated to the unimportant, non-urgent category. Perhaps because writing about this feels like bringing a finality to who and what she is, or was. Even writing in the past tense is an imposition I had to make upon myself.

I am not ready to let go. She’s a part of me I will never forget or replace, and I know I will always bring her, in the form of memories, wherever I go.

But maybe all these oddities are manifestations of my sadness seeping out into consciousness. Maybe it’s time to allow myself to feel. •