A parent’s worst nightmare
(published 12-06-10, Manila Standard Today)

I never thought I would outlive my child.

I delivered my son after hours of excruciating labor. I should have had an easy time; my stomach was small. But he was my first child and they say the first is always the most difficult to birth. I cried when I first laid eyes on him. Dexter was born with a cleft palate and a hair lip.

He was barely a week old when he underwent surgery on his palate. For the next several months we fed him through a medicine dropper. A baby’s first instinct is to suck and although Dex tried mightily, he couldn’t do it with a split upper lip. He cried all the time. I cried along with him.

Dexter had two more surgeries before he turned seven but even when the gap in his palate reappeared as he got older, he refused to be put under the knife again. Instead he became adept at swallowing his food right and keeping his nasal passages clear so he could breathe properly. He grew up to be a strikingly handsome young man.

Dex worked his way through college and saved what he could to buy an Acura Integra. He was crazy about that car. All his spare cash went into sprucing it up, upgrading it, and making sure the engine and tires were in top shape so he could race it. Because racing was his second love. On weekends or after school and work on weekdays, he would gather with other young people his age talking cars and racing when they could. I’d never seen my son happier.

But I worried he would get into an accident. In the evenings before allowing myself to sleep I would wait to hear the hum of his engine, the sharp click of his car door or the bass rhythm of his radio. One time we found him in the garage fast asleep at the wheel of his car. He said he came home very late and tired, coming straight from the race after work. That car would cost your life, I warned. Prophetic words.

One afternoon at work I got a panicked call from my daughter. The cops were at the house; Dexter was hurt; he had been taken to Madigan Hospital.

All the way to the hospital I was thinking Dex had finally done it—gotten into an accident on his car. I prayed he wasn’t hurt bad. I negotiated with the God the German nuns at the College of the Holy Spirit in Manila had taught me to worship. I’d never prayed more desperately.

But I was wrong. Dex had not been hurt in an accident. A petty criminal had taken a fancy to his Acura Integra. He carjacked Dex, shot him in the head when he refused to give up his car, and left him by the wayside. The doctors at the hospital trauma unit told me Dexter’s wound was “unsurvivable.” He was brain dead when I got there. My oldest child and only son. Gone.

I cannot describe all the emotions that roiled inside me at that moment. I remember sobbing and saying “No” over and over again—not my first born, my only boy, the child of my heart.

How could such a cruel thing have happened in the United States? We left the Philippines for the opportunity America offered and because we no longer felt safe in my native country. How ironic that my son had been killed in this quiet Northwest city called Tacoma that I had considered my second home, perfect for raising my family.

Dexter hadn’t been a member of any gang. He didn’t do drugs, didn’t frequent bars, didn’t own a gun, didn’t drink, didn’t smoke. He worked; he went to school; and during his free time he raced his car. How could such innocent pursuits cut his life short so violently? How could any member of my family—all well-educated, God-fearing, peace-loving, hard-working citizens —be even remotely touched by evil? HOW COULD GOD ALLOW IT?

That day I parted with my maker irrevocably.

I’d like to say that the pain of losing my son has diminished over the years but I’d be lying. Any parent who has ever lost a child suddenly and violently will probably never recover from the trauma. But we learn to hide it better because other people—friends and family members included—are often uncomfortable (even impatient) with any display of raw emotions. They do not want to see us in pain; they want to cheer us on to recovery. I’ve heard it all: “Get over it. It’s been years. He’s in a better place. Don’t wallow in your grief. Time to move on.”

As if grief can be turned off like a tap.

I live alone now. My daughters are grown and out of the house. My husband of 30 years has moved to the east coast. I’m as content as can be expected but holidays are hard, especially around Christmas. Dexter loved the gaiety and fun, the shopping, the presents, good times with the family. He lives in my heart but it’s not the same. I miss him terribly.

I wonder if I will ever see him again.