When I Fell Apart, She Held the Family Together

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here are moments that divide a life into before and after. My stroke was one of them.

Before, I was a husband, a father, a provider.
After, I was learning how to lift a hand, how to speak without fear, how to believe that tomorrow still wanted me.

In that space where everything broke—my strength, my confidence, my sense of self—my wife did not.

We have been together for 26 years. That number sounds simple, almost ordinary. But behind it is a love that learned how to bend without breaking, how to stay when staying was the hardest thing to do.

When the stroke came, life spoke a cruel language. Rooms felt smaller. Time felt heavier. I was not the man I used to be—and I was terrified that I never would be again.

But she stayed.

Not just beside me—for me.

From teacher, she became caregiver. She bathed me when my body refused to cooperate. She helped me stand when my legs forgot how. She walked with me into therapy rooms where pain echoed louder than hope. She held my hand through every small, stubborn step forward.

Without warning, she became the head of our family.
She carried the weight I dropped.
She did not complain.
She did not run.
She rose.

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And then there were our children—angels disguised as ordinary kids who suddenly became extraordinary.

Betty, who once dreamed only of being a teacher, began dreaming of healing too. She watched my medicine like a guardian clock. “O Daddy, bawal ka nang magpuyat.” Even when I interrupted her reviews, even when her time was stolen by my needs—she chose love.

Totoy, my brave boy, turned from a communication student into my personal therapist. “Tiis lang Daddy, masakit ‘to.” He warned me the massages would hurt. They did. But every ache was a promise: You are not alone.

At first, I could not bear the pain.
But love has a way of teaching us endurance.
Slowly, I learned to breathe through it.
Slowly, I learned to live again.

They did not just take care of me. They rebuilt me.

When I fell apart, my wife held the family together—and in doing so, she held me too.

She did not change roles;
she became everything.

Now, as we mark 26 years of marriage, I understand something deeper than romance:

Love is not found in perfect moments.
It is forged in broken ones.

To my wife—my strength, my home, my miracle—thank you for carrying me when I could not carry myself. Thank you for choosing me, again and again, even when I was hard to love.

I promise you this:
I will keep rising.
I will keep fighting.
I will grow stronger—
not just for me, but for you.

Because our story is not over.
It is only learning how to stand.

When My Brain Betrayed Me, and Love Almost Let Go

There are memories that don’t knock.

They barge in.
They sit heavy on the chest and refuse to leave.

A year ago, I survived a stroke. People clap for survival, but no one warns you about the shadows that follow it home. How the world suddenly turns duller, darker—like someone dimmed the lights inside your head and forgot where the switch was.

The cruelest moment came during one of my episodes. Stroke rage, they call it—those uncontrollable tantrums many survivors quietly endure in the early days. Anger without logic. Noise without sound. A storm without warning.

I remember arguing with my wife. About what? I can’t even recall. What I do remember is hearing something at the back of my head—voices that weren’t there, echoes that felt real. My emotions hijacked me. My body followed. I lifted a chair.

Let me be clear: I knew I would never hurt her.
But knowing doesn’t matter when fear is already in the room.

Everything collapsed in seconds.

I was reported to the barangay hall in San Nicolas, Manila—dragged there not as a husband, not as a father, but like a criminal wearing my own face. The next day, my wife asked for legal separation. My children—my own blood—turned against me, their words sharper than any blade. They called my sisters in the province. They wanted me gone. Out of their lives. Out of their safety. Out of their story.

I felt numb. Then hollow. Then unbearably small.

Why couldn’t I control myself?
Why did my brain betray me like this?

I begged for forgiveness. It wasn’t given. They wanted distance, silence, disappearance. So I cried alone. Every day. Quietly. The kind of crying where you cover your mouth because even grief feels like something you’re no longer allowed to express.

The barangay meeting was scheduled. I waited like someone waiting for a verdict. It never happened. Maybe they didn’t want to interfere. Maybe they believed time would do what people couldn’t. But the damage had already taken root.

What hurt even more was the dream that quietly died alongside our peace.

Before the argument, my wife had applied for the 4PH Pabahay Program. She was accepted. DECA Homes in Tondo. A house in Manila. A future with walls we could finally call ours. We were only waiting for the payment notice.

She waived it.

Just like that.

A home vanished—not because of poverty, not because of fate—but because my stroke rewired me into someone even I was afraid of.

Months passed. Time did what hearts eventually do—it softened them. My wife found the courage to accept me back. I was allowed to return, but some things don’t come home with you. Trust limps. Dreams don’t respawn. And guilt? Guilt settles in like permanent furniture.

The house is gone.
The scars remain.
And the question still echoes: What if I could turn back the days?

But time doesn’t reverse. It only asks one thing: What will you do now?

So now, I rebuild.

I choose therapy. I choose discipline. I choose to face the monster my stroke briefly turned me into—and refuse to let it win again. I am not healed yet. I am not perfect. But I am trying. Every single day.

This is not a story about violence.
This is a story about illness, shame, forgiveness, and the quiet heroism of choosing to stay—when leaving would be easier.

If you’ve ever lost control and hated yourself for it,
If you’ve ever survived something and paid for it anyway,
If you’ve ever watched love almost slip through your hands—

Take my pain.
Feel it.
And know this: survival is not the end of the story.
Sometimes, it’s where the hardest chapters begin.

Ang Pag-ibig Talaga

Masaya magmahal. Malungkot magmahal. Di mo naiintindihan pero naiintindihan mo. Walang rason. Maraming rason. Di mo na kaya, pero kaya mo pa rin. Masakit magmahal. Pero okey lang. Teka, ano ba talaga?! Ang labo di ba? Pero ang linaw.

Hindi lang kasi basta baliktaran ang pag-ibig. Lahat ng bagay nababaligtad din niya. Lahat ng malalakas na tao, humihina. Ang mayayabang, nagpapakumbaba. Ang mga walang pakialam, nagiging Mother Teresa. Ang mga henyo, nauubusan ng sagot. Ang malulungkot, sumasaya. Ang matitigas, lumalambot.

Nakakatawa talaga. Lalo na kapag dumadating siya sa mga taong ayaw na talaga magmahal. Napansin ko nga eh. Parang kung gusto mo lang ma-in-love ulit, >sabihin mo lang ang magic words na "Ayoko na ma-inlove!" biglang WACHA! Ayan na siya. Nang-aasar. Magpapaasar ka naman.

Di ba nakakatawa rin na pagdating sa problema ng ibang tao, ang galling galing mo? Pero 'pag problema mo na yung pinag-uusapan parang nawawalan ng saysay lahat ng ipinayo mo dun sa namomroblemang tao? Naiisip mong wala namang mali dun sa mga sinabi mo. Pero bakit parang wala ring tama?

Bali-baliktad din ang nasasabi ng mga taong tinamaan ng madugong pana ng pag-ibig. "Ngayon ko lang nalaman ganito pala. Sabi ko na eh!" "Ang sarap mabuhay. Pwede na 'ko mamatay. Now na!"

At hindi lang 'yon. Ang sarap din pagtawanan ng mga taong alam naman nilang masasaktan lang sila eh magpapatihulog pa rin sa bangin ng pag-ibig. Tapos 'pag luray-luray na yung puso nila, siyempre hindi sila yung may kasalanan. Siya! "Bakit niya 'ko sinaktan?" May kasama pang pagsuntok sa pader yon, at pagbabagsak ng pinto.

Ang labo talaga.

Nakakatawa no? Nakakaiyak.

(Ang labo ng pag-ibig>>>Napulot ko ang estoryang eto, matagal na di ko alam kung kanino at paano nagsimula...)