Dodong, Our 11:11 Angel

Eight years ago, my family lost a piece of our heart. My brother Dodong, our angel, passed away from lung cancer. Every year since then, my mother and I have made it a point to visit Mater Christi Church on his death anniversary. It’s our way of honouring his memory, of keeping him close in a world that has felt a little emptier without him.

This year was no different. The church, with its quiet pews and comforting silence, has become a sacred space for us. It’s a place where we can reflect, remember, and connect with Dodong in our own way. Sitting there, I couldn’t help but think about how much time has passed and yet how little the ache of his absence has faded. Grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t follow a straight path. It loops, swirls, and lingers, catching us off guard when we least expect it.

My mother, who has always been the emotional anchor of our family, finds solace in signs. One of her most cherished beliefs is tied to angel numbers, particularly 11:11. Whenever she sees this number on her phone, she smiles and says, “Dodong is here with us.” It’s her way of staying connected to him, and honestly, it’s become a comforting ritual for all of us. I’ve started noticing 11:11 too, and when I do, it feels like a small, gentle reminder that he’s watching over us. It’s a fleeting moment of peace in a world that can sometimes feel heavy.

At home, Dodong’s urn still sits in its familiar spot. It’s been there since the day we brought him back. A family friend once gently suggested that it might be time to give him a final resting place, but it’s a decision we haven’t been able to make. The idea of letting go, even in this small way, feels monumental. Do we find a plot here in Australia, where we’ve built our lives, or do we take him back to our home country, where our roots are? The question has lingered for years, unanswered, as we struggle to find the right path forward.

It’s strange how grief can create this kind of inertia. You get stuck in a loop, replaying the same thoughts and feelings, unable to move forward but too weary to stay in the same place. For our family, this loop has been both a source of comfort and a burden. Keeping Dodong’s urn at home makes it feel like he’s still with us, a tangible presence in our everyday lives. But it also serves as a constant reminder of the loss we haven’t fully processed.

Despite this, we try our best to live. Life doesn’t stop, even when your heart feels like it’s in pieces. My mother is the embodiment of resilience. She has found ways to keep going, to smile, to find joy in small moments, even as she carries the weight of her grief. For her, Dodong is never truly gone. She believes he’s with us in spirit, guiding us, protecting us, and showing up in those little signs like 11:11.

I’ve often wondered if this belief is what has kept her strong all these years. Faith, in whatever form it takes, can be a powerful source of healing. For her, it’s the belief that Dodong is an angel now, watching over us and making sure we’re okay. For me, it’s the moments we share as a family, the way we come together to honour his memory, that bring me comfort. Those moments remind me that grief is not just about loss; it’s also about love—a love so strong that it transcends time and space.

This year, as we lit a candle for Dodong at the church, I thought about all the memories we’ve held onto. His laughter, his kindness, the way he could brighten a room just by being in it. Those memories are treasures, little pieces of him that we get to keep forever. They’re what keep us going, even on the hardest days.

Back at home, my mother and I talked about him, as we often do on this day. We reminisced about his favourite meals, his funny quirks, and the way he used to look out for everyone in the family. He was the kind of person who put others first, who made you feel seen and valued. Losing him left a void that’s impossible to fill, but remembering him in this way makes it feel like he’s still here with us, in spirit if not in body.

We also revisited the conversation about his final resting place. It’s a tough decision, one that feels heavy with meaning. If we choose a cemetery here in Australia, it would be easier for us to visit him regularly. But taking him back to our home country feels like honouring his roots, his identity, and the place where so many of our memories with him were made. It’s a dilemma that doesn’t have an easy answer, and for now, we’re still searching for clarity.

Grief, I’ve come to realise, is not something you “get over.” It’s something you learn to live with. It becomes a part of you, shaping the way you see the world and the way you move through it. For our family, living with grief means finding ways to celebrate Dodong’s life even as we mourn his absence. It means holding onto our traditions, like visiting the church every year, and creating new ones, like finding meaning in angel numbers. It means allowing ourselves to feel the weight of loss while also making space for joy and hope.

As the day came to a close, I felt a sense of quiet reflection. Today, we let ourselves feel the depth of our emotions. Tomorrow, we will wake up and keep going, as we always do. Grief doesn’t have to define us, but it is a part of our story. And in that story, Dodong will always have a central place. He is our 11:11 angel, a constant presence in our lives, reminding us of the love that binds us together, even across the boundaries of life and death.

To anyone who has ever experienced loss, I want to say this: it’s okay to grieve in your own way, to take your time, and to find meaning in the little things. It’s okay to hold onto memories and to create rituals that bring you comfort. Grief is not a straight line; it’s a journey, and it’s one we don’t have to walk alone.

Dodong, wherever you are, we hope you know how much you are loved and missed. You’ve left a mark on our lives that will never fade. Thank you for being our angel, our guide, and our reminder to cherish every moment. Until we meet again, we’ll carry you in our hearts, always.