A Story of Loss, Faith, and Eternal Hope

Dedication

To my beloved son, Trent,

You were taken from us far too soon, yet you live on forever in my heart. Not a day passes that I do not think of you, not a prayer spoken without your name in it. Until the day we meet again, rest in the eternal embrace of our Lord.

Forever loved. Forever missed.

— Dad

To Every Parent Who Has Lost a Child

If you are reading this with a broken heart, know that you are not alone. The pain you carry is real, and the questions you ask are valid. God has not abandoned you. Even in your darkest night, He is closer than you think. May this story remind you that love does not end with death, and that hope still lives— even in grief.

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Chapter One: My Beautiful, Beloved Son, Trent

The Promises That Gave Me Strength

Closing Reflection: What Grief Has Taught Me

Chapter One

My Beautiful, Beloved Son, Trent

Loss • Grief • Faith • Redemption • Eternal Hope

Oh how I miss you, my son.

Though it has been almost nineteen years, everything remains so very fresh in my mind. That dreadful night—11:30 p.m. on August 7, 2007—when you left us, was the most horrifying moment of my life.

Finding you on the bathroom floor, lifeless, with foam in your mouth and your neck already turning blue, was utterly shocking. Questions rushed through my mind, desperately searching for answers that might somehow give me relief—but none came. Hopelessness pierced my heart, my thoughts lost focus, and the only question I could clearly ask was why.

How could this have happened?

What happened?

Were you bitten by something poisonous?

Surely you could not have just died for nothing.

What made it even more horrifying was that we were in a remote location with no immediate emergency medical help available. The nearest ambulance was two hours away. When it finally arrived, there were no EMTs—only the driver. There was nothing he could do except drive. The ambulance carried no real medical equipment—only an empty oxygen tank, a stretcher, and an old, manual CPR air pump, the kind you open and close like an accordion.

The driver told us there was an emergency medical clinic nearby. We rushed there, carrying my son inside, hoping someone—anyone—could help. Instead, we found the place in complete disarray. A drunken man was asleep on a table, and broken pieces of a blood pressure monitor were scattered across the floor. We asked him to make room so we could lay my son down, but there was nothing there that resembled a functioning medical facility. That clinic was supposed to be staffed with EMTs—but that night, it was not.

We returned to the ambulance and began the two-hour drive to the city. As we sped along the winding road, I held onto the stretcher because it was not locked to the floor. Every turn sent it sliding side to side. I had to keep it steady while the ambulance drove at nearly fifty miles per hour through zigzagging roads.

Halfway there, we ran over a dog. The impact made the ambulance feel as if it had launched off the road. I begged the driver to slow down. In my heart, I already knew. My son was no longer breathing. I had continued CPR, but I knew it was hopeless. He was gone.

When we finally reached the hospital, we carried him inside. A nurse attempted CPR using the same air bag from the ambulance. Even the hospital was unprepared for an emergency like this. I refused to accept the reality. I walked out, still hoping he would regain consciousness. Minutes later, I returned—only to find him still not breathing. At that moment, the truth became undeniable. My son was dead.

From that point on, I was completely overwhelmed by grief. The days that followed were filled with funeral arrangements and the painful process of bringing his body back to the United States, since everything had happened in Palawan, Philippines.

My mind was numb. Denial and the constant question of “Why is this happening to me?” became my daily companions.

One of the hardest days was choosing his coffin. I kept wishing I would wake up and discover this was all just a nightmare—but reality kept confirming otherwise.

At the airport, waiting to depart for Manila, we sat by the gate watching the plane. As they loaded his coffin into the cargo area, I broke down. Why was my son being placed in the cargo hold when he should have been sitting beside me?

That moment shattered me. I felt as though God was punishing me.

Why, Lord?

Why me?

Have I been so bad to deserve this?

I felt forsaken by God. My stomach churned with indescribable turmoil. Anxiety, depression, frustration, fear, insecurity, and loneliness became my shadow—clinging to me wherever I went. I could not escape them.

The layover in Manila brought more anguish—transferring his body again, arranging another flight to Los Angeles. That flight felt like an eternity. Sleep was impossible. When we finally arrived in L.A., we had to arrange yet another transfer to a funeral home in Simi Valley.

I am forever grateful to my family and friends who supported me during that time. They helped carry me through the darkest moments of my life. I prayed for God to bless them all for their kindness.

In my pain, I turned to alcohol to numb my senses. For the next five years, there was not a single day that I was not drunk. My wife and I visited his grave often, hoping the pain would fade. It never did. We simply learned how to live with it—each in our own way.

What began as a joyful vacation turned into a nightmare. Like a thief in the night, death came suddenly. Sorrow and anguish became our constant companions.

The questions remain unanswered to this day. The image of my son’s coffin being loaded into the cargo compartment still slices my heart whenever it crosses my mind. I am forever wounded.

Years later, during one of my lowest moments, I happened to tune into a radio talk show about Jesus. That moment changed everything. It reacquainted me with our Heavenly Father.

I was raised Catholic, so God and Jesus were not strangers to me—but I had not truly committed my life to them. That day marked the beginning of my healing. I began reading the Holy Bible, and there I found what I needed to move forward. There, I found acceptance.

I was reminded that God gave His Son, Jesus Christ, so that whoever believes in Him shall have everlasting life. That truth became the key to surviving the loss of my own son.

I share this story to encourage anyone who has experienced a similar loss: give the Holy Bible a chance. In it, you may find peace again—even in the darkest moments of life.

Losing someone we love is the greatest pain a person can endure. Losing a child is a wound that never fully heals. Our children are not supposed to go before us. Holidays change. Family gatherings are never the same. “What could have been” and “what should have been” live forever in our hearts.

The only true comfort and healing come from the promises of our Lord Jesus Christ.

As He said:

“I am the way, the truth, and the life.”

Nothing on this earth can heal a wounded heart except the love, the power, and the promises of Jesus Christ.

The Promises That Gave Me Strength

“I am the resurrection and the life.” — John 11:25

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3

“For no one is cast off by the Lord forever. Though He brings grief, He will show compassion, so great is His unfailing love.” — Lamentations 3:31–32

“He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.” — Isaiah 53:3

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” — Matthew 5:4

“We do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope.” — 1 Thessalonians 4:13–14

“My Father’s house has many rooms… I will come back and take you to be with Me.” — John 14:2–3

Closing Reflection: What Grief Has Taught Me

Grief never truly leaves us. It changes shape over time, but it remains a companion we did not choose. Losing my son taught me that strength does not mean the absence of pain—it means learning how to live while carrying it.

There were days when faith felt distant, when prayers felt empty, and when hope seemed impossible. Yet, even in those moments, God was present. I did not always feel Him, but I later realized He was carrying me through the days I could not carry myself.

I have learned that healing does not mean forgetting. Love does not end with death. And sorrow, though deep and lasting, is not without meaning when placed in God’s hands.

If you are walking through grief, especially the loss of a child, know this: you are not weak for still hurting. You are not failing because the pain remains. And you are not alone. God sees every tear, hears every silent prayer, and promises that death does not have the final word.

This story is not offered as an answer to suffering, but as a reminder of hope—that even in our deepest loss, love endures, faith can be rebuilt, and one day, all separation will be healed in the presence of our Lord.

I would also like to thank God for my beloved wife and my beloved daughter, who suffered alongside me and gave me the strength, courage, and determination to move forward and endure the challenges of this tragic event in my life. They, like me, witnessed the entire story and therefore experienced the same tragedy. Together, by God’s grace, we overcame and grew closer to God Almighty than ever before. My wife and my daughter are the pillars who hold me up, lift me, and enable me to persevere. They both possessed a strength greater than my own, and I am deeply thankful for them. Without them, I know I would be

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About the Author

DMantis shares his personal journey through grief, faith, and healing following the loss of his son. This work is offered in the hope that it may bring comfort to others who are walking through sorrow and loss.