“I Couldn’t Hold Back My Tears When I Saw Kris Aquino That Night” – Boy Abunda Recounts His Late-Night Visit Before Her 6-Month Isolation

My name is Boy Abunda. And today, I want to share something deeply personal—a moment that moved me to my core. A moment that reminded me how fragile life can be, and how even the strongest among us sometimes fight the quietest battles.

A few nights ago, I received a message from someone close to Kris Aquino. It said:

“Tita will begin her six-month isolation soon. Can you visit her tonight?”

I dropped everything.

I got in the car and drove straight to Tarlac, to the Cojuangco family compound that Kris lovingly calls “Alto.” It was nearly midnight when I arrived. The air was still. Quiet. Heavy.

And then I saw her.

She was sitting by the window, alone. No makeup. No lights. No stage. Just Kris—bare, fragile, and heartbreakingly human.

I didn’t recognize her at first.

This was Kris Aquino—the Queen of All Media. Once a pillar of Philippine entertainment, always poised, radiant, powerful. But that night, she was gaunt. Pale. A medical tube attached to her hand. Her body weak, but her eyes—still bright, though different. There was strength in them, yes, but also pain. And acceptance.

She looked at me and gently smiled.

“Boy, I chose not to post anything for a while,” she said. “Because if people knew what was happening… they might stop praying. But the truth is, my autoimmune conditions are getting worse. Every night, when I go to sleep, I wonder if I’ll still wake up the next day.”

I was stunned.

She told me about her upcoming treatment—a six-to-eight hour drug infusion scheduled just days away. The medication, combined with two others she takes daily (one orally, one by injection), would completely erase her immune system. For that reason, she made the painful decision to go into preventive isolation for six months.

“I’ll be staying in Tarlac,” she said. “At least here, I’m surrounded by quiet… and family.”

Then, she told me about her sons.

Her voice cracked when she spoke about Josh, her eldest.

“He’s been deeply traumatized since Mom Cory, Lola P, and Noy passed. Now, seeing me like this—weak, hooked up to IVs—he shakes. He says over and over, ‘Mama, get well. I love you.’ It’s too much for him. So for now, he’s staying with my super loving cousin.”

As for Bimb, now 18, he’s been her constant companion.

“He’s heaven’s gift,” she said, tears in her eyes. “He reminds me every day to keep fighting. After a few more treatments and once I start recovering, he and I will finally open up about everything—our journey, my condition. For now, though, I have to survive.”

Her words were steady. But I could feel the weight behind them.

As I sat there, listening to Kris bare her soul, I struggled to hold back tears. I’ve known her for decades—as a superstar, a mother, a fighter. But that night, she wasn’t any of those roles. She was simply Kris—a woman facing her mortality with unimaginable grace.

When I left, she waved at me from the porch—frail, but smiling.

And as I drove away, I kept thinking: Will I see her again in six months? Will that smile still be there?

I share this story not to dramatize her pain, but to remind all of us: Kris needs us now more than ever.

If you love her, pray for her. If you admire her, send your strength. Because even the strongest people have moments when they need to be held—quietly, gently, in prayer.

And Kris Aquino… she deserves that love.