Breather

In Case of Emergency

It just suddenly dawned on me that things are different now. And it will be permanently different in a wonderful way in just a few months...The realization came with this unmistakable warmth and joy (not far from drawing tears), even giddiness --imagine that! :-) -- which simply came from filling out an information form during our D-Group the other night.

It said [PERSON TO CONTACT IN CASE OF EMERGENCY].

And I wrote [RAFAEL NATIVIDAD]. Without a second thought or a doubt. :-)

The next day, I remembered to tell Paeng about it. He did exactly the same thing in his form. :-)

Mr. Browner’s House

Today is a lazy, sunny day which reminds me of when I was small.

My room is bordered by four large windows with traditional light fabric for curtains. Even as I type and listen to house music (which I don’t particularly enjoy), the curtains are dancing in the wind and touching my arm. This reminds me of growing up in the province, where every day seemed to have something in store for us.

After dismissal, my siblings and I would run to the public school in front of our house and fly kites or catch tadpoles on weathers like this. I’d have them sit in the sidecar of our bicycle and pedal through the concrete pavement into the grass-covered field where we would play habulan, langit-lupa, pluck grass and have ourselves dirty (to Ate

Lydia

’s consternation). Afterwards, we’d beg Papa to buy us grilled corn from across the highway and we would be happy.

There essentially wasn’t any television to divert our attention. Our old set had but a channel or two, and the reception was bad. The people appeared like stick figures with abnormally elongated bodies and we didn’t care for the soaps shown after Eat Bulaga.

There were myriad activities to choose from and places to go to even within the vicinity of Mr.Browner’s House (which we rented until our return to

Manila

). There were guava trees to climb, Mama’s orchids to look at, plants to water, books to read (we had a whole set of Bible stories, Charlie Brown Encyclopedia and Dr.Seuss), animals to play with and places to hide in for taguan. When we were hungry, we would pluck talbos ng kamote from the backyard and boil them and make sawsawan for merienda with rice. Sometimes, at night, a bat would be lost in our room (the highlight of our week, really) and all of us children would scream and flail and scamper about in excitement, until Papa appears with his tennis racket and swats the poor animal unconscious. What happens after that, I’d rather not tell.

There were always so many people in our house. We were then into the handicraft business and our basket weavers would usually stay for the day. There were bagging and rattan and all sorts of equipment (blowtorch, etc) all over. Once in a while, the weavers would go on break and tell us horror stories, which we would carry on among ourselves until bedtime. On other times, the men would bring their fighting cocks (Papa insists that I don’t call them “chicken”) and have sparring all afternoon. We would watch on the sidelines, pretending we knew at the onset which was the better chicken (ehem), even as we harassed our boy to climb up the buko trees on our backyard and have manang prepare some juice.

It was also during one of these gatherings that I watched the killing of a hen to be prepared for dinner. I wasn’t grossed out by it; it was the most natural thing in food preparation in my young mind. I watched the slow slitting of the hen’s neck and the collection of the blood in the basin and the final chak! of the knife cutting the hen’s head. To my utter horror, the beheaded body defecated and made three steps towards me! I didn’t watch another poultry killing since.

We loved Mr. Browner’s House. Among the three houses we rented during our stay in Solano, it was the one we had the most memory of. What made that house all the more special was its solitary Magnolia plant in the middle of the garden. Every three months or so, we would wait for our single Magnolia to bloom and fill the garden with the nicest smell I could remember. I can still imagine the smell now, if I try very hard. I have never smelled a Magnolia since we left Solano 20 years ago.

A Year After

I just have to write this one, primarily to ease the boredom of my bestfriend, who pressured me last night (in pure Willy-fashion) to add something to my blog, which had been on hold for the longest time. Wala na raw siyang mabasa (*whimper, whimper*) etc. So here goes.

Mid-year through my first year of residency, I found myself tired and spent. In exaggeration, I told Mar that I was very near my limit…that the vomitus just might come out of my nose. She caught me walking home to Orosa one hectic day on the verge of tears, and sure enough, the tears came inevitably. She had to sit me on our apartment doorstep (I could have embarrassed myself crying and lamenting in a really shrilly voice along the street), as I told her I wanted to stomp my feet, ride a bus (ANY bus) and be very, very far away from

Manila

. Mar, in her wisdom, brought me to Rob and fed me (the ultimate comfort activity) and sent me on my way with another friend, Ronchie, who drove me away from PGH. We were supposed to go Tagaytay, but ended up in Willyboy’s house in Sta.Rosa (equally comforting I must say), where Willy and I cried in unison (and with feelings, mind you), “Pagooood na pagooood na’ko!” Two nights after, my good friend Paeng finally did bring me up to Tagaytay, and I learned (the hard way) to NEVER, NEVER eat bulalo (the actual marrow I mean) when the soup is even a tiny bit cooler. The roof of your mouth is bound to suffer. (Wala talagang ka-poise poise, I had to excuse myself and manually swipe the lard off my palate!).

Things have been better since. It was a good thing that I shifted out of our charity ward rotation just when I did. I didn’t want to reach a point when I would have to force myself to go to work…Or reach a point when I didn’t like myself anymore…I needed a break from all the mental/ emotional/ financial/ social burdens being an RIC (resident-in-charge) in the ward entailed.

I was telling myself that exactly a year ago, I was yet to hurdle the Board Exams. I have been a doctor for a year now. I realized that I have to remind myself regularly that this is what I wanted, that this is what I was called to do. That when the going gets tough and I lose myself in the frenzy of rounding 13-14 patients everyday, preparing for consultant rounds, pleasing my colleagues, studying for exams, looking for ways to get money for my patients’ antibiotics, dealing with disappearing bantays or demanding patients, and meeting my work’s daily demands, I have to go back to why I chose this vocation a long time ago. I had such good intentions and idealism. That this is my calling and my small contribution to Life. This is what I want.

Verses written on my 2003 planner (by Kahlil Gibran)

“…but let there be spaces in your togetherness

And let the winds of heaven dance between you…

And stand together yet not too near together:

For the pillars of a temple stand apart.

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.”

-Kahlil Gibran

BASURA MO DALHIN SA LABAS NG KORTE PUEDE BA?

When I was in Grade 6, I remember telling myself that someday, I was going to be a lawyer. It was brought about by my faithful viewing of Perry Mason and LA Law, which I did not miss every singe week, Thursday nights, at Channel 9. I kept this notion of becoming a lawyer, until one day, we went on a field trip to the Pasig Regional Trial Court, among many other destinations. (I’m not sure if it was the same time we went to China Town, having been discussing Chinese civilization in Social Studies. There, we went around with our maps, stopping in Chinese drugstores and ogling at jarred snakes and weird-looking herbs. At the pet store, my classmates Ochelle, Gilbert and Miguel bought turtles, which they named Leonardo, Donatello, Michael Angelo and Rafael---obviously I’m from that generation. Anyhow, that’s another story).

At the Regional Trial Court, all my I-will-be-a-lawyer dreams fell to the ground and I left the place deciding I’d be a journalist instead. It was a far cry from Perry Mason’s court room! My young self was disappointed and bored. (We heard an estafa case that afternoon). I never went inside a court room again after that. Until last Monday.

Last Monday, I not only went in to watch the proceedings inside a Philippine courtroom, I was an active participant in it. J I took the stand (hehehe), swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, was examined, cross-examined and excused.

Which brings us to another story...Last year, March 5 to be exact, on my first day of IM ward rotation, I commuted to Manila early in the morning. For the first time, I received my entire allowance for the week. For the first time, I stuffed all my valuables (cell phone, money, flash drive, Med Bluebook with all my noted from clerkship, etc.) in a separate sling bag, ironically, to keep them safe. Along Lagusnilad at the Manila City Hall, two men boarded the jeep I was riding (by this time, I was all alone; everybody else went down in Quiapo) and I was held up. One of the men sat beside me and the other one sat beside the driver. The one who took my sling bag was able to run away (for days after, I was still replaying in my head how I could have grabbed my bag back and retaliated) but the one beside the driver was caught along Kalaw, where the jeepney driver stopped in front of the police and with both of us shouting “Holdupper!! Holdupper!!” Their reaction time must have been a while because we ended up shouting repeatedly and flailing our arms before the police responded.

In the middle of Kalaw and Taft, I slapped the apprehended person across the face. I couldn’t help myself. Then I went with the police to the Station and filed a case.

A year after, and after two missed subpoenas, I finally received one which arrived on time. I was shocked to learn that the apprehended guy (whose name I later learned, was John Chris) was still in jail, waiting for our case to be heard.

So I came. The entire experience was so funny! Right in front of the judge’s table was a placard saying: BASURA MO DALHIN SA LABAS NG KORTE PUEDE BA? (Why on earth was that written there? Why there of all places?)

The lawyers sat on the first row facing the judge, followed by the complainants on the second and the accused on the third. Scattered about were relatives and policemen who watched after the accused, all wearing the same yellow shirts. I recognized John Chris (alias “Butch”) immediately when I saw him. (How could I forget, when I slapped the guy?) I was actually happy to see that he filled up; he looked healthy and clean. When asked later on the witness stand if the man who was involved in the hold-up was in the courtroom and for me to identify that person, I pointed at John Chris and said, “That man, with the Hello Kitty face towel.” And the judge laughed.

My case was the fifth to be heard so I had a lot of time to observe the proceedings. The judge’s face could hold no secrets. Every emotion showed, sometimes, it escaped with biting comments and sarcasm. She obviously hated some line of questioning and would second-guess the lawyers and help translate sentences back and forth in English and Filipino. (Everything, to my surprise, was transcribed in English). Several times, she raised her voice and boomed, “Just answer the question Madam Witness!” in pure exasperation. And then she told a nervously giggling witness to “Stop laughing! Why are you laughing?!” She acted like a Bulldog and looked like a Basset Hound with her droopy eyes and cheeks (I mean no disrespect; I liked the judge :-). And then there was the court clerk whose job was to translate. She took on a tone of voice which mirrored her apparent boredom, and she and the judge ended up completing each other’s translations. Back and forth they went, as if playing a courtroom version of dugtungan! I kept on laughing in my seat though I had to cover my face lest the judge catch me.

When my turn came, the judge held her peace. It was the transcriber sitting in front of the witness stand who corrected me time and again because I kept on forgetting to address the judge as “Your Honor” and the lawyer as “Sir”. In the end, I could not help but give the transcriber a pat on the back. Literally.

When I was excused, I signed some papers and was sent on my way. But before I did, I instructed one of the policemen to bring John Chris’ seatmate to the infirmary (he stole his neighbor’s cell phone). He was obviously having an asthma attack.

And that was that. :-)

On the Other Side of the Fence

For the first time as long as I can remember, I was admitted to the hospital last weekend. It was the culmination of six days of self-managing a bad case of urticaria (a skin condition usually brought about by an allergic reaction to something, where you have red, exquisitely itchy wheals with blanching warm centers and serpinginous borders which beautifully coalesce). I had the classic target lesions (as Willy mentioned), ala-erythema marginatum etc. My co-resident couldn't help but take photos..in case they're needed for the medical students' identify-the-skin-lesion exam. :-) They were beautiful to us who appreciated them, but they honest-to-goodness scared some of my patients. Whenever I approached a bed for morning rounds, I had to warn: "Ay, hindi po ito nakakahawa; allergy lang po. Ehem."

For six days, the urticaria waxed and waned with my combination of steroids (to dampen the inflammation) and antihistamines (to dampen the itchiness), until on my last day of Charity Ward rotation, I woke up with an asymmetrical face: my urticaria developed into angioedema, affecting deeper layers of my dermis. My lip was blown up, and right eye was squinched closed; my palms had the  lesions as  well. I was itching  like you can't possibly imagine.

I displayed myself in front of my parents on my way out of the house and declared, "Pa, Ma, kailangan ko na ata magpa-confine", to which my Dad answered, "Stress lang yan..." Not!So I commuted all the way back to Manila, rounded my ward patients for the last time, and had myself admitted at the Philippine General Hospital, where I had been a medical student, medical clerk, medical intern, and now, medical resident, and never once before, a patient.

It was a strange experience: to be the one lying in bed whose BP and vital signs were being taken, who was being asked how many times I've urinated/ moved or how much I've already drank for the day... I appreciated my co-residents so much more, who took turns watching over me even as I was konked out from the Diphenhydramine given to me IV every 8 hours :-) (which by the way, hurt really badly).

The IV Hydrocortisone (a steroid) worked wonders, that by the time the consultant-in-charge did his rounds in the afternoon of my first day, I almost looked normal. I was discharged the next day (The bill wasn't funny, even for PGH) and I went on duty at the MICU the day after.

If you're asking how my lesions are now...Let's just say they're behaving. :-) They're still here and there, but in a much repressed mode. Hopefully, they'll be completely gone once I'm finally off my meds. The cause of all these is still unknown. Even to me. :-)

 

--perspective--

“There are no shortcuts to any place worth going.”

--Dr. Diaz (Physiology lecture, UPCM, 2002)

In hindsight

And now, I can actually breathe. For a while, at least. :-) Everything happened in a rush: graduation from  Med School, reviewing for the Med Boards, taking and passing the Boards (praise God!), taking my oath (“to consecrate my life to the service of humanity…”) and wearing a white coat for the first time. A certain thrill and humbling pride (believe me, there is such a thing) comes with introducing yourself to a patient, now with the conviction of your title and the promise that comes with it.