Today

Today I saw

A woman

Calmly making funeral plans

For a Sunday morning

As her husband waited

Cold and still

On the hospital gurney

Waiting to be pronounced.

My heart grew cold.

Today I saw

A man

Sitting beside his wife

His anguished face shouting out

The words he could not say

As he watched her chest

Rise and fall

To the rhythmic beating
Of the mechanical ventilator.

My heart wept.

Today I saw

A young lady

Walking on her own

Slowly but steadily

Her radiation-bombarded head

Held high

And as she smiled

The room lit up.

My heart rejoiced.

Panicky

There's something very comforting with old worn-out T-shirts. My personal favorite is the one I'm wearing right now, a light blue shirt with holes, a remnant from a summer camp (my only summer camp, as a matter of fact)  long, long ago. Wearing this shirt calms me, somehow. 

The past few days, I have been feeling... panicky. 

In my laptop is a countdown timer, set for the medical board exams in August next year (or rather, what I think is the date for the board exams next year.) August sounds like a long time away. My timer says I've got 8 months and 15 days. But... days just seem to go fast forward, somehow and I am quite aware that I have somehow not spent the past 7 months of PGI well. So I'm panicking because I know so little and the sheer amount of stuff I have to learn is so immensely overwhelming that it makes me want to just curl up in bed and sleep in defeat.

Already, I'm at my last week of my first month in Pediatrics. It felt like just a few days ago and I have barely eased into the routine when voila! My one month is almost up. And I have nothing to show for it. I can't seem to make my mind wrap itself around studying pediatrics.

But I have one more month of pediatrics. This is my last chance to study pediatrics as extensively as possible. I hope I don't mess it up the way I did with IM and Surgery. 

Okay. So now that I had it out of my system, I'll study a bit of pediatrics before dropping off to sleep. 

Ilaw

I spent a relaxing Friday afternoon sprawled in bed, watching a movie with Mama and Ex. I love these quiet, homey times with Mama. Mama has been with us for six days now and the change in our house is drastic, to say the least. Our alarming pile of dirty laundry is gone. We had proper, nourishing, home-cooked meals. We even bought a nice orange divan for the sala. Mama bought me a blue dress and a huge bag for hospital duty. And, to top it off, Mama upgraded our internet subscription!

I am reminded of the Filipino phrase, "Ilaw ng Tahanan." Mothers are the best!

It feels lonely, now that Mama had to go back home. The house is quiet, with none of the bustle of a functioning household. In two days time, the house would go back to its usual state of neglect. The dirty dishes will start piling up on the sink. All the beds will be unmade. The refrigerator will be empty. The alarming pile of laundry will start to appear. And each of us will go our own separate ways, minding our own separate business, occasionally bickering about who will do the dishes or go to the grocery.

As the eldest, I suppose I should step up on the role of mother. But I'm just too exhausted. And yes, I confess, apparently too lazy and irresponsible.

We get along as best as we could, though. And our arrangements work for us. Or rather, we are just kind of holding it together until Mama comes again to visit.

Love Is

Love never gives up.

Love cares more for others than for self.

Love doesn’t want what it doesn’t have.

Love doesn’t strut,

Doesn’t have a swelled head,

Doesn’t force itself on others,

Isn’t always “me first,”

Doesn’t fly off the handle,

Doesn’t keep score of the sins of others,

Doesn’t revel when others grovel,

Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,

Puts up with anything,

Trusts God always,

Always looks for the best,

Never looks back,

But keeps going to the end

Silent Rage #1

I deserve better than this.

Rage of the Doormat

For the record, I'm not happy with the way things are. I'm just too much of a doormat to stand up for what I feel are my rights as a person. I'm too non-confrontational. And it takes too much effort to fight.

But I am getting tired of this pattern. Even a doormat has it's limits. And I'm very nearly there.

I don't want to be angry. But that's what I am right now. Angry. Seething. Boiling. I can feel my rage building up inside. So I take deep breaths and try not to hyperventilate or do something stupid and destructive which I will later on regret. 

I suppose I brought this to myself. I've never been  quite clear regarding what I want. I'm too nice and too easily manipulated. And I hate myself for being weak. 

I'm just too freakin tired of being this angry almost every single day. Only my inability to hold a grudge keeps me hoping for things to be better tomorrow.

I'm tired. And disgusted with myself. They always say it's the quiet ones who are scary in their anger. If this keeps on, I'll probably explode. Spectacularly.

The Baby Is Now a Monkey

Nineteen years ago, my parents brought home my little brother, who happens to be anything but little now. I have a very hazy memory of the day itself. I think we had ice cream (chocolate favor).

He was so small and my sister and I wanted to hold him and play with him. But our parents were very adamant. He was not a toy and given the fact that our toys were in a very sad state (headless dolls with amputated limbs and such), my twenty-five year old self could very well understand my parents' concern. I suppose they were afraid we'd drop him on his head. Or something.

We eventually did. Drop him on his head, I mean. But by then he was a few months older and there was no permanent brain damage. (Hmmm... I think).

He was a sickly (kind of wimpy) child. And terribly spoiled, being the youngest and the only son. But he was a smart little boy, excelling in school and living up to his name (Excel). I was very fond of him, of course. We were pretty close as kids and would often team up against my younger sister, Cho. (We still do.. Sort of.) Or sometimes, Cho and I would team up against him. Or they'd team up against me. Well, that's what siblings are for.

I could tell embarrassing stories about him. Like the time he was in kindergarten and... well, I'm not telling. :)

He was also not good in sports in elementary, being asthmatic and thin as a stick. We used to call him "Tiking Kwangol" and "Unggoy" When he was eleven or twelve, he joined the basketball team and during warm-up, tripped and broke his arm. The team eventually won the championship. His moral support from the bench must have been incredibly effective.

I left home to study in Cebu when he was starting high school. And then he started growing up in earnest and  before long, he's so much bigger than I am and I can no longer win in wrestling. Also, he got himself a girl before I got myself a boy. Tsk tsk tsk.

So anyway, what I really just wanted to say is my little brother is incredibly annoying (like most little brothers are) but he grew up incredibly well. What would I do without him? I'd probably go to sleep on an empty stomach if he wasn't around to cook porkchop for dinner. I'm very proud of him so just read between the lines because I don't want to be mushy and sentimental.

Happy birthday, you big Monkey!

A Farewell

I find it hard to write about things that move me deeply. It's easier to write about random, day-to-day  stuff. Or rant. Ranting is easy. But when it comes to the things which touch me bone-deep, I am rendered speechless.

Words fail me. I cannot write. Because writing means feeling and I do not want to feel.

But then Tito deserves more than my silence. He deserves to be remembered. Even if it's just in my little corner.

. . .

When I think of him, I see him in my mind's eye, in front of the computer doing business transactions. He always had a ready smile for me. I am always greeted by a cheery "Hello, doc!" and when I leave, he'd say, "Goodbye, Mel doc! Come back, come back!"

"Of course," I'd always reply.

He had so much to give to the world. He was so full of grand ideas. "The Philippines will be great again!" he'd tell me, his eyes alight with fire and enthusiasm.

He was an incredibly brilliant man. He had his flaws, to be sure. Are we not all flawed? For one, I knew he had a temper. I suppose brilliant minds are less tolerant to others' flaws. He'd often rant about this or that person's idiocy. And then he'd show me his email correspondence and read out aloud how he responded.

There were so many good things about him. He could have been more than great. But then it always seemed that circumstances were against him. He was given a difficult life. Yet he always shouldered on, undaunted, ready for another fight.

He treated me like his own. And for that, I am forever grateful.

There are so many things I regret. I regret that I had not talked with him more. Or listened to his stories more. And when the sickness came, I regret that I was helpless. At the back of mind are a list of "If only" and "What ifs". But then it was too late and I could only stand back and be there for the people he loves.

. . .

Every time I'm at Bo's, it always feels like that he's still there. That perhaps he's just in the garden having a breath of fresh air, or maybe going about his various business.

But then again, he'll always be there. He may be out of sight, but I know that he is looking out for Tita, Jam, An and his Miguel. And as an extension of the family, me as well.

Tito, you'll be in our prayers.

Blue

I'm profoundly, bone-deep unhappy. 

Poke!

Had the first successful IV insertion of my PGI life yesterday. Yes, the FIRST. Because the two other times I tried, I failed. Dismally. I guess you could cut me some slack because those two hands which tested my skills  were incredibly swollen. Still, at this level, I should be doing these stuff with my eyes closed. I have an MD degree, for goodness' sake.

And just last March, I was so proud of my IV insertion skills.

(Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.)

I'm out of practice. We have senior clerks, who do those procedures, which leaves me with no people to poke. In reality, I guess I've been avoiding IV insertions in general.

Did I mention I actually wanted to be an anesthesiologist? Yes. Me. Klutzy me who can't do difficult IV insertions.

My manual dexterity coupled with my inherent timidity and fear of hurting other people makes me unfit for such a dare-devil job. (Sigh.) I suppose I'd do very well in Internal Medicine, except for the fact that very sick adult people depress me. And I love Pediatrics, but very healthy kids kind of bore me. So hit me now, because I don't know which direction my life is heading. I guess I'm just going with the flow.

My Internal Medicine rotation is doing well, so far. The residents are great. I learn something new everyday (that is, when I'm not falling asleep at the back during morning endorsements). We don't have senior clerks for June, which means I now have an ample amount of people to poke with needles, and no excuse not to poke them.

Next month, I'll be rotating in Anesthesia for two weeks. I guess then I'll see if my fascination for Anesthesia will hold. Until then, I'll be poking people and hoping I do it right.

Bells & Babies

I'm a social recluse and what's great about Facebook is the fact that at least I get to know the latest tidbits about almost everybody else's lives. 

So recently I found that an old high school friend got married, that my kindergarten-to-highschool classmate is having his third child, that another high school friend just recently gave birth to her second child, that a single classmate just went on vacation somewhere, and stuff along that line. 

It makes me feel... ODD, I guess.

What the heck! The people I used to play tag with have toddlers and babies and are going on vacations to places I can only dream of.

I'm 25 years old, with a medical degree, currently doing her post-graduate internship. And I'm still VERY MUCH dependent on my parents. PGIs don't get salaries so mama still has to send me a weekly allowance. I guess that's partly why my parents still keep track of where I am and are ever vigilant in making sure I'm home by EIGHT O'CLOCK. I'm still under their care and am accountable to them. Either that or they've forgotten that I'm no longer 15.

All in all, as much as I slightly envy my friends for their freedom and maturity in handling their own affairs, I'm also very much aware that I am in no condition for marriage, or kids, or even a vacation to Singapore. I can hardly take care of myself, or do my own laundry. I am in no fit state to take care of another human being for at least ten more years. 

My plan is to at least have one kid in between ages 30-35. That sounds pretty reasonable to me. By then, I'd be done with Residency, and probably even Fellowship. Also, by then Bo will be financially-stable and able to buy milk for the baby.

Until then, I'll just be content with a few stolen moments at the nursery, coddling somebody's newborn, and liking everybody's changed Facebook status and baby pictures.

The Doctor Is Sick

Officially sick!


Started off with a bit of a stuffy nose two days ago. Yesterday, started assuming the sick role, felt a bit feverish but the thermometer only read 37.3 so I'm pretty sure I was just acting out a bit. My cold is getting worse and as of the moment, I have developed a non-productive cough.


The last time I was a bit sick (exactly like this), I let it go so bad (water therapy has its limits!) that I ended up with pneumonia. (Or it could have been PTB and I've been in denial. O_o). After 1 month of coughing and blowing my nose (and consuming a truckload of tissues), I finally had enough sense to take antibiotics. I felt better in around 3 days.


Was on duty last night and my duty-pals were the best. They let me sleep for the most part and by 4 am, I was feeling better and doing consults at the Triage.


If there's one thing I learned, it's to NOT underestimate the power of "being just a little sick" in making one's  life miserable. There are few things more annoying than blowing off your nose for the nth time in ten minutes. The thing is, I usually get annoyed with people who come to the ER for relatively mild stuff like 3-days cough and headaches. Every sickness is a unique a experience. And if a person feels sick, then it's his/her right to get not only medical attention but a sympathetic medical practitioner as well.


However, a midnight consult for a 3-day cough is stretching it a bit. Unless you had sudden onset of dyspnea (like my patient who turned out to have spontaneous pneumothorax after an unremarkable history of 5-days cough) or at the very least feel like you're dying, please see a doctor during daylight hours. We'd really appreciate it. Thank you very much.

Off Duty! Hurrying Home with Hani

Life So Far

I think it's time I start writing again. Seriously. Because one day I'll regret it.  One day, I will want to look back at my life, and there's nothing like a good old journal (or a blog, of course) to take you back.


Besides, my creativity is getting sapped out of me. I need an outlet.


So first things first, I've been a PGI (Post-graduate Intern) for one month now. And yes, there's this horribly big gap between my last remotely medical-related post and this one and I don't think a single write-up can fill that gap.


Basically, there was the suspense of graduating, the rush to get cleared (which entails hunting down residents, hospital hopping, extension duties, and waiting patiently in various clinics) and all the parties and roadtrips in between. 

One day, when I'm not feeling too lazy, I will have to write about those crazy wonderful days. But for now, all I can say is that April was crazy wonderful. (Yes, I did warn you that my fountain of creativity is experiencing a dry spell. So crazy wonderful it is!)


I mentioned that I'm a PGI now. So far, it's been fun. And educational, of course. I'm currently rotating in Internal Medicine. I've got five more weeks to go and seriously, it's not enough! There is just so much to learn and I know SO LITTLE and I'm feeling panicky because I've got an MD attached to my name and at this point in time, I cannot afford to be clueless.


I have no regrets with applying in PSH. Except for the fact that for the first few weeks, I was lost 90% of the time (the wards are complicated mazes with unexpected turns and stairways which end up in a solid walls), I have no complaints. From the moment we had our orientation, I had that sense of being in the right place. (More on this later!)


So that's all for now, I guess. 

I leave you with a picture of the ER on a mild, non-toxic day.

Rhythms of Grace

After a random click of a button, I came upon something I wrote what seemed a lifetime ago.

http://meludee.multiply.com/journal/item/31/Through_the_Door

I wonder. Where is she? Where is this girl?

Between the "Then" and the "Now", life happened. I had an arsenal of excuses, wrapped in pretty boxes labelled "Dreams", "Wants" and "Agendas".  Simply put, "Me" came first and I pushed "Him" to the backseat.

And now, I hardly even say hello. Or tell Him how my day was.  Because the road I chose has taken me so off tangent that I hardly recognize His face. And I miss Him but I'm too scared to say so and too weak to change.

It's easy to talk of salvation when your record is spotless. But when you're down there in the mud, slugging it out on your own, doing your best and miserably failing, salvation seems like a wisp of a dream.

Grace. Today I am learning grace. It's a difficult gift to accept, a hard lesson to learn.

And yet, I hear Him calling to me. Even when I've given up on myself, even when I drown out His voice with the sounds of my everyday life.

That He calls me by name still, this is grace

Love & Ramblings

Love can be expensive. Sometimes, you have to buy it with bits and pieces of yourself. Pieces that used to define you, mark a boundary between who you are and who you wanted to be. And you can call it sacrifice. Or you can call it bullshit. Either way, love costs.

Love will change you. Maybe sooner. Maybe later. But it will change you. You might look in the mirror one day, and find a stranger. Or if you're lucky, you'll see the face of the person you have always known you could be.

When love doesn't make sense, you can say it's part of the whole deal. Love's not supposed to make sense. Isn't that what they all say? But if you'll stop listening to your heart, and hear out your head, then maybe you'll realize it's time to find out why it's not making sense.

You're My Number One

Remember the time when you were a kid and you had to write a composition about who your hero was? More than half the time, I wrote about my mother. I can't even recall what reasons my childhood self conceived. Or made up. Perhaps I was lacking inspiration. Or creativity. Or maybe I was just plain lazy. It's easier to write about your mother, whom you've known your whole life, compared to say, Mother Teresa, whom you've only read about and would only write about to impress your teacher.

 But looking back, my words could not have been more true. My mother is the most admirable woman I know. It's not just because she's my mother (although I suppose a whole lot of bias came with this statement). I look up to her, not just as a mother. But as a woman.

What can I say? She's a tough one. She has survived a tough childhood, a rocky marriage, and a stroke to boot. I can't even begin to enumerate all the things she is. I owe her not just my life, but who I am, as a person in my own right.

 Happy Mother's Day, Mama. You're my number 1!

The Shepherd Speaks

But there's also this, it's not too late
God's personal Message! --
"Come back to me and really mean it!
Come fasting and weeping, sorry for your sins!"

Change your life, not just your clothes,
Come back to God, your God
And here's why, God is kind and merciful
He takes a deep breath, puts up with a lot
The most patient God, extravagant in love
Always ready to cancel catastrophe
Who knows? Maybe he'll do it now
Maybe he'll turn around and show pity
Maybe when all's said and done,
There'll be blessings full and robust for your God

Shepherd

"When you can't sleep, don't count the sheep... talk to the Shepherd."

I don't know if this was said by someone wise and famous. Or maybe its a quote from Anonymous. He seems to have said a lot of things nobody else said.

I have no problem with sleeping. Being chronically deprived of sleep has a lot of quirks. Among them is the ability to sleep the second one's head touches the pillow.
It's the other half that got to me.

Talk to the Shepherd.

I haven't talked to Him in a long while. And I just want to say I miss Him lots.

:(

You

You
by Bethany
taken from the album, Fantasy Fool, 2011

I can't let my feelings take me
To live in places I once feared
Coz fear can only push me farther
Away from all I used to be

It's been a while I tried to talk to you
I admit I sometimes hear you speak
The more I tend to walk away from truth
The better these lies appeal

I know you have a bigger dream for me
But I've forgotten just how to sleep
Guilt inside this mind can kill a dream
But I'm learning now to forgive... myself

You. All I need is you
I can't see myself, going my own way

I can't let fantasy fool me
And blind me from what is real
Life is more than granted wishes
Is more than just how you feel

I know you have a bigger dream for me
But I've forgotten just how to sleep
Guilt inside this mind can kill a dream
But I'm learning now to forgive... myself

You. All I need is you
I can't see myself, going my own way
If I'm not with you, all I need is you
I'd rather be alone, than be with someone else

You. All I need is you
I'd rather be alone, than be with someone else

I can't let fantasy fool me
And blind me from what is real

Fumigation

Everywhere else, the battle between life and death is fought. With antibiotics and IV lines, scalpels and stitches, and when all else fail, breathing tubes and epinephrine. A cacophony of sounds sets the background theme, the OST of hospital life. The gasping breath and the hum of ventilators... quiet conversations interspersed with wails of pain and anguish... the paging system calling "Code 89, Emergency Room."

But at the end of the second floor, there's a hush. A neat line of empty beds occupy the floor. The nurses' station is unmanned. No mothers screaming in agony. No babies announcing their grand entrance into the world.

Fumigation. A sweet word.

For eleven days, we rested. For eleven days we had peace and boredom.

Tomorrow, all hell will break loose.

Purple!

I cannot help but notice that my last post was AGES ago. I've been itching to delete the whole thing and start anew (like I always do). But this bad habit of blog jumping has got to stop. So instead, I spent practically the whole afternoon searching for the perfect layout.

My search was not in vain. Tadaaaaa!

I looove it!

Okay, so can you tell what my favorite color is?

On the downside, this layout does not lend me any credibility. How could anyone take me seriously? It's too whimsical and too purple. So I'm thinking of cooking up a new, purely medical blog. I'll name it Ethereal. It will be a chronicle of my medical journey towards my chosen field... Anesthesiology.

But as for now, I still can't get over how purple this is.

<3