I'll Be Home For Christmas

I'll be home for Christmas
You can count on me

Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents under the tree

Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love light beams

I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams...

I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams.

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

Merry Christmas Everyone!

It Came Upon A Midnight Clear

Tonskie, I could not thank you enough for showing me this:



And when I’ve found this one, I knew… I just knew… that I must’ve been a very, very good kid for the past year.



Perfect.

Just perfect.

All I Want For Christmas Is You

I have always believed in this saying:


Verso: "If we all gave freely and sweetly of ourselves, we would all end up with MORE." (Source)

So, for this yuletide season, feel free to send greeting cards, personal note, parcel/package, gifts, or whatever, to this address.

Nurse Ruff C., R.N.
Intensive Care-Coronary Care Unit (ICU-CCU-Pay)
UST Hospital
Espana, Manila 1008

Weapons of mass destruction need not be sent.

And to all of my frequent readers, haters, blog-friends, fans (haha, as if), supporters, and critiques, here’s my advance Christmas Gift to all of you.



Thank you for supporting Unbearable Lightness. Have a very meaningful Christmas everyone!

Forever Young

"Let’s dance in style, let’s dance for a while
Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies
Hoping for the best but expecting the worst
Are you going to drop the bomb or not?"

I’ve spent last Sunday with the most amazing, and not to mention, the most influential people I have ever met in my life --- my High School classmates.

Our high school batch is like the typical high school batch everywhere. There’s that weirdo geek, those varsity jocks, the art freaks, the tweetum ladies, the boy-next-doors, the snobs, the anti-socials, and me.

I can't believe I posted this one. :-)

Remember that high school classmate of yours who spends his entire day reading fashion/celebrity/teenage magazines yet still got the perfect score in that dreaded Physics long exam?

I was that person.

I abhorred politics so much that despite insinuations of power-freaks inviting me to join the student council, I digress.

When I was in my sophomore year, I was the youngest student ever to become our school paper’s Editor-in-Chief.

Every time I join Quiz Bees, Essay Writing Contests and High School Debates, I win first place.

I once argued with my English professor because I insisted that my interpretation of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land was the correct one.

At lunch, me and my closest buddies would put on facial masks, we wait for the masks to take effect while our professor is discussing Trigonometric Functions.
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There I was, fashionably 3-hours late, looking at my classmates one by one. They do still look the same, albeit older and more successful… only to realize one thing… we never really grow out of our childhood.

We’re still that same high school geek… the same boy-next-door… the same varsity jocks… the same art freaks… the same me.

In between overflowing foods and drinks, I saw myself as the little high school kid again. The little kid who tried to find his place in a perilous society, who discovered his personal identity, and who finally found his home, his niche, his family.

I might have been away. I might have stayed forlorn for the past few years trying to pursue my personal career. I might have been to too many heartaches, too many tragedies, and too much pains. I might have been to too much joy, too much bliss, and too much happiness. And I might have left.

But in the end I’ve got to realize that I still do have my foot onshore… holding on to those memories I love so much and would never want to part with for the rest of my life.

And looking back I know I’ll still have them.

For just as always…

We are the same… then… now… and always… forever young.

On Saturday Afternoons In 1963

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

How Far We've Come

I was just reading Cecile’s post about the things 89-billion pesos (1 billion UK pounds) can buy, and for the first time in a very, very, very long time ever…
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.
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I couldn’t think of anything to say. Or write for that matter.

The last time this ever happened to me was when my high school guidance counselor wanted to invite my parents for a conference. Because despite my A+ academic performance in school, stellar involvements in every extra-curricular activities known to man, and as the sole representative of my school in almost all inter-school quiz competitions for the past four years…

I happened to be gay (and I’m not even *out yet).

At work I was still thinking of that 89-Billion-Peso-Question --- who will get eliminated, and who is still in the running towards becoming America's Next Top Model.

Just kidding.

I saw all 12 of the main-stayers in the Intensive Care Unit, and wished that I could buy health.

I witnessed a patient coded and prayed I could buy life.

I saw how lolo (granddad) reacted when he got diagnosed with a terminal pathology and wished I could buy time.

I took care of tita (auntie) who was deserted by her own family and wished I could buy some compassion.

I talked with lola (grandmom) telling me her *still unfulfilled wishes in life and prayed I could buy youth.

I saw how diko (old man) received the diagnosis of an inoperable brain aneurysm and wished I could buy hope.

I saw how all of their faces are shrouded with despair and grief and prayed I could buy happiness.

As I was heading home after that loooong shift, I finally got the answers to the question still brewing inside my head.



Back in high school, I told my prude guidance counselor that my sexual preference has nothing to do with her and she has no right to judge me based on the premise that I have relations with men.

Looking back, and looking forward, I now hope *that 89-billion pesos could buy…

ACCEPTANCE…

DIVERSITY...

COMPASSION

And of course…

WORLD PEACE.


And you, what would you buy?

Images from viewimages.com and flickr.

Time

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;

a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;



a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and a time to lose;

a time to keep, and a time to cast away;



A time to rend, and a time to sew;

a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate;

a time of war, and a time of peace.

Oh Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Behind Me Lies Another Fallen Soldier

Like a soldier running without shield or armor... he runs blissfully without a care in the world...

yes, he still carries with him a bit fear

of stumbling down, or maybe of arrows...

making him slow down sometimes...

trusting his feet, and perhaps the wind, the sand on his feet, he runs, still.



Yes, he's always on the running. Perhaps, of not stopping...

but never failing to look back

on that place where he came from.

Piece Of Me

Good day! The Nurse-Du-Jour is currently swamped from saving people's lives. Though it has been his personal imperative to maintain his privacy and what he usually does at work, the video that follows will show you a glimpse of his job description, including what he has to say every time he visits a patient, his usual manner and demeanor, and what he typically does at their bedside.



See, I told you. His patients are just very lucky to have him as their nurse.

Miss you much!

The Nurse Who Loved Me

Cerulean is... “...the color of the sky on a serene, crystal clear day.”

The stethoscope has been very symbolic of the medical professions. Every nurse and physician I know has one, and it is said that you can tell the personality of its owner just by looking at them hanging over their necks or sideways to their shoulders.

My faintest memories of my first, and now-old stethoscope have long been buried in antiquity. The medical salesman enthused me into buying a steth weighing more than my dry weight, with the promise of a free BP apparatus that weighs twice as much, and free sets of pediatric and newborn diaphragms. I can even select which color I prefer for the tubings. I was thinking of a lilac-sky blue combination, or an Elle Woods-inspired hot pink tubes with fur and polka dot prints, but normal decency told me to choose cerulean instead.

It, however, served me extremely well. It had been to a thousand arms, chests, backs, and abdomens. It had been abused, dropped, and slammed, and yet it didn’t even look used at all. I bring it everyday to school and duty, even in lectures, and at times at night-outs. My bag was never complete without that magical piece of device.

A semester before my graduation, while I was assigned at the Neonatal ICU of a certain government hospital, by some unlucky twist of circumstances, I saw the diaphragm of my stethoscope punctured and severed. I wore it like a crazy madman and voila, I couldn’t hear any sound at all. No heartbeats, no congested breath sounds, no fetal heart tone, no bowel sounds, no nothing.

Somebody must’ve dropped it since I left it unattended on top of a newborn incubator as I was doing something, like preparing some medications. I dare not went berserk at that time since there’ll be no use going ga-ga over something that was partly my fault. I should’ve worn it on my shoulders, instead, or I should have placed them on my scrub suit pocket. But then again, who would have thought that my ole reliable steth would give up on me at that such inopportune time.

Now I’m back to work this Monday, and I’m bringing with me my new Littman’s. I hope that this new friend of mine will not give up on me readily. I want it to stay with me until I grow old and die. To touch (no pun intended) more lives, to hear more heartbeats, to listen to more lungs, and so much more.

Armed with my cerulean scrubs, black stethoscope, and red penlight, and hopefully, lesser patient admission, this is me, saying uhm, see you soon, here in blogosphere, or otherwise.

After all, I’m just a heartbeat away.

Lub. And dub.

Images from Yahoo TV, flickr and Google Image Search. And nope, I'm not going on a hiatus thanks very much.

Beauty From Pain

When I was eight, my uncle, who used to be very close to me, died. As part of the family ritual, all of us went to the province for the wake. Since I was still a grade school student then, we just stayed for the measly weekend before we decided to go home. It was my first time to look at a loved one over the coffin then. And as frightened and anxious as I was, it felt really nothing, it’s as if I just looked at my uncle, only he was dead.

As we were headed home, I could still recall seeing myself in a trancelike state almost all throughout the entire trip --- between the state of wakefulness and slumber. It’s as if I was dreaming, only I was partly awake. And in my dreamlike state I saw my dead uncle talking and interacting with me as if he was still alive.

My mom said I was crying that entire time. I fell acutely ill for almost a week and I wasn’t able to go to school. I’m having this vague feeling as to whether I’m having hallucinations or I’m just dreaming. Because all those times, I was seeing, talking, and living with my dead uncle’s spirit.

When I told my mom what was happening, she dismissed the idea and thought that I was just seeing things, as me and my uncle used to be really close when he was still alive. However, when I fell seriously ill then—I was having chills, unexplained fever, night terrors, and crying spells—those incidences prompt my mom to consult my pediatrician.


My doctor said that everything is normal. No pathology could be determined, nor any organic abnormality be established. Since I still feel worse at that time, we finally consulted a child psychologist.

It was post-traumatic stress disorder, told my psychologist. I wasn’t aware of that term back then, nor I’m not really sure if that was my exact diagnosis really, but I recall that what was happening is due to a traumatic event my emotions/psyche could not handle. I was given a short-course therapy of defusion and some psychological exams to ascertain my wellness.

It was a really short therapy session. I was well by the time I finished 1 month therapy. I resumed my studies, and thankfully finished on the top of my third grade class.

Months passed and the same visions ensue. This time I did not tell my parents of what was happening. It is in this time that I discovered my special gift. Just like in the movie.

I see dead people.

And I think this is one thing I just have to live with. Not only for this Halloween, but for the rest of my life.

Images from flickr.

Thriller

Pardon the tasteless title of this entry as I could not find a song name to match the article’s content. Without further ado, here’s my early Halloween treat for all of you.

The Child

Granddad AB had been complaining that someone (or something) is pulling his legs and his linen every night when he was still confined in a specialty coronary unit. He is hearing voices of children, seeing young children playing with the controls of his bed, and is said to be choking him every midnight.

Explanation:

ICU Psychosis, defined as a temporary state of confusion among confined patients due to prolonged isolation, usually leading to complaints of imaginary hallucinations and delusions.

Caveat:

The attending physician decided to transfer him to another room. Right at the hallway, he exclaimed that a child was on top of him, another one was pulling on his legs, and the other one was choking him. He went into a heart attack to which the cause could not be attributed to any reason, but he was revived after.

The Head

The Left Wing Elevator was initially reserved to service cadaver gurneys and to deliver dead patients to the morgue. However, it had been under renovation for quite some time now, and the only elevator servicing the Charity Division was located at the Right Wing.

Explanation:

It was said that the elevator malfunctions because of mechanical glitches. It was renovated twice during the past 5 years, and had been operational occasionally (one month tops). The author was able to ride it once, despite the multitude of grim stories that was said to cloud that elevator.

Caveat:

It was said that the past elevator lady who used to service that elevator got trapped at the basement where the hospital morgue is located. The keys malfunctioned. She supposedly saw dead patients in shrouds walking towards her, the guards at the upper floor heard her screaming, and when the elevator was opened, they saw the elevator lady.
.
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decapitated.

The elevator is still “under renovation” as of this moment.

The Woman

Suite 4 of the OR is notorious for the surgical cases usually booked in the morning. At night however, the staff has been hearing incessant beeping of cardiac monitors and swooshing of anesthesia machines. Every time the nurses commence with their graveyard shift rounds, the sound miraculously disappears, only to return when they were away.

Reason:

Malfunctioning cardiac monitors and anesthesia machines. General services tried to replace the monitors as documented in their office logbook.

Caveat:

One time the charge nurse made her rounds, the cardiac monitor suddenly went on. It shows an ECG tracing similar to a healthy, alive adult. The anesthesia machine went on, and the bulb inflated and deflated as if someone was breathing through the tubes. When she moved the monitors away, she saw something standing behind the machines.

A woman clad in hospital gown, the face decomposing, looking at her. She saw one of her legs amputated, her blood dripping all over the floor, the other leg floating in midair.
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Just like the one standing right behind you.

GOTCHA!!

Happy Halloween Everyone!

Images from royalarmouries.org, stockphoto and mattkirsch.wordpress.com.

Gone Too Soon

Paz was one of my best-mannered patients. She was unquestioning, unobtrusive, peaceful and serene. She rarely makes noises. She never complains every time I visit her in the room. Performing any invasive procedures on her is a breeze. There are no struggles, no resistance, no fighting back. She takes her medications without queries or qualms. She was just plain perfect --- in fact the best patient assignment any nurse could ever get --- except for one single thing:

She was in a coma for the past 7 months already.

Bioethical principles dictate that we should value human life at all cost. Medical ethics, however, makes it a little complicated. Technology is even blamed for its often useless and unnecessary means of prolonging life. Heart-lung-machines, artificial feeding, respirators, aggressive antibiotics --- they have been used indiscriminately that instead of helping the person die in peace, they just prolong the patient’s agony. And sometimes the thin line differentiating murder/euthanasia or a peaceful death is now gone.

Would you remove your dying mother’s ventilator if in case she gets comatose?

Would you stop giving artificial feedings if in case your mom could not eat by ordinary means anymore?

Would you be very much willing to allow her to die? Withhold fluids and not give CPR?

As an ICU Nurse, I have seen patients die. I have seen how their relatives weep outside of their dying loved ones’ room, waiting and praying eagerly that the chest compressions and non-stop pushing of medications would bring their loved ones back to life. I have seen how their eyes and their faces mourn with sorrow. So piercing they need not say any word at all.

But like any other job, for a nurse like me, after every death, and each post-mortem care, the show must definitely go on. Repress the image of death at the back of your head and wear a jolly smile before entering another patient’s den.

And one could only hope that the rest of the day would be a better one.

How do nurses cope with loss, with pain, with death?

My colleagues do it in the shopping malls. They sing karaoke till they finally kill somebody with their horrendous voices. They buy white and light blue rubber shoes to match their cerulean scrubs. They eat like there’s no tomorrow. They take care of their babies, hubbies and sweeties. They do the unmentionables.

I, for one, do it in the arcade shoppes. I race cars while imagining the Reaper chasing after me. I hold fake guns while visualizing Death as just another character in The Night of the Living Dead game. I play those Marvel games and picture my opponent as the Grim Reaper as I pierce him using Wolverine’s claws. I catch toys in magic cranes hoping that the loosened hinges would grasp the weighty bear. I watch young lads play Dance Revolution because I’m too shy to play in one. I surround myself with noise, fun, and company of good friends. I stargaze. I celebrate.

Dare people might say it is discourteous, disrespectful, foul even. But if nurses, and doctors, who experience death day in and day out would wallow in grief and sadness, I bet there’ll be no more medical staff in hospitals anymore.

We try to do the best in life, for life is always mean, cruel, and unfair. And for that reason we cope. We cope and we hope. We hope that the things to come will be better. The load will be easier. The days will be brighter.

I do not seek approval for the way I lead my life. I am proud to live life the way I intended it to be lived. For always in the end, the only person answerable for my life, my behavior, my decisions, my choices, is no one but myself.

Paz died in peace a week ago.

Her grandson who used to have my cell phone number informed me that she has succumbed to the overwhelming infection as her organs gradually fail one by one.

It looks like I’m heading for the arcade in a little while.

Wanna play?

*

Related Posts:
Littlest Things. A triumvirate of strange medical stories.
Dust In The Wind. Another triumvirate of hazing-related medical stories.
Tell Me Where It Hurts. A tragic medical story of a patient's broken childhood.

Listening to Vertical Horizon's Best I Ever Had. Images from flickr.com.

In The Arms Of The Angel

It was said in Jerusalem lies a pool called Bethesda. During the era of the Kings, the pool was used to wash the sheep prior to their sacrifice in the temple. This use of the pool gave the water a halo of sanctity, and many invalids came to the pool to be healed.


The Angel of the Waters was said to occasionally visit the pool to stir its waters. The first person who enters the pool right after the angel “troubles” the waters will be healed of whatever disease he has. It is for this reason that the blind, the lame, the paralyzed and the sick are all waiting for the occasional, surprise stirring of the pool’s waters.

As Jesus walked among the sick at Bethesda, he passed before a man who had been paralyzed for 38 years and who had no one to put him first into the pool when the waters were troubled. Christ pitied this neglected man and said to him, “Take up your pallet and walk.” Obediently, without even reaching the angel-troubled waters, he took up his stretcher and walked.

Have you missed the angel’s splash?

Just recently, I have finished watching HBO’s Angels in America (I know it’s too late, sorry) and it was soooo good! Magnificent, spectacular, breathtaking, moving, poignant, enlightening are just few words that I could say about this once-in-a-lifetime masterpiece. Watching it is definitely one of the best-spent 6 hours of my life.

Adapted from two award winning Kushner stage plays, Angels is an arresting portrayal of the fight against AIDS and for (religious, sexual, ethnic, cultural, political) tolerance, shown through the loves and losses of all-too-human characters, in a climate of national hysteria. But it is also far more, setting the story of the early years of AIDS in the much larger context of American culture itself.

Angels in America broadcasts a message of love and loss, hope, healing, and tolerance—not only for those affected by AIDS, but for all of us. As Prior says at the end, “We aren't going away. We won't die secret deaths anymore. The world only spins forward. We will be citizens. The time has come.”

It just . . . It just . . . We can't just stop. We're not rocks—progress, migration, motion is . . . modernity. It's animate, it's what living things do. We desire. Even if all we desire is stillness, it's still desire for. Even if we go faster than we should. We can't wait. And wait for what? God. . .

He isn't coming back.

And as tagged by McRey, Dazed, and other fellow bloggers, here’s my desktop image:



I’m tagging everyone who hasn’t done it yet.

And oh, "and when love is dead,
I’m loving angels instead."

Have a great weekend everyone!

Angel of the Waters of Bethesda story here and here. Angels In America reviews here, here and here. Images from www.thecityreview.com and hbo.com.

Thank You

When your mom was having painful labor pains, she stayed with her to coach her breathe and assured her that "everything will be fine."

When your mom was in the delivery room, tired and vulnerable, with both legs hanging up in the stirrups, she pulled you out of her uterus to give you the life you are enjoying right now.

When you could not breathe, she suctioned your nose and slapped your butt cheeks to help re-expand those collapsed lungs of yours and not choke on your own pee (you drink your own pee when you’re still inside the womb).

When you were in the nursery, she clothed you and kept you warm and cuddly in those pretty pink and sky blue quilts. She changed your diaper when you pee or poo, and knowing how temperamental you are (just like what you still are right now), she heeded to your every call.

When you were growing up, she consistently took your weight and height and made sure you get all the shots so you wouldn’t catch measles, mumps and pox that Rambunctious Raymond or Pesky Patty had contracted the summer before.

When you entered school, she was always there to clean your wound and apply the “it-wouldn’t-hurt-it’s-just-like-water” ointment every time you scraped your knee while you’re playing tag with Innocent Ivan and Jovial Jacque.

When you grew up, she stayed with you in that cold operating room, she held your hand, made you feel comfortable while you’re there lying in the OR table helpless and naked, and kept on explaining to you that your tummy ache was caused by a ruptured appendix.

When you got admitted at the hospital, she welcomed you into her ward, made you feel at ease, and reassured you that if you have any problem you could call her at ALL times.

When your doctor told you of your frightening diagnosis, she stayed by your side, gave you a pat on your back, held your hand, and explained to you that epistaxis simply meant nosebleed and your diagnosis wasn’t that bad after all.

When you got older and body pains have become a normal part of your life, she fed you, bathed you, clothed you, brushed your hair, changed your diaper, cleaned your poo, and did almost everything a loving mom would’ve done to her precious child.

When you were lonely and depressed, she made you feel important with her reassuring stories, she comforted you with her therapeutic words, and she stood by you when your sons and daughters have forgotten your birthdays and special anniversaries. =(

When you’re old and gray, she still stayed by your side, she listened to your melancholic, albeit repetitive, stories about your grandchildren and what-have-you’s, she cried with you, comforted you till your last dying breath, and made sure that you’ll have the most peaceful transition from the land of the living to the other side.

SHE... IS YOUR NURSE.

And this is her day.

And this time you owe it to her.

Have you told her how much you really appreciated her taking care of you from the time you were born until the time you get old and die? Can you still remember her name? Can you still recall how many times she heeded your call? Can you still remember her face, her smile, her tender, loving words, and her priceless acts of caring?

Have you thanked your nurse today?

This post is dedicated to nurses all over the world whose special day we’re celebrating right now. For all the things that you do, I will be forever indebted. Long live and Happy Nurse’s Day everyone.

Text: If Caring Were Enough, Anyone Could Be A Nurse

What have you done for her today?

*

Images from Flickr, Adcouncil for Nurses and Google Search.