A patient died on me again today.
But then again, if I’m going to blog every patient’s story who died under my care during the past three years, this site would not become what it is today, but an online obituary, or perhaps, a remake of Six Feet Under, The Third World version.
I find it quite amusing how, as soon as a gurney enters the ICU door, most of us have this innate capability of predicting how long this individual is going to live. Some would make it weeks, days, or hours, while there are those unfortunate few who are already dead even before we transfer them in the ICU bed, and the only thing we are bound to do, is wrap them up in shrouds and transport them to the morgue.
Seriously, after battling with death a hundred times, even, we, ourselves, have embraced the idea of dying with open and embracing arms. My overcritical senior predicted that he’ll die of heart attack, while the other, whose headaches have become a part of her daily routine, from brain tumor. I have convinced myself that I’ll die from obesity, colon cancer, or aspiration, together, or otherwise.
And no. No amount of yoga could reverse the fact that I could never get a toned abdominals if I don’t stop binging on anything bovine or porcine, while gulping on fluids made primarily of sugar, carbonic acid, alcohol, or lactose.
As soon as I received my colleague’s endorsement, I knew that in a span of 4 hours, my patient is going to die.
He made it 3 hours and 14 minutes.
And by the time he died, I knew I have to book my daily yoga sessions for the week. I started again today.
Here I am, sore and stiff from all the stretching, but nevertheless fulfilled. Eating vegetables might not be my greatest talent, but for now, I guess my yoga buddies will be my bestest companions in the nearer future.
In front of my tofu and broccoli, I found my new chance of living. I know that it won’t be long before I start reaching for the phone and calling 8-MCDO to order a Big Mac, with a side of chicken nuggets and a Sundae. I just have to tell myself, over and over, that the pleasure of eating might be bliss, but good health is a more important investment.
Darn death.
When I was younger, I never had that Justin Taylor coming of age crap. I discovered my sexuality at such an early age due to some kind of affair with someone I still get to see at times. My self-discovery seemed to unfold very smoothly. I hated the dramas and all of the complications. I managed my case the best way I possibly could.
I’ve found escape in dating a lot of men and in non-stop partying in almost all places known to man. I’ve invested less in love and more in casual sex. It’s amazing because I have never even considered myself to be a very sexual person. I am a person of the world. A child of the universe.
I never knew what love was until I met Marco, my first true love. We were good together yet circumstances seem to break us apart. He left me for the States and the long distance relationship that has transpired proved to be too much to handle.
And then there was MJ, who provided a much needed respite for my aching soul. Yet this relationship seems to reinforce the fact that his love could never replace my longing for Marco. As he succinctly said, “I just used him for my advantage,” upon which I categorically deny.
There was E. My on-and-off partner for 2 years. It is in this relationship that I really judge it essential to define what you are doing from the very beginning. There is a thin line that separates perfect friendship and exclusive dating. So when he told me that he has been seeing someone else while we were still together, I just knew that we were heading in different directions.
Lastly, there was J, my stronghold. When I’m lying in his arms, I could completely surrender. We are perfect, yet his needs are different from mine. He wanted me to live with him and leave my own family, upon which I could not indulge. At 23, I believed that I’m still not the settling kind. I learned that it takes a lot of courage to make such life-changing decisions, and yes, I'm not that strong.
It’s amazing because at my age, it appears that I have become an “authority” in these relationship situations. During high school, my peers thought of me as inappropriate just because I’m more aware of my sexuality than them, and that I have experimented at such an age where other people find it to be unfitting. I might have learned what love and sex means as such a tender age yet the more I learn about love, the more I realize that I still do have a lot to discover.
Being 23 and single is like a curse in this condemnatory world. In this society where having a special someone appears to be the norm rather than the exception, the fact that you do not have someone to watch movies with is just plain pathetic and pitiable. Those who defy the norms are either mentally incapacitated, emotionally depressed, or just plain indifferent.
Yes I still want to have that special someone to hold my hands and spend the nights with. But I’m in no rush. It seems that the more I obsess about having a lover, the more critical and pathetic I become. There will always be a lot of men here in the city. He will come, expectedly, so I guess there’s still no need to hurry. Give me a few months, a few years, and I’ll be a happy man. For now, allow me to bask in my blissful singlehood and give me back my long lost happiness. After all, despite all the heartaches, the pain and the sorrows, the world still owes me happiness and fulfillment.
And I’m claiming it now.
It all started with a heartache.
Even I, myself, could not believe how far this blog has become ever since I started writing all about my relationship chronicles with Marco, my past lover, exactly six years ago.
I spent the night re-reading through my stuffs, the bitter and the best, and started thinking about my life in retrospect. At first I feel desolate—six years and I’m still alone. No stories to share, no lover to spend the lonely nights with. And then a sudden outpour of love overflowed. Suddenly I was elated—that I am currently experiencing what other people can only dream of. I was blessed with lots of personal successes in the presence of my loved ones who relentlessly stick with me through the hardest times.
It’s been like almost a year since my last post and it feels like I have deserted my own home, abandoned my old refuge, and left some very good friends. I kept promising to write more and more, and yet kept on falling into the proverbial writer’s abyss. Kept justifying for my inconsistencies and rationalizing for my indolence.
This moment feels like a homecoming of sorts. I’m now back to writing. Hopefully with new stories to tell and more memories to share.
Consider this my comeback post. Unbearable lightness, here I come.
