Rolling in the Deep

I really love taking care of people—particularly those who are unconscious, in deep coma, vegetative or unresponsive.

Come to think of it, after working as a full-time nurse in a critical care setting for more than four years now, I have had the chance of taking care of virtually all kinds of people. I’m a “people person” if that term such exist. There’s something in caring that makes me feel as if I’m a good person or something. That the goodness I show to my patients vindicates the evilness that I have accumulated in the past.

Choosing which patients I will handle is not a matter of choice. They are written in the stars. If the great force named “charge nurse” deem it’s essential to ruin the rest of my workday, he, she, or it will assign the worst patient to me. However, if the “charge nurse” is a good friend, I’ll definitely have the happiest duty day.

One of the things that I have discovered in my work is that the worst persons to piss off are the nurses. Treat us badly and you’ll definitely get what you deserve. Nurses can deliberately kill you without you knowing it and we can make it appear as if it’s death from natural causes. Of course no nurse would do that. Or would they?



My life as a nurse is not like everyone else. Of course there are times when I still feel as if I’m giving too much for this work that gives back a little. Four years and I still could not afford a new car (as if I need one, I don’t know how to drive), pay a personal driver/butler, buy a house in New Manila (my ultimate dream address), buy new bags (okay, I’m that superficial), and get a one-way ticket to India. For god’s sakes, I could work as a prostitute and earn more than what I earn in a monthly basis, and imagine all the fun (minus the diseases) I could be getting.

But the bare fact still remains. There are sick people everywhere. There are sick people who will ultimately need a skillful, competent and capable hand of a caring nurse. There will be mothers, fathers, grandparents, brothers, sisters, relatives, sons and daughters who will get sick, and will be admitted in my workplace, and will demand my care. I could have chosen an easier life, but then again, who’s saying that life is always easy anyways. This may not be the easiest job there is, but for me, true satisfaction is attainable only but here.

So why am I telling you all of these? I actually don’t know. It’s probably because the “charge nurse” gave me a comatose patient and I’m here in the area doing nothing but to write this post. After all you owe your life to us. It’s time to give us something back.

How Soon is Now

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.

Something Beautiful

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.

A Sorta Fairytale

Remember that time when we were younger? When we were too little and carefree to think of all life’s worries? When our biggest fear in life come birthday-time is not receiving the present that we hoped for all year long? Whether we are getting that spanking new toy that will make us the envy of the kids in the neighborhood, or we are, by dint of cosmic joke, bound to receive (again) that despicable snake and ladders set that we perpetually receive on an annual basis?

As kids, we hope for the coming of the next year. Adulthood is something we are dying to reach. We were too bold and brazen to decide, as such an early age, what we wanted to become when we grow old. And as far as I could recall, never in my wildest dream have I told myself that I wanted to become a nurse when I was that young.

By a sudden twist of fate, the image of birthdays being shiny and hopeful turned into something dreaded and scary. That was when we learned that growing up is never a joyful passage of time and memories but a ruthless monster devouring our hopes and dreams. Time has become our enemy. And birthdays, an event we associate with aging and sorrow.



I started asking myself: is this the memory I am going to imprint in my life as I grow older?

Or can I, for one, be like that child again, and celebrate my birthday the way it was supposed to be commemorated?

For the past 5 years that I have been writing here at The Unbearable, my birthdays are marked by loneliness, hope, beginning, and sorrow, a psychologist could easily interpret as an unconscious guise of my inner bipolar self. In between my personal oscillations of using and abusing several drugs in the formulary, ranging from anti-depressants to minor tranquilizers, lucid intervals are always bliss. And I’m proud to say that for 3 years now, my body has become prescription- or recreational-drug-free, and my doses of Valium have been minimized to a great extent.

Why, then, am I feeling this melancholic?

I actually don’t know. Blaming my brain’s raphe nuclei and serotonin proves to be an effortless escape but I won’t digress. Maybe it’s the season, and it’s my Seasonal Affective Disorder talking, but I have always liked the rain, making the diagnosis very unlikely. I think the conclusion is that the problem lies within myself. And I therefore need not ask.

In a few hours, I will be turning 18. Plus 5.

A few years back, I was praying to the Lord to give me enough wisdom to help me decide what is right for me and act upon that in a prudent manner. A few months back I think I received the wisdom that I ultimately longed for. Last year, I was living a life. It might not be the “best” life I’m capable of living, but in my heart I know it’s the kind of life that I know I will never exchange for for all of eternity.

This time, I have only one prayer:

I will live my life.

And this time, I will live it well.

*

Thank you for your unending support. This post is for single men (and women) everywhere, and one in particular... my very good friend Raymond, the eternal optimist, who always believes in love.

So Yesterday

Milestones – that’s what they are called. Trust, mistrust. Autonomy, shame. Initiative, guilt. Industry, inferiority. Identity, role confusion.

Intimacy.

Isolation.

I have always believed that during the course of my fleeting, ephemeral lifetime, I was able to pass my psychological milestones with flying colors. I like to believe that I was nurtured well enough that I was poured, bathed even, with the necessary milieu needed to achieve them. Then came my epiphany.

I have always asked myself year after year as to how my life has been changing. Yes there might have been that proverbial, “older and wiser” adage but I doubt as to whether this passage still applies to me, or I’m moving otherwise. It appears to me that just like mankind, I have been taking huge steps backward, and it seems as if my world is screeching to a halt.

When I was younger and my ways of dating could be defined as indiscriminate at least, looking for love has been like choosing a personal outfit. I was young and reckless back then and love for me is just like a chemistry experiment. If the reagent does not match with the base product, we dispose, and if things go awry, we run to the nearest fire escape.



I seem to have found myself in a stage where I think I’m ready to settle down. But every time I think of the single, carefree life that I will be leaving, fear grows in my heart. Am I ready to commit to my one true love? Is he the one? Can I get over my previous lovers whom I still feel a certain response every time I see their faces or hear their names? Will I miss the night life I think I will desert once I’ve decided to settle down? Am I still allowed to flirt with other people? Am I a husband material?

A lot of my friends have been hitting me with a hammer, figuratively. At 22 (23 next week), I still have a lot of immaturities I should’ve grown out of when I was 13. But then again, at 13, I was facing a psychological test straight people are passing through with ease. It took me several years, and several failed relationships to finally decide what I wanted to be. And there I’ve found my identity.

“Don’t settle for anything less,” I always tell myself. But then again, the more pressing question is that, “do I deserve the things that are presented before me?” Or am I taking them for granted.

I just hope that there will never come a time when life will turn it’s back on me and tell me, “I have given you enough, now it’s time to take what’s mine.”

Darn identity.

My Interpretation

Defying conventions has been my biggest obsession for the entire part of my life.

I push androgyny to the limits. I bend the rules. I dare conventions. I challenge the cliché.

So when a good friend has been betrayed by his lover and came to the conclusion that all men are by nature irrevocably polygamous, I digress.

Okay, that was the inner me bluffing.

I know she’s right. Polygamy is a part of our genetic make-up, much like the sizes of our penis or the propensity to develop acne. Most men want what they can’t have. And once they have it, they want more.

After losing some of my loved ones due to those “dreaded” third parties, I have come to the realization that as a man, inasmuch as being human, we are such insatiable creatures. We could never get enough. We are never enough.



For we are beings with needs and wants. Being with a special someone does not, and will not guarantee us the fulfillment of our desires. For always, what we ultimately want is more.

I might have a special someone with me right now, but I firmly believe that there will come a time when I’ll get to meet someone who can better satisfy my needs. And I’m amenable to the fact that he might find someone else too. But I guess for now, we’ll just have to do.

There are conventions that we can fight, and there are some that we can’t. But in the end, what separates us from the other member of the specie is that we always have a choice. We can confront or we can succumb. We can challenge or we can surrender.

We can be polygamous if we choose to be. We can always choose not to. For in life, we all have two choices. To do what is right, or to do what is wrong.

In the end, we ultimately become what we choose to do.

*

Image from flickr. My Interpration by Mika.

My Life Would Suck Without You

I find it amazing that almost a year ago, I was musing with my epiphanies of self-indulgent greatness with this post that I personally think is the best that I have written. That despite the fact that the scale of accomplishment and failure tips on the former rather than the latter, what I have achieved for the past year is something I could definitely be proud of.



Looking back, the three words that sum up my dreary almost non-existent life is nursing, sleeping and eating. The thing that fuels my existence, aside from my pay check, is personal satisfaction. I made things possible without a special someone, a trophy person, dare I must say, to celebrate with my victories and empathize with my defeat. To quote;

(3) My ideal guy is just around the corner, and sooner or later, he’ll get to find me. It’s just that we’re both busy chasing our dreams that our lovelives is a little haywire. After some readjustments of goals, he’ll come to me, and we’ll live happily ever after.

Fast forward a few months of waiting, just when I thought that I have given up on love (again), a special someone comes in the form of an amazing, understanding person. I might have had a notorious reputation of finding my loved ones in the most inopportune places (only if you consider ONS’s as inopportune), this time, I thought that this could be it. I told myself that there’ll be no pressure this time. “Let’s see” has become my personal mantra. And time has become my friend instead of my foe.

Before, my weekends are filled with night outs with friends with the aim of spying potential lovers that would pass our ways. Looking at couples not only enliven my angst on love but also rouse my relentless homicidal ideations and murderous tendencies. I channelled my inexorable libido into my personal work, and even started a new hobby in taking photographs.



But then this person came. And I was inspired. My weekends are now filled with intense lovemaking sessions (hahaha) and I no longer feel the existential angst for lovers walking as if they’re the only people in the world. I no longer dread the pity talks. The self-help books will have to go for now. And I will no longer watch movies alone.

Though everything is still far from the hedges of roses that I have envisioned before and am still envisioning now, the fact that I did not spent Valentine’s Day alone is enough blessing that I should feel thankful for.

Images from my friend K's multiply account.

I'm Not Dead

“And I was never looking for approval from anyone but you
And though this journey is over I'll go back if you ask me to…”

I used to believe that my greatest fear in life is dying, especially, dying alone.

But in the midst of living, and working in a place where death is as common as a thought, facing death has been the norm rather than the exception.

Every time a patient’s heart stops, a chain reaction of activating a code, rummaging the emergency kart for cardiac drugs, pumping the chest and shocking the heart has been our second nature. So much that almost everything has been routinely impregnated in our systems. In 30 minutes we stop, or in some instances, when our muscles still can permit, we allow 15 more.

Whoever said that running a code blue is so cinematic and surreal must be seriously absurd.



I have seen death several times and at most of these times, facing it has never been easy for my part.

As medical professionals, life is what we protect at all times. We may have different values towards it, different views, opinions, and outlook on it, but in every chance that we got, we have learned how to protect it at all costs.

Because we cherish its brevity. How transient it could be. One moment you’re someone else’s son, someone else’s mother, someone else’s special loved one, and the next thing you might just be the cadaver I’m wrapping up in a shroud.

When burnout sets in, I couldn’t help but contemplate on whether I should volunteer myself to the hospital’s pediatric wing, or in the nursery where life abounds and everything is sweet and cuddly. But then reality slaps me back where I’m supposed to be. No matter where I go, people will die. People are going to die. And life begins anew.

Maybe it’s for this reason that I have begun to realize one of the most important things in life.

That life is what we make of it.

As the old saying goes, “Yes, we can't do anything about the length of our lives, but we can do something about its width and depth."

And sometimes.

Yes, sometimes.

It’s all so comforting.

“I’m not dead just floating
I'm not scared just changing
You're my crack of sunlight yeah…”

Images from Flickr, I’m Not Dead by Pink.

The Story

“All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of who I am
And how I got to where I am…

Reading New Year posts never fail to both amaze and disappoint me.

I feel so jealous that some people were able to accomplish so much at such a little amount of time, and yet here I am, feeling as if nothing has changed and everything is going against my way.

But there are times when I just feel elated because there are moments when a single day, a single minute, a single hour stretched like a forever’s worth of happiness and satisfaction.

And just like that I feel nothing but thankful.

Thankful to Him for the blessings I’ve received for yet another 365 days of my existence.

Thankful for my superiors for giving me a stable job. One that allows me to manage my own finances. That despite the seemingly meager amount, it nevertheless gave me enough to afford me trips to Gucci and Louis Vuitton and end up carrying some.

For my patients for allowing me to learn a whole lot of things. I may not have given them my undivided care but in my heart I knew that it is my best they have received.

For my co-staff for being my mentors and friends.

For my family for continuously bringing out the best in me. For sticking with me through thick and thin, I will be eternally grateful.

For “J,” for believing in me and loving me and taking good care of me. We might not have been “there” and the road is still long and winding, but I’m thankful because we have taken the first step together and I’m praying that you’ll be holding my hand as we journey through life together.

And for you for inspiring me to write. A passion I nurture for quite a long time. For this blog that served as a forge where I can share my emotions, never will I quit you, that’s for sure.



With all these blessings and wonderful people surrounding my life, tell me why should I feel ungrateful for?

…Oh but these stories don’t mean anything
When you’ve got no one to share them to
It’s true, I was made for you.

Oh yeah, and it’s true that I was made for you.”

*

Images from flickr. Lyrics from Brandi Carlile's "The Story."

(What Have You Done Today To Make You Feel) Proud

"I step out of the ordinary
I can feel my soul ascending
I am on my way
Can't stop me now
And you can do the same"

I find it queer (redundancy aside) that in my 22 years of existence, never have I participated, engaged, witnessed, nor get involved, in *our annual pride parade.

Minus the first two years where I am still unable to walk and the next 12 years of undefined identity, that left me with 8 missed opportunities of celebrating and professing my pride with my sexuality and personal identity.

I asked myself, am I not proud of the person that I have become?



I could say that I'm not the typical confused man. At an early age, I already knew what I wanted to achieve and what I wanted to become.

I had my first relations at the age of 16, became exposed to the complicated queer life at 17, and successfully managed my first committed relationship at 18. Bed was my niche even before Bed became Bed, and I witnessed how Government became the Government that was now.

This premature exposure, however, doesn't come without a price. After a couple of years of countless boozing, whoring and experimenting, I became a little tired of that usual scene.

I stayed out of it for quite a while. I nurtured committed relations without the frills and fuzz and the complications of my previous juvenile immaturities. I drove myself out from the fast lane. I held on to my peace.



There are moments when I still question myself if this quiescent life is the kind of life that I really wanted. Whether I'm happy with my existence. Or if I'm proud of the life that I'm living.

I may not have stepped out of the ordinary just yet but there's one thing in me that holds true.

I AM PROUD TO BE ME.

I take pride in my work, in my actions, and in my words. I take pride in my deeds, in my promises, and in my thoughts. I take pride in my sexuality, in my identity, and in my personal choices. I take pride in the life that I chose to live. And I take pride in the actions that pave the way for becoming the person that I am now.

I may not have been there in the parade wearing costumes and wings and masks. I may not have been there organizing the floats, or arranging the crowd. And definitely not there sashaying with nothing on but my jockstraps (not that I have any) and heels.

But yes, I am proud.

And no one can stop me now.

And you, what have you done today to make you feel proud?

Happy Pride Day, Everyone!

*Images from Showtime's Queer as Folk.

Dare You To Move

It seems as if if we're ever given a chance to become somebody else, all of us would have definitely something in mind.

At least that is what each of my colleagues have been trying to confirm.

I didn't expect, however, that their answers would neither involve becoming rich or becoming famous as I have previously thought.

For instance, one of my friends wanted to become a better mother, while the other, a better provider for his family. The other guy wanted to become a rock star while the next guy, a CNN reporter.

As for me, I wanted to become an Olympic gymnast, a diver, or a writer, whichever sounds more facetious.

Just kidding.

I couldn't help but wonder why people tend to exist and live in a world that does not afford them the fulfilment of their desires. Why haven't they pursue their dreams, actualize their vision, and realize their Personal Legends?



I guess it’s the convenience of the present, the fears of the unknown, or the complacency of the right now that prevents them from doing so, for now, I could only guess.

I spent a few minutes asking myself the previous question: if I could be somebody else, who would I want to become?

And then it occurred to me. When I was younger I thought that in becoming filthy rich I could attain happiness, or in extreme physical perfection I could find true love, or in extreme success I could find contentment.

But at 22, I definitely know what I actually longed for.

And that is wisdom.



I might have done several mistakes in my past and He knows that I've been burned several times, but if there's something I'm really thankful for, it's for the wisdom that I have gathered throughout the ages. I might have been a fool several times in my past, but in that foolishness I seem to have found myself. And for that I'll be thankful.

Then I was reminded of this message an old friend sent me and I have kept in my inbox for the longest time:

"Never let the things you want...

Make you forget the things you already have."

And suddenly, this too, has passed.

*Images from postsecret and flickr.

Luminescence of Darkness

Around us fear, descending
Darkness of fear above
And in my heart how deep unending
Ache of love!

I’ve been having these intense migraines recently. And no, they’re not just in my head. They’re real and they’re no less than excruciating. At times I could feel my head throbbing in sync with my heartbeat, it’s as if something in my skull is about to burst, and it’ll leave me unconscious, in coma, or in my deathbed.

My intensivist, who diagnosed me as having these tension-type headaches, gave me prn (as necessary) medications every time I’m in such pain, to which I am fully compliant. However, as tolerance sets in, the same dose which used to be effective no longer affords relief when I take it now. And as I take more of them pills, the nasty side effects tend to predominate. Making me sedated, nauseated, vertiginous, and short of breath inasmuch than being painless.

I was advised on having a cranial CT scan once they recur, and I have long been planning on undergoing one but…



It has been exactly one year since I started my professional career in healthcare. Everyday, patients come into our beds, and they go, and for us, every other patient that comes in is nothing more than another opportunity for learning. Every body is a living piece of learning apparatus. Every heart beat a chance of learning about cardiac murmurs. Every lung an opportunity of learning roentgenographic interpretations. Every patient history a chance of discovering a part of themselves. And every patient interview a chance of gaining their most elusive trust.

Looking back on the thousand of patient histories I have in my recently emptied locker, I couldn’t help but wonder what made me different from the rest of these patients seemingly lying on their own deathbeds.

I experience the same chest pain. I do experience the same fatigue. I have had the same shortness of breath. And now I have the same headaches.

A month ago, I admitted one of our institution’s most brilliant Hematologist-Oncologist whose chief complaint was a mere headache. She had had a tumor excised a year ago but it recurred again, this time, more aggressive and malignant. She no longer has that same spunk back when we used to join her in the rounds. She’s lying there, almost in the brink of death, fighting against the disease she strived so hard to conquer. At times I’m left with nothing to say but maybe, now, the joke was on her.

Her headache, a malignant anaplastic astrocytoma. The other guy’s chest pain, a triple vessel Coronary Artery Disease. That lady’s bloatedness, a leaking Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm. That man’s difficulty of swallowing, anaplastic thyroid carcinoma.

And my headaches? It’s better that I know no further.

They say that knowledge is power. That the more you know about life, the more equipped you’ll become in conquering life’s challenges day in and day out.

Or is it really better that we know everything?

I know that I have to eventually discover what the hell is wrong with my head but for now, let me find solace in the uncertainty. Spare me the diagnosis and let me cope with the fear in my own terms.

There are so many things we have to know. We have to know we have what it takes. We have to know how to take care of our patients... and how to take care of each other. Eventually, we even have to figure out how to take care of ourselves.

As surgeons we have to be in the know. But as human beings, sometimes it's better to stay in the dark, because in the dark there may be fear, but there's also hope.

Everybody's Changing

No dave, I haven’t given up on writing… yet.

It’s been six months since my last actual post, and ever since I’ve left, it feels as if things haven’t really changed at all. I’m still me. The quasi-philosophical, self-absorbed, self-proclaimed intellectual who believe that I still am capable of greatness. The dreamer, who, despite having all the means of achieving my ambitions, opt to exist in the status quo. The fighter who keeps on preparing for my battles but quivers with fear upon the sight of my enemies. And the lover who, uhm, well… loves everyone.

But still, a man with an incredible heart.



I’m keeping this entry short, but this I assure you, my readers, old and new alike, that I, just like the old me, will be here to stay.

And yes, I’m definitely back.

Dust In The Wind

Don't hang on, nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky.
It slips away, and all your money won't another minute buy.

Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind.
Dust in the wind, everything is dust in the wind.

*

Thank you for waiting.

Now, I'm back.

Song For The Lonely

Today, I guess, is my birthday!

Happy Birthday, Ruff.

Always Come Back To Your Love

Can we really get over our first loves?

I was a freshman college then and love (or sex, for that matter) is something extremely unbeknownst to me.

I told *him (a very good friend) that I’m going to get my cherry popped by the time I finish my first year of college.

And surprisingly, it did happen.

Even more surprising, I did it with him (okay, okay, I’m a whore).



And it was not a spur-of-the-moment thing. It happened again. And again and again.

I was confused as hell back then because that was my first serious relationship with a person of the same sex. Career changes made it impossible for us to pursue that what might-have-been a perfect relation.

We parted ways and moved on. But recently, thoughts of him haunt me during my cold solitary nights. After four years, I still kept on asking myself, “Will I be strong enough to see him again and not be drawn by everything that has transpired between the two of us?”

Yes I might be younger back then, but at such a younger age, I already knew what I wanted and am determined enough to make it all happen.

He had been with many men, and so did I.

But if there’s that slightest chance of us, being back together, then I thought that I would risk everything, life and limb included, to prove that, no matter how sappy it might sound, I’d always come back to his love.



Recently, I have been moonlighting as a private duty nurse to a patient who was admitted to our hospital but was discharged a few months ago.

His room was darn freaking cold that private nurses have to wear at least three layers of clothing or suffer the risk of frostbite.

My patient was asleep then (it was 2 am) and a generic message entered my inbox.

It was him.

*

To be continued…

Reflection

i asked God for strength that i might achieve;

i was made weak that i might learn humbly to obey:

i asked for health that i might do great things;

i was given infirmity that i might do greater things:



i asked for riches that i might be happy;

i was given poverty that i might be wise:

i asked for power that i might have the praise of men;

i was given weakness that i might feel the need of God:



i asked for all things that i might enjoy life;

i was given life that i might enjoy all things:

i got nothing that i asked for but everything that i hoped for;

almost despite myself my unspoken prayers were answered:

i am among all men most richly blest.

*

(Seen at the Apolinario Mabini Rehabilitation Center of the UST Hospital.)

God Bless The Broken Road

I long have envisioned this blog to be a space where I can entertain, educate and inspire other people with my stories, life experiences and personal tales.

But recently, inasmuch as I’d love to furnish this page with my new expoits, some things (ie., work, personal fears, reservations) seem to hinder me from doing so.

And I have long contemplated on, er, temporarily closing this site but…

*

There was a recent admission in ICU Suite F. We were advised to implement Universal Precautions to the nth level as this’ll be a very unusual case. While the patient is being wheeled from the stretcher to the ICU Bed, I donned my paper mask, NIOSH (N-95) respirator, goggles, extra gown, and three overlapping gloves, and entered the “talked-about” suite.

“He” seems just like the usual intubated patient except that (yup, I’m cutting to the chase now) he’s HIV positive.

How he got the disease and the whole she-bang need not be discussed to maintain the confidential matters.

*

His admission sent a strong wave of fears among my co-staff and no matter how much we were supposed to contain the news among ourselves, the fact that we are taking care of an HIV+ patient is news that is just too much to handle.

For instance every time a blood extraction is warranted, we have to disclose his diagnosis to the medical technologists so that they can practice further caution. The same thing goes for the respiratory therapists who obtain his blood gases, the cleaning staff who handle his biological wastes, and so on.

And yet I’m proud to say that nobody among our staff refused to take care of him despite the insurmountable risks.

*

I think that this is such an opportune time to be educated about this disease. In a country where anti-retrovirals (ARVs) cost an arm and a leg, we cannot afford to get stricken by the disease.

And in this time when cure seems to be a bit tad imaginary, one could only hope and pray that further researches about HIV/AIDS will come into fruition and eventually produce that “magic bullet.”

But then still, education and prevention would have to do for now.

*

Taking care of “him” made me feel vindicated on why I failed to update this blog.

And no, he did not die.

So did I. Thank you very much.

He was discharged just last week, with his boyfriend, both strong and well.

*

And I couldn’t get any happier.

*

To you, thank you for educating me, for inspiring me, for allowing me to take care of a very special person in you. And though I know that there’s that little to none chance of you dropping by this site of mine, I promise, deep within my heart, that I will never ever forget you and how you changed my perspective on life.

*

And this post is dedicated to you, my really really really really good friend Kiks.

*

Be strong. And be informed.

Hello

Sing me this song...

And I'll be yours forever.

*

M. J.,

I want to tell you that I have grown.

I no longer have to tell mom and dad that I’m going to Aldrin’s house for a thesis all-nighter just to be with you.

I no longer have braces, and you know what that means.

I’m now earning my own salary and we could now pay the rent for our humble, but erogenous, abode.

I no longer have to wait late night after your law school ‘cause my shift always ends late.

We could (again) shower together to save on those water bills.

Remember those scrubs that you love? And my usual scrub top and briefs ensemble? You could always see me wearing it, all the time.

Remember that time when we're almost caught doing something at that posh club at The Fort?

And lastly… I can call you hubby again.

And as always, I’ll be your baby forever.

*

Hello… is it me you’re looking for?

*

Pardon the overwhelming ambiguities. Too much serotonin cruising my vasculature right now, and yeah, sleeplessness, too.

Go The Distance / The World's Greatest

Here I am. 1 in the morning. It’s my day off and I’m wasting precious sleeping time staring at that bright star (or is that Venus) glistening beside the crescent moon (Sailor Moon is that you) while reminiscing the past 21 years of my life.

When I was younger I always think that I’m destined for greatness. That someday I could find a cure for AIDS or devise the means to end poverty or bring that elusive world peace to reality or become an eponym for a medical procedure or a disease, like Ruff-du-Jour’s Syndrome or Ruff-the-Unbearable Maneuver.

But here I am. 1 in the morning, wasting my day off and wandering why I fail to be that person I so dream of.



I turned my iPod on, clicked Shuffle, and there plays Michael Bolton’s “Go The Distance.”

Okay I’m just bluffing. It actually played Mary J. Blige’s “Be Without You” but typing Bolton makes this post sound a bit facetious.

As a nurse, my days evolve around my professional life in the hospital and my almost non-existent personal life which I could sum up into two words: eating, sleeping.

Like an epiphany of some sorts, stuffs miraculously perfuse into my head and slowly converted into words to fill this blog that could be easily categorized as “Archived” or “Abandoned” due to my neglect and inattention.

And on that note, here are twenty realizations (originally two-thousand and eight) for the past twenty years of my life.

(1) I, actually, am a good person. Very good person.

(2) I am not a composite of Meredith Grey, or John Dorian, or Carrie Bradshaw, or Elle Woods, or any other fictional character into any fictitious show that deludes me into the belief that they’re “just playing my life.”

There’s no point in me imagining that my life will take a Grey’s Anatomy turn of events because I'm not Meredith Grey. I'm more like George O’Malley, if anything, but the truth is I am my own character writing my own story.

I have a life of my own. And I am real. I am better than Grey, Dorian, Bradshaw, Woods, McDreamy, and so much more. I am Ruff. And I'll be great.

(3) My ideal guy is just around the corner, and sooner or later, he’ll get to find me. It’s just that we’re both busy chasing our dreams that our lovelives is a little haywire. After some readjustments of goals, he’ll come to me, and we’ll live happily ever after.



(4) But I would then buy my own car before that happens. Public transport just wouldn’t do.

(5) I could not believe how many people died during my stay in the Intensive Care Unit. Five died under my care (but not due to my negligence thank you very much), and I could recall their names, their faces, and their life histories.

P.M., F.A., A.B.L., N.B. and E.C., requiescat in pace.

(6) I, however, saved a thousand more.

And I’m not being too pompous when I said that.

(7) Regarding the previous statement, seeing people walk out of the hospital alive is the reason why I keep holding on to my job. Sleepless nights and all, body pains, infections and all, being unappreciated and all, I do *freaking love what I do.

(8) I am loved by many people. And I love many people. This alone makes me special.

(9) I may have plenty, but I am not the sum total of all my failures.

(10) I already know who and what are important. I just have to keep reminding myself of them.

(11) By default, I am destined to kill somebody (job-related or otherwise).

(12) No amount of treadmill, protein shakes, bench presses and yoga sessions could compensate for the fact that I love to eat. I know, I know, that my obsession to Starbucks, Jollibee, Big Mac, Yellow Cab, TGIF, Cheesecakes etc., and Bubba Gump is deleterious to my health.

(14) It’s actually easy to be happy.

Most of my unhappiness stems from being too conscious about how I come off to other people. And all my happy moments are the times when I simply did not care.



(15) I am the best there is at what I do.

(16) There's no point in thinking that people, including myself, will get what we deserve. Mostly because we have no right to judge what, exactly, people deserve.

(17) Maganda pala ako. (Trans: I am actually beautiful.)

(18) And in line with that, I don't need someone else to validate my good looks. Normally when I wish for such validation they come in the form of condescending remarks coming from people trying to ask personal favours from me or ill-spelled private messages from people who've seen my friendster, facebook or g4m profile. That kind of validation I do not need. And besides, if I cannot find myself attractive how can I expect anyone of reasonable taste and intelligence to do so?

(19) I still believe that I’m destined to do great things.

(20) This is supposed to be my hundredth post but since I suck at: (1) math, (2) remembering dates, and (3) finding time to write, I missed the momentous event. Well, it’s still memorable naman. My 101st.

(21) Twenty-one is not a time for a quarter-life crisis, or for any kind of crisis. This is the time where I've got life by the balls. This is the most empowered I have ever been. At sixteen I may have thought I could conquer the world. At eighteen I may have thought I had the legal licence to do so. At twenty I felt that now I had the right to go nuts all over the world. But now is really the time where my life and my decisions and the resulting consequences are truly my own. I should always remember that, and live according to that truth.

*

In an emo fit I once yelled, “Twenty-one and what am I doing with my life?”

Well, I'll tell you.

I'm living it.

Images from here.