The Fainting Intern Award

When I took off my scrubs today, it was still soaked in sweat. Today was a perfect example how humbling it is to be reminded that one's strength is finite. You see, I'm the kind of person who usually thinks he can take it all, and more often than not, I do prove in the end that I can do more than your average person. But maybe that was the problem- I'm not a person who excels because he's born gifted, but rather an ordinary chap who tries so hard to be better.

When I looked at the board, I tried to review the things in my head. Primary Classical C-section- indicated when the baby or mother's health is at risk and NSVD (normal spontaneous vaginal delivery) is not possible. A breech position of the baby, active herpes blisters on the mother's vagina, cephalic-pelvic disproportion- these are just a few of the reasons. Blood loss at around 800mL.

I imagined the instruments and materials we would be using: needle holders, sutures, clamps, retractors, Metz, bandage scissors, ovum, cautery machine, os, lap pads. Anticipate the needs of the surgeon, be snappy when serving the instruments, pay attention!

After scrubbing and gowning, I served the gown to the surgeon, then gloves after. So far, so good. The draping went well, and when I gave the first knife, cutting time had begun. First the skin, then superficial fascia, then deep fascia and muscle.

Bleeders were cauterized. I was to the left of the First Assist and was even allowed to sponge the surgical site when there was too much blood and the surgeon and first assist were busy with free ties. The room started to smell faintly like burnt flesh. I ignored it.

Secretly, I have a phobia with the sight of blood- although during NSVD and other cases I am still able stand it. During after the delivery of the baby, however there was a lot of it. The uterus looked like a small basketball with a vertical slice where the baby was delivered from.

As I served sutures, I was beginning to feel faint. Blood flowed generously from the side of the incision. The scrub nurse suctioned the blood while the first assist used one lap pad after another to absorb the blood. As the layers of the uterus were sutured, the surgeon started asking us questions- pretty basic actually: what are the layers of the uterus? which layer are we suturing now? The questions did not bother me, the blood did.

I began to feel extremely thirsty (and at this point according to those who were watching me, I looked pale as a ghost) so I begged for water. Blood was still oozing. There was blood on the instruments (which I mechanically began to wipe off with a wet os), blood on my gloves, pieces of flesh and clotted blood on my gown. My nostrils were assailed by the sickly sweet, coppery odor of blood.

Breathe. I willed myself. My heart pounded and I was afraid people could hear it.

My mates gave me water to drink. I drank a few drops with my parched mouth, and tried to control my fear. But it was too late, and my confidence was shaken. I wish I was like the first assist coolly assisting the surgeon. She looked so composed and skilled.

With both shame and trepidation, I stepped back a little. When the operation was finally over, I wiped the sweat off my brows. I decided not to be too hard on myself, I mean, if I'll feel bad just because I made one or two mistakes in a quiz, or beat myself up because I didn't do things perfectly- or that I got overwhelmed, I'd probably go crazy. There is a learning curve to this, and as far as conquering fears is concerned, the first time you face it is always bad. But like the past diving incident in Coron, the best way to conquer fear is to get right back to it.

So tomorrow, I go first on deck.

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Dedicated to the Proud Yet Tragic Overachievers

Summa Cum Laude & Valedictorian:
Are They Worth It?
by Maria Pascucci
President & Founder of Campus Calm

Summa Cum Laude - Latin for "With Highest Honors"

We are the students who routinely skip out on nights with friends because we have too much homework and too many commitments. We are the loveable nerds who answer questions first in class because we're the only ones who bothered to complete last night's reading. We strive relentlessly for perfect grades and become irritated when we see an "A-" edged in red ink on the top of our papers instead of an "A."

We are the valedictorians of the world; the summa cum laude college graduates, the academic stars. Our teachers praise us, our parents can push us and our classmates LOVE to cheat off of us. We really, really believe that we can be anything, do anything in life if we just ace that test. We want to change the world. We want to "show them all."

We have a lot to prove ... mostly to ourselves.

I am here to tell you that even though accomplishment is great, and even though awards feel good and look even better hanging up on the wall, that the price we pay on our pursuit of perfection is high. I'm a summa cum laude college graduate who spent four years of my life in pursuit of perfection. The first paper I ever tackled for college was a personal experience essay for my freshmen English class. I earned an "A+" from a professor who considers an "A" top-notch work. He even showed off my essay to his other classes.

I devoured his praise and announced my first achievement to my manager at a past retail job. He congratulated me but warned that college was MUCH harder than high school and that consistently getting straight As and graduating summa cum laude would be impossible. I took this as a personal challenge. At the end of the semester, I flashed my first report card under his nose: 3.94 out of 4.0.

In the beginning my quest to graduate summa cum laude was fun, but each semester became more challenging. After a few semesters, writing stopped being fun as I could only equate it with pressure and deadlines. With each perfect grade I earned, my childhood joy in written expression vanished.

I wanted to dance. Throw a football. Watch a movie, or get in a car and see the world instead of vicariously traveling through stacks of assigned books. Occasionally, I tossed my pen aside and went out, but these instances were rare, and I usually felt guilty about my abandoned pile of work growing with each passing second.

I don't know why I put so much pressure on myself. My parents didn't push me. My professors tried to tell me to lighten up and go have some fun. I could only respond, "Stop dishing out so much work." I could only give it my all, or give nothing. I didn't know how to relax.

Everything collided my last semester of my senior year. I needed eighteen credit hours to graduate on time, so I overloaded my schedule. At the time, I had a cumulative grade point average of 3.9 and my sights were set on (finally) graduating summa cum laude. Forget being grateful for the fact that I was going to be the first woman in my family to graduate from a four-year college - again, all I could think about was summa cum laude, summa cum laude!

The last week of college was my breaking point. I had polished so many papers and read so many books that I never had the chance to study for exams. I crammed for every one the night before and blew through them all until the last-History of American Women. It was my favorite class, but I didn't even read the book that was to comprise a huge portion of the exam.

I crammed all night, drove to school in a daze, and slumped in the nearest seat in the exam room. I was nervous about this last exam because I was so close to graduating summa cum laude - and I had to have it. Others had their awards for being more well rounded students, but I would possess this title I had made myself sick over for four years. Otherwise, I thought, it would all be for nothing.

Once in the exam room, I heard classmates quizzing each other on their notes and I panicked. I whipped open my notebook and began trying to digest names, quotes, dates, and places until I realized that everything might as well have been written in ancient Greek. It was too late. As my professor began passing out exam books, a lump rose in my throat and my eyes pooled with tears. Too late, it's just too late.

I bolted from my chair, ran to the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. After four long years, I completely broke down. Choking tears poured down my face, soaking my shirt, my neck, my hair. My heartbeat pulsated, and I began gasping for air. I was terrified because I had never experienced a full-blown panic attack. I curled up on that white and blue checkered linoleum bathroom floor, and I didn't know if I would ever have the strength to get up.

Eventually, I managed to pull myself off that bathroom floor and rose to wash my face. I stood before the mirror and watched a pale, soulless young woman stare back, accusing me for the hollow look in her eyes. I whispered, "I'm so sorry I did this to you." I went back to class and finished that exam.

I was done. FINALLY done.

While other college seniors celebrated the upcoming graduation weekend, I drove home and locked myself in my bedroom. Without any homework, there was nothing left to do. I watched all my favorite movies and stared at the ceiling.

When I stood at graduation, the speaker announced, "Maria L. Pascucci - summa cum laude."

That diploma with its tiny inscription publicly acknowledging my perfection had the last laugh. I worked so hard for it and it destroyed me; now I didn't even want it. I wasn't perfect, and I let my own quest to graduate summa cum laude destroy my health, my confidence and emotional well-being.

I didn't pick up a book or write a word for nearly a year after graduation. After my graduation party, my parents reproached me for not sending out thank-you notes. I responded that I couldn't pick up a pen to write them.

When I began searching for a job in my field, I realized that my college diploma with the summa cum laude notation didn't impress employers much and my lack of experience killed me. I was furious. I felt like the world had let me down, when in reality, I had let myself down. I had worked myself to the breaking point, and now society was telling me it still wasn't good enough.

I thought that college had stripped my creativity forever, but a true writer can't stay away from her pen for long. Eventually, I wandered into libraries and checked out books I had come across in college but had never had the time to read. I began keeping a journal and recorded my triumphs and defeats. I landed a writing internship with an online teen magazine. I started to believe in my dreams.

It took me years after graduation to understand what perfectionism had done to my life. I remember a favorite professor's words: "Maria, you've got to calm down," she said. "You're going to burn out before your career even begins." She was right. I lived in the past for two years, pointing fingers at anything that had ever let me down. Then, I got sick of being angry and chose to move on.

Today, I'm an entrepreneur who writes from the heart for my own enjoyment and peace of mind. Perfectionism will always be a part of me, but never again will I allow it to usurp my life. I wish I could take that frantic college girl who suffocated her world in perfection and scream, "HAVE FUN." Another perfect grade isn't worth it. Make friends, do an internship in a field you enjoy, and experience the world outside the school's walls.

I can't go back and help that stressed-out student, but I can help others: Enjoy high school and college, excel at what you're good at, but don't always demand the absolute best. Put yourselves before your grades and look at the big picture. Graduating magna or summa cum laude is great but not if you lose yourself in the process. When you stand at graduation, I hope you can accept your diplomas with joy in your hearts and with pride for all your accomplishments, knowing that you've succeeded and are ready to embrace the future. Sanity in tact!

~Maria Pascucci, former academic perfectionist and stressaholic!

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Just Let me Down Easy..

How long should one hold on before he gives up hope? I guess some relationships were not meant to last, as the Angela Bofill song goes, "We've been close but people grow, and they sometimes fall apart." Forgive me if I pour my heart out, but this is my blog, after all. Sigh.

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The Ghost of Christopher McCandless

Christopher McCandless was an American raised in an upper middle class family who chose to leave the chaos of the "real world" and seek solitude in the wilderness. Increasingly introverted during his college years, he despised materialism and revered author and naturalist Henry Thoreau and realist fiction writer Leo Tolstoy. After graduating with honors, he donated his trust fund and went off to live a vagabond existence, despite protestations from his parents.

He found his greatest adventure in Stampede Trail in Alaska, of which he set off with no more than minimal supplies. He kept a journal during those months of enduring life in the harsh Alaskan bush- his entries ranging from euphoric to melancholy. He eventually decided to head back to the city, only to find the Teklanica river higher and swifter than when he last crossed it months before. It left him no choice but to return to his camp- an abandoned bus he used as shelter.

Towards the end of his days, he accidentally eaten seeds which were poisonous that caused him to become ill and weakened. Unable to hunt for game, and low on food stocks, Mc Candless eventually succumbed to starvation. It was only two weeks after his death that his body was found. He died at the age of 24.

The photograph above was a self-portrait of Mc Candless, found among the rolls of undeveloped film with his belongings. The last entries on his journal seemed to express regret- “Happiness only real when shared.”- was among his final realizations.

That line struck a chord in me. I am no stranger to being alone, because for most of the nine years I've lived in the big city I've kept mostly to myself. When my family migrated to the US, I felt ok with it on the surface, but eventually I'd have those episodes of depression. It didn't make sense because I was earning more than your average 24 year-old- I had a two bedroom apartment to myself, nice clothes, gadgets, credit cards, trips to vacation spots... and yet, despite having a lot of friends, I knew deep down I was alone.

During the holidays a month before I resigned I got sick. I willed myself to go to the hospital and seek treatment- by myself. I consider myself a strong person, but I could not help but feel sorry that I knew a lot of people, yet not one of them beside me during my time of illness. After I recovered, that became one of the factors why I decided to leave my job and go live in the province.

I knew my time was up in that industry, and frankly I won't have the strength to go on and compete knowing that one day when I get sick, there's no one to take care of me. After all, as one wise teacher once bluntly said, "Aanhin pa ang maraming pera kung wala na ang pamilya?"

That was almost four years ago, and I can honestly say I made the right decision. For those people who stayed on in the company- good for them. Either they have a strong support system or they have their family with them, but with my situation I knew I have done the best I could- and no matter what other people would say otherwise about my decision or performance, it is ok with me and that is the only thing that mattered. After all, had my life turned miserable if I'd chosen to stay, would they be the one to live my life and suffer my loneliness? I think not.

Maybe it is stupid that I now put such a big premium on having a sense of humor about most things, or making sure I enjoy my happiness with the ones I love- but I do know I don't want to return to my old self years ago: successful, victorious, and alone. By nature, we humans can't take isolation for very long, and we need to have meaningful relationships with people around us to be truly happy. As Sri Yogananda puts it, "Only that which is the other gives us fully unto ourselves".

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Saving Sangyaw

"Behind the tough Waray exterior is a very generous heart. A Waray invites strangers to his home to partake of food on his table during a fiesta.

I regret having to leave yesterday, the eve of the city’s fiesta, a much-celebrated event in the Tacloban calendar.

But if ordinary Taclobanons are magnanimous, their leaders are petty.

Pettiness is nowhere more evident than in Mayor Alfred Romualdez disallowing the holding of the Pintados, a parade where participants, their faces painted, dance in the streets much like Aklan’s Ati-atihan, last Saturday, three days before the fiesta.

Romualdez did not honor a court order lifting his ban on the holding of the yearly parade.

The parade organizers, however, held the parade anyway in complete disobedience to the mayor’s order.

City policemen, ordered to block the parade, would have clashed with fellow policemen assigned in the province and the regional command who escorted the Pintados revelers, but did not.

Why did the mayor try to prevent the holding of the yearly parade?

Because he had his own parade similar to the Pintados—the “Sangyaw.”

Pintados is sponsored by the provincial governor, Jericho Petilla, whose family is an arch political rival of the Romualdezes.

Politics is supposed to make people magnanimous, but in Tacloban City, it has made a petty tyrant.

The great politician, Daniel Z. Romualdez, once a Speaker of the House of Representatives, a grand-uncle of the mayor’s, must be turning in his grave."

- Petty Politics in Tacloban City by Ramon Tulfo

Nothing like a controversy to spice up an event. My friends and I spent much of yesterday, June 29, sunbaked in the streets of Tacloban (with a few minutes of rain shower as we waited outside the Balyuan Amphitheater) for the Sangyaw Festival. This would be the second year running that Mayor Romualdez is reviving this event.

The conflict between the city and provincial government has somewhat split the fiesta celebration: the Petillas with their own events at the Pintados-Kasadyaan park and at the Leyte Sports Development Center, and the Romualdezes at the Balyuan amphitheater and at the Tacloban Convention Center. During the Ginoong Leyte pageant sponsored by the provincial government, the emcees neglected to mention the big event happening the next day- the Sangyaw, which is an initiative of the city government. In turn, the city-sponsored events also snubbed festivities sponsored by the provincial government.

This is so unfortunate, not to mention embarrassing for both government leaders. They all talk about unity and peace all the time, and yet their actions speak otherwise. The celebrations have been tainted by politics, and political giants joined in to push their agenda: Imelda hinting that Bongbong Marcos might run for the senate, Manny Villar and Senate President Enrile also made themselves visible for the 2010 elections.

Excuse me, but isn't the celebration to honor Sto. Nino? Isn't the whole point of the Pintados-Kasadyaan and the Sangyaw to showcase and enrich the Waray and the Filipino culture in general? With all the fuss going on, we must have forgotten what the events were really about.

In spite of everything though, both festivals were very successful. There were two categories for Sangyaw- the School category, and the "Open category". Nine local elementary, high school, and colleges vied for the championship where the winner will receive 200 thousand, plus more prizes in special awards. The Open Category- with contingents coming from neighboring Naval, Biliran and Basey, Samar- to as far as Isabela in Luzon and Surigao in Mindanao. The first prize for the open category gets half a million.

The Balyuan amphitheater was overflowing with people (another unfortunate consequence of the political rivalry- the only decent place that could hold thousands of people comfortably would be the "grandstand" or the Leyte Sports Development Center, which is under the provincial government, so the Sangyaw was a no-no there), yet most stayed on even during the rain just to watch the performances.

The most noteable were the ones from Isabela, Basey, and Surigao. The crowd went wild with Banigan (Basey, Samar) Festival's complex dance routine which was flawlessly executed, with costumes made entirely of banig (native mat from which the town is known for), and stunts which had the crowd shrieking to no end.

Hands down for me, it was Surigao's Bonok bonok Maradjaw Karadjaw Festival that was the winner. Their metallic costumes shimmered (they had the advantage of being among the last to perform at sundown which upped the drama factor in their routine) as they danced in unison to the drum beats. Their spectacular dance ended with a long banner which said, "Godbless Tacloban" to which the crowd clapped and cheered to.

In the middle of the crowded amphitheater overlooking Cancabato Bay sometime during sundown, I really got to realize how much religion is rooted in our culture as Waraynons and Filipinos in general. I said a silent prayer of thanks and smiled to myself- in spite of controversies and whatever trials we Leytenos face- we gather, young and old, rich and poor, to celebrate and pay homage to our patron who watches over us.

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Wow Leyte!

Since early June, tensions were brewing between the City Government (headed by the Romualdezes) and the Provincial government (headed by the Petillas). The word on the streets were: the Pintados-Kasadyaan Festival had been canceled. Let me give a brief history- when the Marcoses were still in power, Imelda started a festival for Tacloban named Sangyaw. After they were removed from Malacanang, the Pintados Foundation took over and held the Pintados festival the day before the city fiesta. Since we moved to Tacloban in 1988, I can remember the Pintados festival being one of the highlights of the celebration- I myself took part in the parade during our high school days in Leyte High.

Just recently, Mayor Alfred Romualdez tried to revive the Sangyaw- but understandably Pintados had become much, much bigger in scale and relevance, and Leyte had been known nationwide for the latter. This year, the date for the Pintados parade had been moved several times- rumors even spread that the city government refused to give permit for the parade (all roads within the city are pedestrianized, and only official vehicles and ambulances are allowed), and that if the Petillas insist on holding the festival on the 29th, a court battle would ensue.

It was settled then that the Pintados would take place on the 27th, and the Sangyaw on the 29th, preceding the June 30 Sto.Nino of Tacloban Fiesta. The night before, my friends and I were still asking around if the festival was really pushing through, and decided we go downtown anyway next morning to find out.

By 8am of the 27th, I was stuck in horrible traffic because all roads were off limits from the old Sagkahan junction. Right then and there, I knew the Pintados festival was going to push through. I walked the length of Real St. and as the drumbeats and trumpets sounded- the colorful parade began.

It was not until the parade was done that I was able to find my friends in the crowd, we were off to Leyte Sports Development Center ("grandstand", where the Palarong Pambansa was held this year) for the performance of the contingents.

The Pasaka Festival of Tanauan, Leyte was declared the champion- combining a flawless routine, vivid storytelling through dance, stunts, props, confetti, and believe it or not, a live Sto. Nino being hoisted above the near-hundred dancers using hydraulics during the finale. They won half a million pesos, and will be joining the Buyugan Festival of Abuyog- the defending champions of the Aliwan festival.

In my opinion, no matter how flawless the other dancers are, no one can beat the "cute factor" of the Buyogan kids. Imagine, seven year old kids dressed as bumble bees dancing on a beehive (and the stunts!). They were the last to perform, and from start to finish all you hear are either shrieks (from the stunts), oohhs and aahhs from the dance routines, and of course coos from the cute kids.

We'll see this Monday, if the Sangyaw can outdo the Pintados. Seriously though, if the Mayor and Governor are reading this- peace! Work together instead of competing, after all Taclobanons are Leytenos and these festivals are both in honor of Sto. Nino. Proud to be Leyteno, proud to be waray!

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An Extraordinarily Ordinary Story

Her story is the stuff of telenovelas. At a young age, her father died, and since her mother was also jobless, she was sent to live with an aunt who promised to send her to school. She packed what little belongings she had, and left her mother and siblings. Unfortunately the aunt lied, and she was instead sent to work in the fields.

After several years of enduring this, another of her mother’s siblings promised the same thing, and thinking she would finally be given the chance to continue Grade three, she went willingly to Alang-alang, Leyte. Alas, she was instead turned into a maid and yaya- and without pay! This aunt was even worse, maltreating her and leaving her to eat only rice and dried fish all the time- and sometimes their leftovers. There was even an instance where she was sent to sleep outside the house, upon one of her aunt’s whims.

Seeking to escape, she did the neighbor’s laundry and earned twenty pesos every time. When able to finally raise money for her fare to go back home, she ran away but her pertinent belongings which included her report card, were left in Alang-alang.

Back home, it was the same story- extreme poverty which rendered her and her family hungry. Sometimes, they would make a few pesos by going into the fields to collect fallen coconuts and sell them at the market. Her mother remarried- but to a part-time laborer who beat her mother when he was drunk.

A distant relative of Nanay, an old maid who lived in her town took pity on the girl. They both decided to work as maids in a middle class household in Pastrana, but after three months and never receiving a single cent of their wages, they once again decided to leave.

Nanay pleaded our distant relative’s case- this old lady was hardworking (she once worked in Manila as a seamstress, according to Nanay) and could help around the house. The only thing was that she had the young girl in tow.

At first I protested at having to hire two people when we already had one maid at present. But Nanay said that we only had to pay minimal amount for the girl since, officially it was the distant relative we were hiring and that she just took pity on the girl’s situation.

I finally consented. They started working at our house in Tacloban- this girl looked shockingly young (because of the previous malnutrition, she has not developed normally, much like a nine year old kid who still looks like a pre-schooler because of poor nutrition) and dressed shabbily. My late mother took pity on the girl and bought her new clothes- she had in her possession only three underpants, two tattered shorts, and a few threadbare t-shirts.

And so she stayed with us- withdrawn and very shy at first, but eventually warmed up to our family, especially after taking active care of my year-old nephew. Of all our previous helpers (they’ve come and gone), she was the one who stayed. Honest, hardworking, and respectful of Nanay.

We’ve increased her wages several times- and just today, upon handing over her wages, she asked permission if she could go visit her family. She does this on a regular basis- buying rice, food, and toiletries for her family, and give 2/3 of her wages to her mother, keeping a mere 1/3 for herself. Now, she even is already sending two of her siblings to school, and told them to do well, as she never had the chance to finish even her Elementary education. She’s now 16 years old.

I persuaded her to continue her studies at the public school a stone’s throw away from our residence, but for a number of reasons she refused- partly, according to her, she’s too old, and is embarrassed to continue at this age.

A large number of Filipinos live in extreme poverty just like her family, without even having the chance to get an education and break the cycle of poverty. I count myself lucky to have been among those fortunate enough to have gone to school- and she certainly is a daily reminder to me that nowadays education is more of a privilege than a right.

I just thought sharing her story would be one way of helping people become aware of what the true state of our country is- as seen through the lives of ordinary rural folk. Her name is Angeline, but as she would gleefully insist, she still wants to be called by the nickname people at home call her- Umbang.

photo by: Harmut Scwarzbach

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