Remembering Mama

Two days from now we start nine days of prayer before her death anniversary. In this house where all that’s left are my grandmother, my nephew and his mom, and a whole lot of my own mother’s mementos, I try my very best to manage.

The past week had been particularly hard- my 83 year-old grandmother noticed a lump on her right breast, and after a particularly anxious fine needle aspiration biopsy, it was revealed she had tumor cells. Deciding to go ahead with the operation was a whole new ordeal altogether. She told me she once had a friend her age who underwent an operation, and later died. She never really stated the obvious; it was clear from the look on her eyes she was afraid of what her own fate would be.

Hours before the procedure, I was dressed in my scrubs. My cousin agreed to have me present until her induction, but the lab results and her blood pressure readings were too high that the anesthesiologist did not give clearance. Finally, we decided to postpone the procedure until her vital signs stabilize.

On the same day of her discharge my nephew was rushed to the hospital for fever and vomiting. Now the little tyke is ok, but now our trusty household help became ill. For most of the afternoon I monitored her temperature, giving medication every four hours, and taught her how to do tepid sponge bath to her lower her temperature. For now, I’m the one to serve her food, prepare dinner with Nanay, gather my uniform for tomorrow, and do the dishes.

I’ve never imagined myself to be so domestic, and I’ve never seen myself quite content with what I did.

When my Mom passed away, it was not only a huge emotional loss, but our finances changed drastically as well. My father’s salary was only but a fraction of what my Mom earned as a nurse in the US, and what he sent seemed wanting to cover the bills and living expenses. As the months passed bills kept piling. Once, the electric bill soared to 5,900 because of indiscriminate use of airconditioners. I tried to control the escalating living expenses, but it was hard to put your foot down when people refuse to cooperate.

Then one day things just went from bad to worse: I got into another big fight with my father again. He wanted me to work in Saudi after Nursing school, while I maintained my desire to continue to Med School. With his financial support gone, this household balanced precariously, and was unexpectedly rescued by my younger brother who once wanted to abandon his plans of going back to the US so he could stay here in Tacloban with his son.

With this support, and the support of my partner, this household gets to live another day. We’re slowly atoning for our financial mistakes by making small sacrifices now- no more aircon use, turning the ref off at night if there’s not much food stored, minimizing the use of the water pump…

Suddenly, I know the weight on my shoulder is the price I have to pay for the choices I’ve made. I can be taught the definitions of fortitude, sacrifice, and caring, but I find none more effective learning than the circumstances I am in at present.

I will forever miss a mother's touch; how my Mom always seemed to handle even the most delicate situation equitably and justly. How she chided me and my brothers when we did something wrong, yet I knew deep inside she secretly rooted for us all the way- encouraging us to stand back up when we trip and fall. She was always untiring, and never conditional loving us.

Oh Ma, it’s hard growing through this crisis, but I think you would have been proud of how we turned out. Your sons miss you. We all do, actually. And if the role that I play now, which involves running the household you once ran, turn out to be too difficult- I’ll just remember to take it a day at a time. These are, after all, very big shoes to fill.

An Icon of Democracy

Go with God, and may you rest in peace. Thank you for your contributions to the Filipino Nation. Corazon Aquino (January 25, 1933 – August 1, 2009)

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.