The Big C

When my tita was diagnosed with cancer, I undertook a campaign to bolster her spirit. She is 55, single, never married, never had a family of her own apart from us. We are only her support group.

Cancer of the endometrium, the doctors said. I was told the endometruim is apart of the uterus. I gathered that this kind of cancer attacks older women whose reproductive spare parts are never used: those unmarried or those who never got pregnant. This may serve as a warning to those women who took upon themselves a vow of lifetime chastity.

The cancer has reached stage four, meaning the cancer cells has spread out and affected other organs. In my aunts case, it affected her intestines. She had to undergo operation to remove the infected part.

She has to undergo radiation for six weeks. So we invited her to to stay in our apartment for that duration. My cousins who were working took turns to act as her part-time care giver, nurse, cook, and yaya. She was still frail after the operation, she needed to be escorted to the CR.

Since I moved out temporarily for my bar review, I took a day off for her: I cook her food and and I also acted as a motivational speaker. I encouraged her to engage in other activities like owning a pet, cross stitching, or engage in outdoor sports etc. which lay on deaf ears. Although she spent most of the time reading the bible or listening to a radio station hosted and owned my Brother Mike Velarde of El Shaddai, a catholic charismatic group, which is good sign.

Every Monday I accompany her to the hospital for her daily radiation.

The radiation area has a lobby were patients converge while waiting for their turn. On the left is a room called Pain Management Room, while the at the right is the radiation room where the patient is placed behind a machine that looked like a big vintage telephone with its hand set rotating, which i assume has beams to strike out the cancer cells.

The radiation proper only takes 10 minutes, but we had to wait for an hour or so because there is only one machine and there are many patients waiting in line: some were in wheel chairs, others were hairless concealed by bandanna, and majority were in their late sixties. For some reason, while in the lobby, I tried to look for the characters in Nicholas Sparks novels or Meryll Streep in the movie One True Thing : those characters who spontaneously spout profound life changing lines. I tried to look at their faces the way Meryll Streep conveyed her inner turmoil and exquisite torment just through her facial expression but these people are generally happy. None of them engaged in self-indulgent have-pity-on-me look or life-is-so-cruel look. I admire their fortitude.

One patient approached me and introduced himself:

"I have colon cancer, and recently I was diagnosed with brain cancer. The doctor said I have three months to live. What you've got?

Probably because I was sporting a medyo kalbo look, and was quite groggy after three hours sleep last night that he probably mistook me as cancer patient. I told him that I could not compete with his misery because I am in perfect health and then pointed my aunt and told him that my aunt has cancer of the endometrium.

Another patient butted in and said that she too has breast cancer.

"In fact my right breast was removed already" she said it so casually as if she just had a root canal.

Maybe they tried to lift my aunt's spirit being a newbie cancer patient: that she is not alone, that it can be cured, that she should move on despite the cancer. But it did not help her. Instead, she excused herself and threw up in the CR.

My tita through the years has demonstrated herself as a very strong person. With her disease, I could sense her bitterness and torment. I wish that she could fight the battle. I wish that this time she will not chicken out. That, indeed there is still dignity in living despite the cancer.

post father's day tribute to my father, sort of

Every time I fill up forms requiring my father’s personal data, I call up my sister. Even now, I feel guilty that I do not remember his age nor could recall his birth date.

I do not have childhood memory with my father. I tried to search for pictures of myself with my father, those old sepia pictures which conjures images of nostalgia, but there are none. I tried to psychoanalyze myself to salvage any remnant of special moments with my father that might have fossilized deep in my subconscious the way Shrinks do in the movies but all I have are bits of pieces of commercials and movies and memories of my friends with their fathers that I took as my own: father carrying his son on his shoulder, father and son feeding animals in the zoo, father teaching his son to tie his shoe laces, father and son eating dirty ice cream in the park, father and son playing baseball together..

It is understandable because my father left for the Middle East when I was about five to six years old. He worked there for three years to earn money for the college education of my elder sister.

I recall one time he sent us a battery-powered toy car. It did not say to whom it was so we assumed the seven of us are co-owners. To prevent us from killing each other, my mother declared that it was for our eyes only. She displayed the poor toy car in our cupboard. I never had chance to show it off to my playmates.

I have pictures of my father during his youth. He was handsome and lean. He looked like one of those leading men in Latin tele novelas: suave and charming. In all his pictures, he is perennially japorms , wearing tight polos with sleeves folded, unbuttoned to reveal his chest hairs . I figured that is their version of coolness during those times.

He is a farmer and a carpenter at the same. In between the seasonal tilling of the land he constructs house and buildings. Weathered by years of hard work which usually involved labor outdoors come rain or shine, and generous amount of nicotine- my father has become fragile, wrinkled and darkly tanned. His fingers are calloused, seasoned by years of pounding nails, polishing wood and metal, mixing graveland sand and laying boulders and bricks of buildings. His toe nails are permanently stained caused by constant soaking in the loamy farm.

I look at my father now and I see no more vestiges of his youthful good looks. Yet, there is still dignity and pride in his bearing. He may be old and wrinkled but he is still our unflagging family sentinel.

My father may not qualify for the best father award but he should be credited for all our successes. He has flaws. According to my mother, my father had vices: he smoked a lot, gambled, and had numerous extra-marital affairs. On several occasions, she caught him in fragrante with other married woman. In fact, she suspects that we have several siblings scattered around the barangay. When my elder sister and brother were growing up, he tried to change and strive hard to be responsible father.

Both of my parents came from a family of farmers. When they married, they had no capital, property nor degree from which they could begin with. I could not imagine how they managed without anything apart from their talent of making babies. My mother bore nine babies; looking back, I can say that they did a good job in raising the seven of us. No, they did not sell the other two; they did not survive, unfortunately, as a result of her weak pregnancy.

I don’t consider him a disciplinarian. He never imposed his rules on us. But he supported us all the way. I don’t recall any value he imposed on me. He neither believes in corporal punishment. He left the job to my mother who on the other hand imposed on us her strict rules, like Presidential Decrees.

My father was never demonstrative of his affection. The last time he hugged me was when he came home after three years in Saudi Arabia which I did not reciprocate. I thought he was a stranger then.

But I never doubted his love. When I was hospitalized after I was severely beaten in a hazing, he took care of me: he fed me, bathe me, carried me form bed to toilet for almost a month when I was incapable.

I never kissed my father. I never hugged him. But that does not mean I love him less. I don’t know why it is so hard for me to do that. I blame it on society for imposing on us men, to be tough and that showing emotions is sign of weakness.

I wish I could buy him a Lazy Boy, and a wide screen LCD TV set so he could watch all his favorite TV comfortably.

I wish he could read this post now: Happy father’s day pa . I love you.

Negative Pregnant

When my girl friend (emphasis on the friend) texted : “Call me. I have shocking news. I am upset” ; my general reaction was not of distress, but more like, mimicking her expression… duh! She has a penchant for exaggerating what is perfectly normal situation into something sublime and ridiculous. Despite her mature age she speaks with bloodcurdling colegiala accent only Kris Aquino can get away with. I reckon that colegiala language has corrupted the English word shocking. Shocking as an adjective should be reserved only for those most bizarre, outrageous and out of this world event. Instead, shocking or “shocks” as they usually say (and oftentimes replaced with omigosh!) is being used to describe things like: A zit that has erupted on her nose or her crush saw her in her pambahay look, or a girl wearing a mismatched top.

“OA ka. Go ahead tell me”, I texted back.

“FOR ONCE TAKE ME SERIOUSLY!!! I AM TERRIBLY UPSET!!! I AM DYING HERE!!!!”

Capital letters. Excessive use of exclamation points. I just rolled my eyes until it hurt and then I dialed her landline.

“I am pregnant. Ikaw pa lang nakakalam. Don’t tell any one. Shut up.

“I am not saying anything yet… Are you sure?”

Pause.

“Positive. I just came from my doctor.”

“I don’t recall having sex with you. Unless you drugged me.”

“You think this is funny? I have a baby here. A human being inside me.”

“Since when? Who’s the culprit?”

“Six months. I won’t tell who the guy is.”

“You are six months pregnant?! And you learned it just now?”

“I said I did not know. I did not notice it. It was so tiny, I thought it was just my bilbil”

Now that indeed is shocking. Why in the world did she not know that she was already pregnant? Or mistaking six-month pregnancy to bilibil? Every woman would at least suspect that they might me pregnant. That is one thing you learn just by being a woman. It does not involve intelligence. Well, a little inference maybe for there are signs and symptoms. Where there is a cause there is a corresponding effect. Unless, she was impregnated in an overcrowded MRT. Or an immaculate conception!

“So how did you know finally?”

“I noticed that my kilikili is getting darker. I freaked out kasi hindi ko siya napapaputi even with assiduous application of astringent. Pero alam mo I notice that my boobs are getting bigger and firmer. Only then I realized… omigosh …I read that one time in Cosmo…”

“So prior to the six months you did not suspect. You never had inkling. What about your period? You never felt any tiyanak moving inside you?”

“I thought it was just one of my irregular cycles. Yun pala nag-spotting na. You don’t understand, you’re a guy. Plus, I thought it was safe. Once lang… we did not really do it.”

“You didn’t really do… what?”

“You know… the withdrawal thing.”

"Goodness! You’re putting images on my mind. I want to see you now. I want to kill you."

“Ano gagawin ko?”

I am not good at this. I don’t pass for mature person. The last time I gave advice to a person was when I told my friend not leave the house yet while I am still eating unless he spins my plate or some bad thing would happen to him outside. My advice was unheeded; instead he raised his bushy uneven eyebrows and made an impression of Tito-Vic-and-Joey: ngeee! I admire those people who seem to know everything about life and their pieces of advice are regarded as wisdom. I can never be a Charo Santos or Joe d’ Mango or Tita Delia or Kuya Cesar.

In this situation, probably the best advice I could give is:“Sue the damn guy for damages!”

Pumping Iron

My muscles are torn and worn out. I could not lift my cup of coffee and my yosi with my aching joints. I felt like I was beaten to pulp in an initiation rite again. I have increased my dosage of Alaxan but I guess I am no Manny Pacquiao. I could almost feel my pummeled tissues crying: Back up! Back up! We are being attacked! Which is good sign because I wanted to in increase my muscle mass.

Taking the bar exam involves mental, spiritual, physical preparation, advised a bar reviewer. I took the latter seriously, so I enrolled myself in a gym.

The first time I stepped into the gym. I was intimidated. I felt really puny. I was surrounded with men pumping iron with their triceps, biceps, and calves bulging from their spandex. The gym reeked with sweats and testosterones. All I could hear were grunts and groans.

I searched for trainees like me: skinny and raw. Someone I could identify with but I was alone. In a garden of boulders and rock, I was the feather. Where are they? I searched. Where are the boys who are slim and flabby at the same time like me? Guys who really needed to pump those weights until they drop. Instead I was flanked with stevedores, cargadores and warriors training. I was tempted to shout and ask: Spartans, what is your profession to which they would reply, Ahoo! Ahoo!.

I paid my fee for the whole month of June so it was too late to back out. I asked for the Trainor in the toughest and most masculine voice I could muster. I was introduced to a buff man. He looked like he just stepped out from a Jockey catalog photo shoot. His body is lean and defined. He was like a walking statue.

He looked at me, as if to scrutinize my built whether there is potential. I half expect that he would say: The first rule of Fight club is, do not talk about Fight club. Instead he retorted:

Ang payat mo..

Even his voice is toned and muscular.

In I hindsight I should have said that I entered the wrong room, that actually I was heading to my ballet class, and then I would step out in pirouettes.

He told me to warm up and do stretching for 60 seconds on each body part. While stretching my skinny hand and legs and flat chest and back, I could almost see them flexing their biceps and rippling their washboard abs showing how frail I am while looking at me in malevolent glee.

My trainor devised a program suited for me. After two sets of what should have been 12 sets, my tongue could touch the floor in exhaustion. I felt dizzy, was gasping for air and I was dying for a smoke outside which I did and went straight home.

I read that physical exercise causes a release of endorphins into one's cerebral-spinal fluid, responsible for the emotion of happiness. It has been a week now but I did not feel the endorphin-euphoria effect. I stayed longer in bed than the usual and I could not put my self to study because of my sore body. I could not accomplish my daily reading quota, I feel cranky irritable and I flare up easily at the slightest provocation.