This Time, the Strongest People Are Women and Small Men

My sister Cynthia was rushed to the hospital last Sunday.

It started with the chronic migraine, bad bad migraine. Too bad that she would throw up like it was the end of the world and that throwing up was her only salvation. She would throw up until there was nothing to throw out of her body. Nothing from her stomach, not even air, not even gas, if that was possible.

Sunday morning, we sent her to the clinic across the street. The doctor said it had something to do with her eyes. She gave some pain reliever which we would soon realize was nothing to the mercurial pain my sister felt. She recommended that we send her to an opthalmologist. Around 3 PM in the afternoon, we decided to send her to an opthalmologist for the way she writhed in pain had become unbearable to witness. Then the scariest thing happened, scarier than when the late Tio Sio was fighting for his last breath (which reminds me I have to blog about that, too.). The length of Cynthia's arms to her hands and her lower body from the waist down went numb and yet painful all at once. How does one reconcile numbness and pain happening at the same time? And the word hit me! Paralysis! Cynthia was crying and my mother trying not to. My nephew Khristian was giggling innocently at what was happening to us adults. He must have thought it was a game we were playing to amuse him. And he was simply an angel playing the part of the amused. There were only the four of us that time and the only male in the company was Khristian. No way can an eleven-month old child carry his aunt to the clinic. I called Bengbeng, our neighbor, who was playing mahjong at their house to help us. Given that she is on the heavier side, I thought she could help. But then she, too, could not carry Cynthia. Instead, she went to the clinic just across the street to fetch the doctor. But the doctor wouldn't come. Imagine that! So I was forced to go back to the mahjong players and ask the males to help. Two men came. However, only one of them had the guts and courage to get inside the house and get past the three snarling adult dogs we have. Mang Val, short and thin, carried Cynthia, a 35-lb, 4'11" petite girl-woman, to the clinic. There was no way he could have carried her in a normal circumstance.

Mother and Bengbeng followed them to the clinic while I stayed behind to mind Khristian, the house and the dogs. About a couple of minutes later, I felt I couldn't stay put. I had to be there, too. I locked the house to keep the dogs in and carried Khristian to the clinic. I was already at the door when my mother called to tell me the doctor wanted to talk to me.

I found Cynthia lying on what looked like an operating table. She had a brown bag stuck on her mouth and nose, conscious but not moving.

My mother didn't want to hear the bad news so she volunteered me to talk to the doctor. After running some blood tests on my sister, the doctor told me to take my sister to a bigger hospital immediately because she had very low hemoglobin and she needed blood transfusion (if she had to live, the doctor wanted to say but chose not to, to avoid putting us all in panic, I reckon.). She then asked me to sign a disclaimer indicating what she had just instructed me to do.

Just right on time, my brother and sister-in-law, Khristian's parents, arrived. My brother Lilet carried Cynthia to the car and took the back seat with her. I drove the car while my mother was doubtlessly praying beside me at the passenger seat.

We decided to take her to a hospital at the nearby village. We didn't want to waste time sending her to a bigger hospital in the city. Evangelista Specialty Hospital, according to my friend Joan who is a nurse, is a decent private hospital, the most decent we could ever have during emergencies like this.

Not even half-way through the next village, Cynthia was already shouting in agony caused by the pain in her limbs. It was a searing pain coming from the bones of her legs down to her feet. Her flesh couldn't protect her. The flesh that was supposed to shield the bones from harm had became useless. The bones were causing the inhuman torture, nay, an invisible round metal with mutiple sharp edges hammering the bones endlessly with unexplicable anguish were causing the pain. Cynthia was shouting, crying, begging! Then suddenly - silence... That minute silence took hold of our heartbeat - mine, my mother's and Lilet's.

Lilet shook Cynthia to consciousness, telling her to keep awake and not to pass out. I blew the horn like a madwoman, cursing in my mind vindictives I couldn't let my mother hear! My mother joined Lilet in shaking Cynthia to wakefulness. A few seconds later, Cynthia opened her eyes and mouth to speak: "Ate, hindi naka-lock mga pinto mo." WHAT?!

A few minutes later, we reached the emergency room of the hospital. With a thermometer in hand, one of the nurses approached us. I told him my sister didn't have fever (Are all emergency cases now related to AH1N1?), but that she had her lower limbs paralyzed! That took everyone to their toes to carry my sister in. Cynthia appeared to be in the worst condition among those in the emergency ward that almost everyone else left their patients and tended to her.

A few tests later, the hospital coordinator told us that Cynthia had to be admitted into the hospital. She was in that bad a state. The first attempt to puncture her vein with a needle to carry out the intravenous water solution infusion (Dextrose, as most of us know it) broke the vein in her right hand. The nurse had to do it the second time with Cynthia's left. She then was given Valium to sleep.

Because of the AH1N1 scare, all private rooms in the hospital were occupied. (This is just an assumption, of course.) We took Cynthia to one of the wards at the fourth floor. There were three other patients occupying three of the six beds when we got there. Cynthia was given the bed closest to the door.

A lot of things happened in between definitely but the scare of a lifetime was over. The next two nights and days were spent learning more lessons about life.

Love in the Afternoon and More

My tear ducts are definitely ultra sensitive (as opposed to "super" sensitive. Now, I have the abomination towards the use of "super" as an adverb. Big thanks to the "board sport icon." Ugh. Read my blog on the men and sports to get the drift.) I cry even over a TV commercial.

In Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961), I cried with Holly Golightly (Audrey Hepburn) in the cat in the rain scene.

In Roman Holiday (1953), I cried at the scene where Joe Bradley (Gregory Peck) drove Princess Ann (Audrey) home for good after her Roman Holiday as an ordinary girl. It is the don't-follow-me-and-drive-away plea that wrenched my heart. The real princess that she was, Ann was just too much for the often-broke journalist Joe. Joe showed up the next day to Princess Ann's press conference before she went home to her country, maybe hoping she would change her mind. But her head sat securely above her heart. She acknowledged her love for him, but she had duties more important than herself.

Now, Love in the Afternoon (1957) is one very unlikely movie that you would think would draw tears even from a crybaby like me. It is about a philandering playboy Flannigan (played by Gary Cooper) - yes, he's that much of a womanizer I have to be redundant - who was saved by Ariane (Audrey Hepburn), daughter of the detective hired by the husband of Flannigan's lover. The duped husband, learning about his wife's infidelity plotted to kill Flannigan. Ariane heard about the plot and she decided to save him. She saw Flannigan's picture while snooping among his father's detective paraphernalia. She was immediately smitten by Flannigan's good looks and air of "suave brutality" - to borrow a line from Gone With the Wind, a description drawn for Rhett Butler (played by Clark Gable in the movie version). Hepburn, though virginal, claimed to be living in with a man and had been having affairs with multiple lovers of various kinds, color and culture. She had to level with him to be noticed by him, she thought. And she fell so deep she suffered the worst case of "tulak ng bibig, kabig ng dibdib" disorder. The final scene at the train station left my ducts buckets of tears wanting.

Here's that scene:



If you want to watch the whole movie, just go to youtube.com and look for it. The movie has been divided to 13 parts by the angel who uploaded it.

My Two Nephs: John Michael and Kristian Lloyd

What's with the double names? Please, don't ask me. I'm just the aunt.


John Michael, barely one, in my room, colorful.

JM and Fries

JM faces camera squarely.

Kristian Lloyd, the teletubby. Cute! Cute!

Three gents from three gens: Tatay, Chen-Chen, Lilet

Halata bang mag-ama yung nasa kaliwa at kanan? Hairline na hairline pa lang...! :P

Michael Bublé: The Clark Gable, Gregory Peck and Cary Grant of My Time

Because there is so much to say. And words are not enough. Nay, because I'm not good enough to write about what I want to say.

Because Bublé...

Chow Yun Fat and Jose Rizal: The Men I Almost Married Had Fate Not Interfered

You know that someone is your friend when she or he can tell you who your men had been and how crazy you were about them. You can forget. Your friends don't.

It happened when I confessed to Ana about my current infatuation, nay, addiction to anything Michael Bublé. I told her he is the man I want to marry. Right now. That I love his wit, his humor, his good looks (Oh, how can this century produce a man whose charm can match that of Cary Grant, Gregory Peck and Clark Gable!), his stage presence, his charm, his singing voice that both melts the ice and ignites fire.

And to hell with his womanizing ways and pretty ex-girlfriends and current Argentine lover. Oh to hell with his money and fame and fortune! What I know is that he adores his family, his grampa and his gramma Yolanda! Oh what a co-incidence! Yolanda! OK, I have just been shot dead!

"You know what, you're just like that with your two ex-fantasy boyfriends - Chow Yun Fat and Jose Rizal!" So she reminded me.

Chow Yun Fat in early 2000. My one-way love affair started with Anna and the King. Hence, I read all articles I could find in the net about him. I even asked my Hongkonese friend about him. I was told he was the Prince to the folks in Hong Kong and China. Knowing someone who had actually met Chow Yun Fat at that time was humanity's gift to me.

Seven years later, Jose Rizal rose from the dead. I was asked to teach Rizal in school as there was no one else available. And because I had to cut operating expenses. And because I had to do something else to keep me sane where I work, I agreed to teach Rizal. Being the professional that I was, I had to be prepared. So I read three history books on Rizal and bought and read three books written by Ambeth Ocampo, THE certified Rizal scholar, and read as many articles on Rizal in the Internet. I taught about the life of Rizal so passionately I made some of my students cry, literally cry when I discussed in exalted admiration the causes of his death and how wasted his sacrifices had been because now, we regard him only as the head embossed on our almost useless peso coin or simply a name of a street or a town or a bank or a bag of cement. For 14 weeks, I lived, breathed, ate Rizal. And I came to love him. Loved him enough to almost join the Rizalistas.

Then came Bublé.

In Memory of Putot

Last night, July 10, around 7 pm, Putot died. A few minutes before I arrived home.

I was just getting out of the car when my brother Lilet who assisted me park told me that Putot had just died.

Putot had been sick for two weeks now. It started with a red lump on his right eye, then recently with some wounds on the sole of his right foot. We gave him human medicine for pain, which I hope didn't mitigate his illness. We gave him milk in make-shift feeding bottle. My sister fed him with her hands. But he wouldn't eat. We cleaned his wounds with water and alcohol and put hospital bandages on them. But he would remove the bandages after a few hours. Perhaps, he just wanted to please us what with the care we put into the cleaning and dressing of his wounds. Yesterday, he was still responding to touch. I would normally pat him and scratch him on the back every morning before leaving for work. I didn't expect that yesterday would be the last time I would touch his white fur. Had I known, I would have carried him in my arms as I used to do and sung him a song like a baby.

I entered the house and the tv set was hushed down. The voices were low. My sister-in-law's voice was controlled while telling me how Putot died. Only my 3-day old nephew's cries raised an octave higher than all the hushed sounds combined.

I went to the kitchen and found my sister seriously crying without a sound, only the rush of tears told the world that her heart was crushed. Putot was her favorite.

My other brother Buboy was sitting by the door smoking looking after Putot who was already enshrouded with a blanket. My youngest brother Jun was digging a grave in the backyard while my mother was holding the flashlight.

Downy, I was told, cried and turned his back against Putot who was lying dead just outside his cage. Kunot had, I'm sure, given him the doleful, watery-eyed look. Pika must have, inside, died her own death.

Putot died. And it was not just a dog's passing. It was death in the family.

Putot and Downy

Pika

Kunot

In Memory of a Family Member

There are four human-dogs in the family: Pika (from picachu, sometimes called Peka, as my father is fond of calling him, is the mother-dog); Putot (the singing dog, "putot" as in putol ang buntot); Downy (the tiger-looking blind dog); and Kunot (the youngest, but the tallest and biggest monster-dog taken "by little" force from our neighbor). Kunot was born in 2005.

Let's go back to my calling them "human-dogs." All of them have certain human characteristics. All of them are treated like one of us. Pika can walk with the aid of my mother and sister to the barangay hall for an anti-rabies shot. She, yes, a not-bitchy female dog, wakes you up in the morning, and whenever you are asleep. She is a hug-me dog. She likes to be pampered, scratched on the furry, cottony back. She eats like a lady, taking only small bits of her food at a time. All three other dogs are scared of her despite her charming, lady-like demeanor. You need only call her name when one of the dogs is misbehaving and the latter will hide the tail between his legs.

Putot could sing. You need only give the tune and he will carry on with it. He was also the dog symphony conductor. When he starts singing, all three other dogs would follow. Like Pika, Putot was white, very clean white, without the long fur. He would sleep only when my sister Cynthia is beside him. When she is out and is on vacation somewhere, Putot could not sleep, walking and whimpering.

Downy, the blind dog, isn't blind when he was born. The child of Pika and the brother of Putot, Downy lives in a P1,600-cage with regularly-washed "tailored" mats. The cage was bought when he and Kunot had a serious dog-fight resulting to my sister's badly bitten hand. Downy and Kunot never saw each other eye-to-eye. The mortal enemies. We don't know when and how the bickering started, but we can only guess it is due to jealousy. Downy started going blind early last year. And in December 2007, he went completely blind. We all think it was due to the several wounds he got in the eye from his constant fights with Kunot.

Kunot, the monster-dog, is MY dog. He loves food, food, food. He barks and the room reverberates. He sings with the dog symphony and he has the tiniest voice. Kunot is the adopted dog in the human-dogs family. He knows how to knock on the door and breaks the door if you don't open it. He is the mocha dog with the dark brown collar without it he looks like one of those asong kalye. But then again, all our dogs are asong kalye.

Because they exhibit human attributes we treat them like human beings. I am not sure what came first - they acting like humans or we treating them like human beings that resulted to them acting like one of us.

We don't allow them to eat spoiled meals. With or without rice crisis, they are part of the rice ration. We cook rice for them even if no human family member feels like eating rice. They eat what we eat. We wash their dishes after each meal. We serve them clean drinking water. Kunot sleep in my room. Putot slept with my sister. Pika with my mother. Downy in his 1.6K condo. We bathe them with special dog soap which is more expensive than what we use. We clean after them like babies when they pee and poo.

We talk to them. We call them baby. We hug them. We kiss them. We love them.

Downy, Putot, Pika after bath