How to Save a Life

I must have listened to that song twenty-seven times this week. Life has got to have a soundtrack and I have to be embarassingly literal and dramatic. That's what I really think.

Thomas Pynchon proved to be a very difficult read, perhaps twice as difficult especially after you spent the last few days high on Nubane, with needles forked numerous times to your body, living on IV and not having any food or water for around 32 hours for the sake of medical observation. And I’ve just 4ed Philosophy of Science last term and learned from N.R. Hanson that “All observation is theory-laden.” Well, here’s a new life-lesson I can send to hallmark card-makers: forget principles we’ll just have to settle for what helps for now. Then I just had to swear I’m going to have to let Pynchon pass for now even if I’m no longer that drugged up.

“Enjoy the pain, and the novocaine.” H. tells me after a visit. Well, we somehow found a way to squeeze in some joy in between. Considering how we battled all this out, it didn’t have to be all pain after all.

Up until I saw D.’s office laptop itching for my fingertips to touch its keypads and write something, I resumed reading Haruki Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart. If you put it in terms of Doctor’s orders, this book has the perfect dosage both for personal enjoyment, and for recovering from any plight in life. It makes the experience start off as a retreat, and as you read some more, your stay in the hospital was a fucking breeze.

Now that I’m name dropping and all, the whole hospital experience has made me Tommy in Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go. And of course D. was my Kathy. I missed those sentimental clones, those clones who bared their souls. For a time there I had to ask if I ever I would be willing to accept a donation from any of them. Probably not. That story had just has helped me endure my own, easier.

D. as my personal nurse who was ever-present for all the sponge baths, hold-my-hand-while-I-writhe-in-pain, get-me-a-glass-of-water, settle-something-with-accounting, love-me-some-more, the whole shebang. And yes, I saw her laying a jealous glance over the cutesy (but not charming enough) student nurse who took my blood pressure three times before concluding it’s another 130/100. From my first confinement, the view from the window could pass off as nice: whenever you’re strong enough to stand up and see it, the sunsets and sunrises on the skyline over Manila City Hall’s Clock Tower and dome of the Manila Cathedral is splendid. And even if I didn’t have a mighty appetite, the food was great: mostly Wai-ying noodles and dimsum, as well as some Masuki siopao courtesy of J.K. My brother even brought in pizza and Hungarian sausages. And my parents just kept on sending comforting food from home.


I’m also relieved with how my attending physician, Dr. ___, dealt with me. The medical abstract reads “blunt abdominal trauma – vehicular crash; ***tic hematoma. He had a very good hypothesis of what may have happened (which other doctors had difficulty diagnosing – they thought this was a heart-related problem) and his experience and delivery allows me to just put my trust and confidence in his expertise.
He was the tall, dark, decorated, big-time doctor who seemed to have girlfriends in clubs, flashing that reassuring smile of his, delighting people with an inoffensive sense of humor that doctors should treat their patients with. I asked him, for example, what I can’t eat, “Lahat pwede kainin, wag lang yung hindi masarap.”

Once again this is a rightful time to sing Lord Anthony from Belle and Sebastian, “You may as well take it in the guts, it could get worse, it could get worse than this.”

It could get worse than this. Geez.

With a family behind me, I was never restless. And I’ve got friends who are willing to go through all the clichés of friendship. M&L, who despite their own sleepiness were happy to drive for the requirements I’ve needed from the office. I've got my poker buddies and relatives, who made me manage a few laughs.

Worrying about work will get me nowhere from here. I may have screwed that promotion, but I’ll damage control for that later on. Or maybe screw it some more, what the fuck. Somewhere along the line, I described that promotion as an inconvenience. And life comes at me whipping up a little storm in the normal course of how I live, in order to explain to me what a real inconvenience is.

Oh, and hello again, solitude. Here you are. We have met again on rather strange circumstances, but you’re always a pleasure.

Let the Healing Begin

I was reading Haruki Murakami at that time and this was the last line I barely understood before my parents rushed me to the hospital for the third time this week: "The Earth, after all, doesn't creak and groan its way around the sun just so human beings can have a good time and chuckle." And so God created pain. And even if I had the ability to make the world spin in another orbit, I certainly couldn't just laugh the pain off. But now I say enough now. Enough of this that I didn't see coming, enough of the pounding in my back, the stabbing feeling near my liver, and the heavy throbbing in my lower left chest. The most meaningless thing in the world right now is to dwell on that twinge of sorrow. As if shoveling steaming white rice to your mouth with quick deep breaths, shifting gears in careful calculation, brave and instinctive as a baby's first step, we move on.

Now that I that I'm back to this drawing board, I'm going to map out what's remarkable enough to look back to and what I should be grateful for: the euphoria of Orudis (a strong sedative), the warmth of having a family behind you, people who willingly made an effort for you, a God out there whom in your most desperate gave heed and gave mercy, and having D., who is the most effective medicine without whom none of this pain can ever be assuaged. True healing is not within the confines of the hospital and the efficacy of medicine.

There is everything to be thankful for, and this is when the real healing should begin.