Breather

Today is a lazy, sunny day which reminds me of when I was small.

My room is bordered by four large windows with traditional light fabric for curtains. Even as I type and listen to house music (which I don’t particularly enjoy), the curtains are dancing in the wind and touching my arm. This reminds me of growing up in the province, where every day seemed to have something in store for us.

After dismissal, my siblings and I would run to the public school in front of our house and fly kites or catch tadpoles on weathers like this. I’d have them sit in the sidecar of our bicycle and pedal through the concrete pavement into the grass-covered field where we would play habulan, langit-lupa, pluck grass and have ourselves dirty (to Ate

Lydia

’s consternation). Afterwards, we’d beg Papa to buy us grilled corn from across the highway and we would be happy.

There essentially wasn’t any television to divert our attention. Our old set had but a channel or two, and the reception was bad. The people appeared like stick figures with abnormally elongated bodies and we didn’t care for the soaps shown after Eat Bulaga.

There were myriad activities to choose from and places to go to even within the vicinity of Mr.Browner’s House (which we rented until our return to

Manila

). There were guava trees to climb, Mama’s orchids to look at, plants to water, books to read (we had a whole set of Bible stories, Charlie Brown Encyclopedia and Dr.Seuss), animals to play with and places to hide in for taguan. When we were hungry, we would pluck talbos ng kamote from the backyard and boil them and make sawsawan for merienda with rice. Sometimes, at night, a bat would be lost in our room (the highlight of our week, really) and all of us children would scream and flail and scamper about in excitement, until Papa appears with his tennis racket and swats the poor animal unconscious. What happens after that, I’d rather not tell.

There were always so many people in our house. We were then into the handicraft business and our basket weavers would usually stay for the day. There were bagging and rattan and all sorts of equipment (blowtorch, etc) all over. Once in a while, the weavers would go on break and tell us horror stories, which we would carry on among ourselves until bedtime. On other times, the men would bring their fighting cocks (Papa insists that I don’t call them “chicken”) and have sparring all afternoon. We would watch on the sidelines, pretending we knew at the onset which was the better chicken (ehem), even as we harassed our boy to climb up the buko trees on our backyard and have manang prepare some juice.

It was also during one of these gatherings that I watched the killing of a hen to be prepared for dinner. I wasn’t grossed out by it; it was the most natural thing in food preparation in my young mind. I watched the slow slitting of the hen’s neck and the collection of the blood in the basin and the final chak! of the knife cutting the hen’s head. To my utter horror, the beheaded body defecated and made three steps towards me! I didn’t watch another poultry killing since.

We loved Mr. Browner’s House. Among the three houses we rented during our stay in Solano, it was the one we had the most memory of. What made that house all the more special was its solitary Magnolia plant in the middle of the garden. Every three months or so, we would wait for our single Magnolia to bloom and fill the garden with the nicest smell I could remember. I can still imagine the smell now, if I try very hard. I have never smelled a Magnolia since we left Solano 20 years ago.

I just have to write this one, primarily to ease the boredom of my bestfriend, who pressured me last night (in pure Willy-fashion) to add something to my blog, which had been on hold for the longest time. Wala na raw siyang mabasa (*whimper, whimper*) etc. So here goes.

Mid-year through my first year of residency, I found myself tired and spent. In exaggeration, I told Mar that I was very near my limit…that the vomitus just might come out of my nose. She caught me walking home to Orosa one hectic day on the verge of tears, and sure enough, the tears came inevitably. She had to sit me on our apartment doorstep (I could have embarrassed myself crying and lamenting in a really shrilly voice along the street), as I told her I wanted to stomp my feet, ride a bus (ANY bus) and be very, very far away from

Manila

. Mar, in her wisdom, brought me to Rob and fed me (the ultimate comfort activity) and sent me on my way with another friend, Ronchie, who drove me away from PGH. We were supposed to go Tagaytay, but ended up in Willyboy’s house in Sta.Rosa (equally comforting I must say), where Willy and I cried in unison (and with feelings, mind you), “Pagooood na pagooood na’ko!” Two nights after, my good friend Paeng finally did bring me up to Tagaytay, and I learned (the hard way) to NEVER, NEVER eat bulalo (the actual marrow I mean) when the soup is even a tiny bit cooler. The roof of your mouth is bound to suffer. (Wala talagang ka-poise poise, I had to excuse myself and manually swipe the lard off my palate!).

Things have been better since. It was a good thing that I shifted out of our charity ward rotation just when I did. I didn’t want to reach a point when I would have to force myself to go to work…Or reach a point when I didn’t like myself anymore…I needed a break from all the mental/ emotional/ financial/ social burdens being an RIC (resident-in-charge) in the ward entailed.

I was telling myself that exactly a year ago, I was yet to hurdle the Board Exams. I have been a doctor for a year now. I realized that I have to remind myself regularly that this is what I wanted, that this is what I was called to do. That when the going gets tough and I lose myself in the frenzy of rounding 13-14 patients everyday, preparing for consultant rounds, pleasing my colleagues, studying for exams, looking for ways to get money for my patients’ antibiotics, dealing with disappearing bantays or demanding patients, and meeting my work’s daily demands, I have to go back to why I chose this vocation a long time ago. I had such good intentions and idealism. That this is my calling and my small contribution to Life. This is what I want.

“…but let there be spaces in your togetherness

And let the winds of heaven dance between you…

And stand together yet not too near together:

For the pillars of a temple stand apart.

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.”

-Kahlil Gibran