Is It Worth It?

When I was in Grade school and still cute, I met my first love. I wanted to become a doctor. As days do changed man, so did my dream.

I then wanted to become an Accountant when I graduated from High School. I took qualifying exams in almost all schools offering Accountancy. But I ended up enrolling in the School of Nursing. 

My first exposure to ICU, I did my first ambubagging, my grandmother as my patient. 

Life was hard then that she keeps on being admitted to the hospital. During that time, the family is losing money from the vicious cycle of admission-discharge. Seeing the person who raised you undergoing a chronic  battle, you can't just sit in one corner waiting what will happen next. 

It was that time that I decided to pursue going out to a place that never crossed in one of my vivid dreams.

My mother objected my decision of leaving because that time, I already completed my exams for my US application. Ample bucks were spent just for me to acquire those hard-earned licenses. 

But I am rebellious in nature.

It was on winter of 2009 when I first set foot in Riyadh despite of my mother's objection of me leaving. But the eagerness to help the family prevailed. 

I received a weird phone call on my second month being far away from home. Two months after I left, we lost my grandmother to complications of Diabetes. Our Medical Director would always mention how to break bad news to the patient and relatives. How I wished there is also a way on how to break bad news to nurses.

That was my worst heartbreak being a nurse.

To be there with my patients while I can't be there to the person I dearly love.

Is it worth it? 

It was the first time I uttered this question.

How many parents are reading this article?

How many of you missed the milestones of your kids?

How many of you have seen how your bedridden patients were able to walk again and yet, you were not there to witness the first step of your children?

How many of us left home with complete family members and returned back home without one of them?

Perhaps, at one point in your profession, you've asked the same question...

Is it worth it?

I didn't come home for the next 3 years since I left. I don't want to give my mother an impression that I made the wrong decision, that I should have stayed instead, I should have listened instead. 

When you reached a certain level of pain in life, that pain could either  make you or it can  break you.

I was transferred to ICCU after my 3 years exposure in Surgical Ward, became the charge  nurse in 6 month's time until to this point of revealing secrets. And yes, tears.

Doing the ICU routines made me feel that God gave me a chance to do the things I wished I was able to do for her. Touching my patients' hands is like running my hand to the hands I never got the chance to hold. And seeing my patients' eyes is like watching the eyes I never be able to see again. 

And it feels like she's just so near.

In one of Paulo Coelho's books entitled "By The River Piedra, I Sat Down and Wept", he mentioned that  it's very rare that you end up with your first love.

I've written this article which was later published in our hospital's Newsletter. 

I came to conclude that first love DOES die.

Because a greater form of love evolved.

I found it in doing morning care, in feeding my patients, in whispering good morning to them even if they are not responding. 

Those are the moments I thanked God I did not become a doctor.

Our life is like a dot in the face of the world. Nothing is so significant. Our patients will forget our name. They'll not remember who we are. But the thing is, we know who they are. 

Because It is in giving ourselves that we become significant.

Reciprocated or not.

In my recent vacation, 3 days before my flight, my mother was diagnosed to have a Type II Diabetes Mellitus. In ICU, we are checking our patients every 2-6 hours. But I can't do such for my mother who is living all by herself while her daughter, ironically, is the ICU In-Charge.

Last month, that turning point of my life turned 6 years.

Sometimes, when the sun beats down in one of the many windows of ICU, out of longing that somehow, how I wished that I can copy-paste myself so that I can do the same service I rendered to my patients and at the same time, to the people I loved most,  I would still ask the same question: 

Is it worth it?

But with God's unrelenting and stubborn grace, I would still get the same answer.

"You can't be successful in life without these two essential things: 

Giftedness and Godliness.

Giftedness is our ability to turn thoughts into things. 

Godliness is using that Giftedness to  S E R V E ".-Bo Sanchez

..Knock knock, Who's There..

I knocked at the entrance of her room's second door. With eyes rolling jubilantly sideways, I know she is hearing me. Knocking is my morning habit upon making rounds whenever she is awake. The first time I handled her, she was so thin and debilitated is a gross understatement. How many times we did compression to her heart to keep her alive, I could not count. Indeed, our time is controlled by only One hand. And that was not her time yet. Seeing her gained weight, and those cheeks that bloated to rosy ones made the air of despair shrink at the moment. With her body tiny enough to be cared by even one person, posture that limits her movement to only the rolling of eyeballs, limbs that bent to a curve that seemed to find solace, may God forgive me to question why good people has to suffer.

Introspectively, while the quest for the answer of human suffering left me in melancholic mood,  looking at her long lashes mildly soaked with tears from incessant laughing in the absence of voice and salivating mouth, it puzzled me what happiness looks like through her eyes being contained within the four corners of the room, being a prisoner by the machine to keep her breathing, and the moments wherein knocking is just another sound for "good morning, how are you, and goodbye".

As the sun beats down the arid air outside the window where I can see the reflection of my own image, having said this morning that I don't want to be a nurse anymore (thoughts like that occurs randomly), I was ashamed to the image staring back at me.

Everyone is having his battle.

We just differ in battlefield.

 Hers is inside the four-walled hospital bed.

Yours might be a failing health, a struggling relationship, a difficult boss, a challenging job, name it.

The thing is, no one is justifiably exempted.

Mine might be lighter than yours. Or yours, a little heavier than the others.

But does God let the sun shine to those who are only capable of carrying whatever loads He has given?

I stared back to her, saliva never stops drooling from the corner of her mouth.
Fluid is dripping to her convoluted, tiny hand.
Feeding is continuously attached to an abdominal hole in her deformed stomach.
I knock at her door once again and there the mouth that opened wide in joy.
There the eyes that glow in joy.

Life is still beautiful.

..Of Piled Boxes..

There's a song from a local commercial that says.."I love you Sabadoooo" (I love You Saturday).

In my case, I have some difficulty singing that song. Not just because I was on slumber when God sprinkled the gift of singing; Ahem, thank you Araneta Coliseum!

You see, my week starts on Saturday. 

It's the day of checking the whole Unit. And when I say the whole Unit, I'm talking of the 31 rooms, 31 monitors, from top to bottom, cords to plugs, doors to bathrooms, files down to the last Doctor's Orders, oxygen tanks to Emergency carts, reports after reports, meetings after meetings I feel like I was gone for a year. Saturday is also the day when our Stock Room is full of boxes piled after the other. Saturday is the day of taking off my Nurse's cap, rolling my sleeves up, and patiently solving the puzzled stock room of boxes to a more organize way. I guess Einstein hasn't done that.

Coming back and forth from room to the storage area, sitting and standing and bending, I wondered what was so good with Saturday's. My momentum was temporarily disrupted when a man from a product company approached me, "I'm looking for the In-Charge Nurse of the ICU."  How may I help you Sir? I put down the box I'm holding and unrolled my sleeves.  I realized how much  of Saturday's are making a toll on me. I helped him out with what he needed and I returned to my Saturday tasks left undone. 

As I was removing the contents from the box and arranging it neatly, I was in pensive mode as if a strand of memory flashed back when I was still a regular staff pushing stretchers, helping my patients have their slippers on or the mundane task as simple as turning on the remote of the television, being left by the bus because last minute call the patient wants you to help them ambulate. 

Those were humbling experiences that led me to this moment of blurry vision because tears got in the way. One cannot simply put greater value on success without having gone through an ample of circumstances that tested your patience, your own values, your determination towards your job, how you see the difficult situations as God's tools for making us better, and how much love you put into the thing which you believe you are good at.

I know that inevitably, I will still encounter boxes. Lots of them. 

But if the pile of boxes are God's way of keeping me grounded, I will still remove my cap and roll my sleeves. 

If Saturday's are my Class days with the Lord, then God, please, keep the boxes coming!

..A Dancer's Memory..

   

When I was still cute (my mom believes that to this moment of revelation), I was so envious watching my girl classmates wearing that flower top with flower head decors and flower anklets holding the thin pair of sticks to the tune of "hola hola" dance. I was so thin back then that I was a sickling chic my mother would rather want me not to get involve in rigorous school activities. 

My grade school teacher who happened to be our neighbor didn't looked at me that way. One rainy morning while I was about to prepare for school, she came to our house persuading my mom that I should join in her dance troop. And she was even determined to pay from her own pocket the expenses for the costumes. That's how much she believed in my potential. Not only in dancing, but for my love for arts.

We've been in different schools competing for different categories and levels. Not on a single occasion that she did not fixed my bobcut hair back then. And not on a single occasion that she complained paying for my costume. 

This year, she turned 75. I rarely dance now, except when my Unit is full. I seldom do paintings lately as my schedule cannot afford I can work on canvas. And for the longest time, I haven't seen her dancing just like the days she would on back stage so we'll never forget the steps.

Thank you for your feet that had taught mine to move in grace. Thank you for your hands that lovingly stroked my hair so I'll have an ounce of confidence to dance in the stage. 

Both of us may have been moving in our own rhythm of life, but I'll not forget the melody of love for that sickling child.

Happy Teacher's Day!

..The Cardiacinus Heart..

I'm on queue to pay my grocery bill. He was in front of the line waiting for his turn. Holding a bottle of water and a pack of sandwich, I was wondering if it will be his dinner for the day. Perhaps, he is saving for his son's birthday, or a ticket back home. He handed the items to the cashier and the amount appeared on the screen. He reached for his pocket and counted his bills. And recounted again. And again. I sense that it didn't reach the amount he needed, and the cashier started to be impatient.
I felt that my hand seemed to have brain of its own, taking some amount from my wallet and handed it to the cashier.
"Let him go."  He just stared at me and walked away.
Cardiacinus.


Early this morning when I made my rounds, I found out that the medicines in our stocks were not checked by the one I appointed the task with. Having an impression that she didn't seriously took the accountability at heart, I was disappointed. I felt my stress hormones overflowing my circulatory system at the start of my week that prompted me to ask from her an explanation letter. Sometimes, I hate the recent job I have for it teaches me the "tough love". Is it what she needed? Is it what I was called for? To render tough love? Or to love toughly?
I realized it when in she started to think of what she's supposed to write, eyebrows narrowing, as I keep passing by on her. "I need your letter before you go", and she just nodded. When I read it in secret, part of this hollow muscular organ about the size of a fist (yeah, I just defined the heart) seemed to ache in an instant. I kept the letter in my locker to remind me that people makes mistake, and  that I, too, is not perfect.
Cardiacinus.


Apart from being a nurse, my sister and I ventured in a small business that run roughly for 3 years now. I'm happy that despite the economic challenges, we are able to religiously pay our taxes (holler to the "giants" that are familiar with tax evasion!). Whenever I open my email and notices that the total amount of expenses exceeds with our net, I'm a little bit worried. Worried not because we will missed depositing to our account, or not able to have the return of investment. I'm worried because of the families that are dependent to the monthly salary our staffs receive. I'm worried that if we don't have enough, they might lost their jobs.  The hell should I care when I have a job other than our business. But the thing is, what about their kids? Their parents? And the people whose mouths are dependent on their minimum wage. I also have a parent. I also work to put decent meal to our table. If they work for us, we should work for them too. That's what "let's talk business" should be.
Cardiacinus.


There is one woman I know whose heart is anatomically soft, figuratively speaking. One day, a man came to her house to sell fire extinguisher. Since she is living in a humble abode, she refused to buy the item. Rather, she let the man and his companion rest in her house, prepared lunch for them and gave them money for transportation when they left. Her daughter was worried on how she easily trusts strangers. What she received back out of her cardiacinus heart? Honestly, nothing.


But her daughters, did! They are blessed being a Nurse and a Software Engineer. (Thanks Mom for your cardiacinus heart!)


Sometimes, I wonder if having a cardiacinus, or a "soft heart", is a blessing or a curse. But my mother proved to us that it is a blessing. That no one gets emptied by giving. No heart is broken to the one who doesn't count the costs and expect something in return. Sometimes, we may not directly receive the kindness that we give. But the universe has eyes that see what our soft heart can give.

And triple the pay =)


P.S. And I'm elated to be writing again! Happy Sunday!

.. Letting Go For Love..

In a world of so many parallels, what are you willing to give to make two opposite lines meet?

I have a dire appetite for wanderlust.  Be it home or abroad. I've come to terms that probably, I was something of a thing that constantly moves in my past life. I have high affinity to frivolous adventures, ruined places that stand in magnificence  despite the plethora of what time can actually do, and the roads less or [unlikely] traveled.  It's a thing that reconciles me to the world, me to my disparaging thoughts, and me to the kind of person willing  to ferment so the world can bring out the best in me: Alone or Not.

When I sit in the corner quaffing a cup of coffee, I must admit that part of my brain dies as  it lives somewhere else; where reality has a thin line with a dream. I always wish that the people I love would experience the same jolt, the same bouyancy when I close my eyes  and see myself in those somewhere. But only, if they have the same undeterred hunger for travel.

Having said so, I believe my sister has the same thirst to see the world.

I cancelled the budding thought of my second travel alone the moment she said she would want to cancel her Cambodian trip for a valid reason I cannot accept. I want her to experience the steeps and slippery paths. To appreciate heights even when the roads are flat. To trust her guts in a world of choices.

At any costs it will entail me.

I close my eyes for the love of a personal journey that did not come to pass, YET.

But overjoyed with my sister' smile as she was able to see what I've seen.

"Love entails sacrifice.

But it's worth it."

..When God Said No..

It was early this year when my sister and I planned our first family travel. We were exuberantly looking forward to make it happen that despite we haven't filed our visas yet, we already booked the flight as well as the hotel where we will be staying.

Call it expectant faith!

I envisioned the day we will be flying the same plane and enlist off my bucket list another goal this year: Travel with my family.

But that goal has taken several sacrifices for me and my sister. I booked my flight close to our scheduled travel since I will be applying for visa in Riyadh as the first plan that turned out to be twice as difficult to pass compare filing it in the Philippines so I have to make a letter to my superior to extend my vacation in addition to have my ticket rebooked. Issues of 6-digit show money surfaced since there will be the four of us who will travel. But not a single strand of obstacles dimmed my optimistic view. Our good-hearted business partner was benevolent enough to solve that issue. Thank you KC!

June came and I feel more enthusiast as I am. I thought we already survived the big rock towards the goal but it didn't end there.
I was tasked to give a lecture about the MERS-CoV in our hospital. I sensed an impending "NO" but I shook it off. I went home that day and received a call from my sister. Red alert travel advisory was given to South Korea, our target destination.

God must be saying NO.

I decided to cancel the trip.
I can't afford to risk the most important people in my life on top of a goal.
When God is saying No, He's not Objecting. He is just Redirecting.
When God is saying No, you have to be strong enough.
Because when God is saying No, tendency is, He'll provide you a greater Yes.


P.S.
Packing for that greater Yes =)

..I Can't Let Go of a P250-Worth Shoes..

Once upon a time, we were poor. My family can't afford to buy me a "just-do-it" shoes. One day, fairy godmother heard my wish. The sweat on his forehead are on the verge of falling while his gloved hands reached for the crumpled bills in his pocket; all in the denomination of P20 topped with a P10 coin. I was utterly jubilant to learn that I'll be having a new pair of white duty shoes.

Fast forward.

It was my rest day when I decided to wash my ivory-colored duty shoes. I noticed some scratch, two or more tear on scattered parts and believe me, the soles are so flat I knew it wouldn't much of help to add up to my height. This is the shoes I wore when I first get into the real realm world of hospital work, same shoes when I had a taste of my first salary, my first Code, my first Stat patient for OR, my first shift as the Charge Nurse, to the first day I headed my 19 staffs.

I tried buying new one, but it nested on shoe shelf in peace afterwards.

I walked and sprinted from end to end of the Unit for years, traveled certain parts of the world, saw the clandestine corners of life, wrote 195 articles to this blogsite, passed all my Foreign Exams, and with all humility, blessed enough to pamper myself with one or more pair of "just-do-it" and more shoes. But my feet can only trudge freely anywhere with the only pair that captured my resilience to traverse wherever paths life will lead me. 

The once white shoes now turned into off-white. And sometimes, I'm careful when I run because of the fear that it might give up anytime. 

Rolenkim is wearing a P250-worth of shoes?

I am.

 And everytime I'm wearing it, I can see the face of a man with sweat on his forehead, crumpled bills from his pocket, who believed that someday, today's nobody could be a somebody in the future.

Thank you, Tito Rafael!

P.S.

Seeing those shoes settled at the corner, I was reminded how far I went through life, and how far I'll still be traveling. 

Yeah, no one gets out of this life unscathed.

..What made me say Yes..

(c) Psychologytoday

The long wait was over.

It's been months of planning. Days of meetings. Changes that almost cracked the brain of both parties. Patience tested in most daunting ways.

I finally said Yes.

Not to wedding bells but to the Blue Print of our little kitchen.

It's a dream for me and my sister to finally have our little home renovated.

But that didn't come easy.

We went through a lot of pains. And when I say a lot, that almost costs more than our 6-figure budget.

I'm a type of a person who's cynical with almost everything. And winning my trust is like a jackpot prize in Lotto. So when I say I trust you, you're an instant millionaire (from a non-materialistic point of view). 

It started smooth from planning over a cup of coffee and simple dinner to a point of settling everything to the smallest details. Given my meticulous queries every now and then, my sister and our Architect are just waiting for my go signal.

But the inevitable happened. To cut the story short, it didn't went the way it was planned. Everything was put on hang. I can feel the friction every time Robz and I are conversing. Which is not a normal occurrence between us.

One day, while I was waiting for the bus, I sent a message to my sister. "Yes, proceed with the renovation".

That night before I said my yes, I remember how Robz left her office and all her pending works just to attend with the meeting(s) for the Blue Print. How she sacrificed her weekend serving the ministry for all the tasks I put on her shoulder. How she traveled from traffic jam so as not to missed the flight to Bacolod. How she remained composed with all my nags from end to end.

Is it worth to exchange my relationship with my sister over the dream we both planned together? And what about realizing the plan, yet, losing the person you build the dream with?

I can't afford. 

I set aside my own emotions. How angry and disappointed I was with our Engineer. I'm sure he'll have a torn tympanic membrane with my "soft" feed backs. But I chose to remember what Robz said to me. "Choose peace by loving".

I did.

And the feeling was liberating.

When I get home and would spend coffee in the kitchen, I will not remember the pains of how it was built. 

I'll remember the warmth it taught me.
And the reasons that made me say Yes.

Because LOVE is Learning to Overlook offenses and Valuing the person's importance Explicitly.

Ok, let's restore the tympanic membrane ;)

To err is human.

To forgive is divine.

..Leaning on Sharp Points..

The harsh waves come one after the other as we neared the shore of a nearby island in Calaguas. It was mid day and the sunblock I applied before we left the "safe harbor", I reckoned, is not serving its purpose since my arms resembled a lot like zebra, the obvious partition of white and dark areas. But since I was persuaded that the nearby island is different from the rest of the Island's parts, we braved the waves, like our boat is passing the humps of the road.

My mind, as morbid as it can get, is back on its habit of predicting the world of what if's. What if the waves will turn our boat upside down? All my gadgets will dissolve in the heart of Calaguas. Passport included. My body included. And mom will never be able to see her cute (positive prediction) grandchildren from me.

We arrived safely (I whispered all the saint's names, for heaven's sake) to the mystical place where coconut trees are lined up in a manner that exudes a welcoming embrace, giving a sense of security that all is well. The contrast of pristine sand and gray stones are breathtaking I admit I'm incapable of putting it on my canvas. I noticed that the stones there are more finer, rounded, and smooth while the stones from where we left are more sharper, more edgy, and rougher you have to be extra careful not to cut your sole.

I sat for a moment on one of the fine stones, oblivious to the waves that incessantly slamming the stones. I rubbed my eyes so as not to missed any single chance of being enchanted by the moment. And as the sun kept flaunting its radiance, it made clear to me why the stone I'm sitting on is smoother.
Because the waves there are unforgiving. Harsher. Fiercer. 

In life, every "harsh wave" comes with a purpose. We will never understand the vernacular of Trust unless we came to a point of being lied to: willingly, consciously, and artistically crafted by people you have high hopes to do it the very least. It's harsh. It's fierce. It's like being taken away to the sea, only to be slammed back to the shore.
Imagine how it hurts. Imagine how it cut through.

But imagine, too, if it doesn't hurt. And it doesn't cut through.
Will you be smoother? Or rounder? Or finer?

God knows we'll be hurt. He knows we'll cry tears-buckets of it. He knows we'll be scorched to bits. And it's not a surprise to Him.
Because the finest stones went through the most harsh waves.
Because the people who have "most" in life has undergone "the most" in life too.

Is life so unfair? Lean on the part that hurts the most. Lean on the point that is the sharpest. Lean on the waves that are the harshest.

He makes a finer man out of rough edges.

"The stone of which the builders rejected has become a cornerstone".-Psalm118:22

Goodnight.

..The "Lazaru's Phenomenon"..

Photo taken at Baylon Temple, Cambodia

.."and Jesus wept"..

Everyone was startled when she was admitted to our Unit. Serving the hospital for how many years, it was a surprise when she became the patient. Intubated directly due to decrease level of consciousness, I can still remember her voice when I got an almost close argument with her. 

Pronounced to be unresponsive to any stimuli, it broke everybody's heart.

I remember her when I attended the symposium on Deceased Organ Donation. Talking about brain dead, it's difficult to believe though I am working in medical field, apart from all the discussions of the body's every bone, muscles and nerves, that the person is considered dead if: 1) there's no spontaneous breathing and 2) there's no brain activity. 

Stirring my cup of Espresso, I want to blurt out' "but how about the heart? How could one die if it's still beating?". I could hear my own heartbeat. Probably because of the strong caffeine content of my drink. Or the opposition of my mind to the idea of brain over heart. But the speaker is unstoppable clearing issues of a well-research presentation. "Human being is dead when the brain is dead. Reflexes are present due to lateral circulation."

Reflexes.

I remember their story about her when it was decided that she will be an organ donor. 

No brain activity. Heart beat's due to medicines. Breathing through the ventilator.

Tears escaped from her eyes. 

The eyes that never reacts to light. 

Or to pain.

Her leg moved.

But science says it was just a Reflex.

She died with her heart still beating.

Could it be possible?

Yes.

Happiness dies when one forgets to let go of the baggage of the past, the fear of the future, and the anxiety of the present.

Simplicity dies when we allow material things to define the worth of our living.

Service dies when money takes high precedence over fulfillment.

Hope dies when prayer becomes the last option and not the first.

Relationship dies when someone started to look after her self-interest and not of the other.

Love dies when one forgets why she loves.

Life, then, is slowly drifting away from a beating heart.
That's when we face our tomb.

When anguish creeps and our pain is overwhelming, God, too, is weeping. 

But noticed that Jesus did not stop from there. He did not kneel and roll on the ground and cry all day. He did not saved the tears and put it in the glass and cry again until He fills it.

He was quick to pray to the Father.

He was quick to believe that even in the most impossible, smelly, and darkest tomb, there will come out Lazaru.

Whatever kind of "tomb" you are going through, He is calling you just like how He called Lazaru to life.

"Lazaru, come out".

..My *Selah Moment..

I missed my patients so much. 

I miss greeting them "good morning" at the start of my shift.

I miss feeding them.

Or giving them a bath.

I miss whispering in their ear  how was my day. Even though I know they can't respond.

I miss squeezing their hand in prayer.

Lately, I've been seeing windows. Lots of them.

Probably someone read my article before that says, "where windows are not included in hospital plan".

So they made as many as my eyes can wander.

Since we are not receiving patients yet, it's part of our routine to clean the Unit every day.

I don't mind. Because gloves fit well on my hands. And my nose get used to alcohol even behind face mask.

But every day that passes by without all those I've mentioned above, it feels like my strength is waning fast. I feel more tired. I feel more exhausted I can't understand. I'm beginning to dislike the position I was given to handle and tempted to work instead as a regular staff. Where I can't missed a lot of  things I'm missing.

Oftentimes, when I lay on my tired body on my bed, I would say I'm tired because I served my patients. And that's ok. Because you've done something in a day not everyone was given a chance to do. Many were called, and I'm indeed one of the blessed chosen few.

As I'm wiping the dusty empty bed of the new Unit, I can't help but shed tears. Of the many things I'm capable to do, I always have that One Thing that fills my heart with so much song of gladness. "What's giving you joy?" my sister asked before we parted in conversation.

There was once a man who prayed  to God. "What would make you happy?" To see You face to face, the man replied. One day, God heard his prayer of perseverance. He instructed him to meet Him at the top of the hill. On a given day and particular hour. Along the way, he saw a man whose car broke down. He checked his watch. It's almost close to the set time God has instructed him. But he can't leave the man either. When he reached the top of the hill, he saw no one there. He was so heartbroken he prayed to God why He didn't wait when he can justify why he was late. God said, "I fulfill my promise and you were not late. You arrived in time when My car needed your help. I was there."

Writing makes me happy.

Reading makes me happy.

Coffee makes me happy.

Traveling makes me happy.

Shopping makes me happy.

Even sitting alone makes me happy.

But I'm happier when I serve.

Not on papers.

Not on empty beds.

Not in front of the computer.

Not in the In-Charge's chair.

Because when I serve, I"m meeting God.

I'm greeting Him "good morning".

I'm touching His frail hand.

I can whisper to His ear how was my day. Even when He doesn't responds.

God meets me at my level.

And He's always there.

Service is my Selah moment.

Happy Sunday! =)

"*Selah"-heard this word once and I was so intrigued that I researched it right away and concluded that one day, I'll name my son/daughter Selah, which means, God wanted you to pause and meditate.

..I write just as I love..

Ours don't have a commitment. But I know that through all these years, my heart belongs to only one.

I would akin writing to love in ways only a blogger could understand.

Lounging on the couch, I realized that I could not survive life without writing. Just as I can't survive my day without loving. One day, I sat down and encouraged myself to start an ink but damn, I can't even start a sentence. And to think that I've been doing this underground, non-profitable hobby for years! 

Upon opening my blogsite, I came to check for the first time in forever that I've written 190 articles. Surprisingly, it's not my hobby to count how many pages I wrote or the word count I used. Simply because this site is not for any sort of competition. Much more for someone to appraise its structures and subject-verb agreement. In truth, you can almost find as many errors if proof-reading is your issue. Because most of the time, I'm glued in the couch in the middle of the night, and what you read are the streams of thoughts that ran amok in my long standing irreversible brain damage, haha

I started so poor in words and grammar, but just like anything in life, if you want to get better, then put in the hard work to learn.

Writing demands Time.

Love, in real deal, demands time as well. You can't just say you love writing and abandon the thought of wanting to write. You have to invest time. You have to read to improve your grammar. You have to learn to go back to basics of is/are, he/she, go/went..etc. 

You can't just say the I love you's and leave everything to faith. Relationship deserves pampering. And time, no matter how you convince me, says it all. Because no one will ever waste a second to something/someone that has of no value. Please excuse the News Feed stalking.

Writing has to be felt. Even when you don't feel it.

Commitment.

I'm not the best person to tackle this word since self-mastery hasn't befriended me. Yet. There are times when I wanted to write but I can't. Writer's block. But it doesn't mean that I don't want to write. Probably, I just lack the drive. The stimuli is there. It's not just enough. There's a difference between wanting and saying you cannot. But I go on, until an article is formed out of those reverie. Until I reached  my 190th..and counting. Because I stick to what I wanted.

Lovers can testify to this moment of "lover's block". When you don't feel the "kilig", or those goosebumps whenever he stares at you. But it doesn't mean you don't love him. You just need to go back to the day why you even said your "yes". That's how choosing to love even if you don't feel it.

Write in Nudity.

And I mean it honesty.

I found writing easier than making my Nurse's Notes. Because when I write, I'm telling you my stories. From the heart. With lessons attached if you are a keen reader. As what my secret fan said, "reading your blogs is a heart-warming experience..subtle as a drop that brings ripples of reflections to a day gone by...resolved as a river's rush to inspire streams of hope for tomorrow's vague moments..". You don't have to be the best writer to write. You just have to be honest. And instincts helped me most of the time. 

Same goes with anything that has to do with loving. It has to start with honesty. So what if he knows the worst of your worsts? So what if he was not your first love? Should that matter when he is, anyway, your last? For anyone who accepts the bare you deserves the finest love this world has ever made. I'm telling you, loving becomes an effortless job.

It's dawn once again. My ears are stuck with earphones. His snores, my melody. My phalanges are working while the birds are chirping somewhere. I don't care how time goes by, or how my posture changed from the time I started this article to the time it will be culminated.

All I know is that I write, just as I love.

Goodnight!

..The Tough Love..

(c) Cathedral de Bencao

I refused to be her Preceptor since day 1.

It's not that I don't like her. But I feel that I've given the best teachings to my previous Preceptee  I feel like I'm drained already to have another one. *"Sa inyo daw po ako Ma'am Kim sabi ni Ma'am Claire", uttered the soft-spoken voice. I saw kindness in her eyes I have no way to refuse anymore.

It was Friday, her first day of 12-hour shift. I knew that the girl is trying hard to give her best shots. But it seemed to me that there are so much more from her to give since we are working in a critical unit with critical patients. Tough love, I thought. But she never gave me an impression that it's a mistake deciding and sticking to be an ICU Nurse. She wanted to have her tasks done to the last bits.

That Friday evening, the bus left her. 

I was her In-Charge. 

Days flipped into months. There was an instance that I would go back on Friday just to check on her competencies. And modest to say that I would lay my name on the line so that she will somehow feel that I would want to bring out the best in her. Again, it's the kind of tough love I thought was good enough.

I was surprised when I saw her one day in blue scrubsuits, manipulating a dialysis machine, that girl on the first day I was refusing to teach. I swear, I had my skip beats. I shy away looking at her. She made it through her probationary period!

Some tears are forming at the corner of my eyes. 

I walked out the door. 

I was so damn proud of her.

She reminds me so much of Rolenkim.

He never gave up on me when I was a nobody. He never detested my absolute inadequacies. My worth are on His palms. My life was protected by His mercy. He bent down on the ground, wrote my name on the dust that reads, "My Beloved".

Where can you find a love like that?

I close my eyes.

Even in darkness, He follows me.

Even in abyss, He chases me.

Where can I run that You can't go?

Where can I hide from You?

Where can you find a God who never uses the tough love?

I close my eyes and I gave up on the truth.

He just LOVES me TOUGH!

*Ate Claire said I'll be with you.

..To The Last Bite..

(c) Flotsam of the Mind

I slept with the thought of wanting to eat ice cream. I'm craving for it but the telephone in our accommodation, unfortunately, cannot be use temporarily. So I went to sleep. And the ice cream appeared in my dream. Chasing me. Alluring me with the nuts sprinkled over the top. The chocolate marble intertwined with my favorite vanilla flavor. I swallowed like a toddler seeing a cone of ice cream at first sight.

I woke up and went out to find ways to get that thing that keeps on chasing me in my dreams. And when I had it held on my hand, I savor every lick I could get, not a thing escaped from my taste buds. I was thinking I'm having the best of the ingredients since there were nuts sprinkled on its top. The very thing I imagined before going to bed. I was halfway finished the middle part, sating my crave like I am an expectant mother of twins. Such a voracious eater losing my poise and glamour in every lick. (Yes, I'm still talking of ice cream. Oh c'mon, LOL!) I thought it's the end as I am nearing the last part of the cone. As I removed the covering toward its tip, there's something more waiting for me. The most chocolate-ty bite! Droll!

Having my insomnia back to its business hours, I ponder on this thought. Sometimes we think that what we have is the already "kind of best" God is giving us. It's the limit. It's the cream of the crop. It's the cherry to the cake. Nothing more. God already emptied His barn for you. No more. Waley. 

As you go through life, you will realize that in fact, the best is yet to come. Probably, you may feel that certain state of hiatus. That certain state of plateau. You thought you already met the best man for you but yet he betrayed you after giving your all. You reached the end of your happy ever after. You thought there's no more good men after that heartbreak. If there's any, it's now a battle of trust vs. mistrust. I get the root of that predicament. 

But what if you haven't yet met the  "most chocolate-ty" part of the ice cream? What if what you had is actually just a preparatory phase to your most awaited end?  Will you succumb in the middle of life? Or will you propel forward?

Like the brilliant concept of the chocolate at the tip of the cone, God must have designed life that way. So that we will always, always, and always look forward to the best that is yet to come. You might be bruise now. You might be in anguish now. You might have been betrayed and paddled, and stepped over and over again with the seemingly unrelenting problems. But hey, is the story finished? Not yet. 

Your life is like a theater.

The curtains hasn't been draw open yet to the fullest.

Wait and see how God will transform your most astounding battles into victories.

Countless and immeasurable goodness awaits you.

Don't give up.

The most chocolate-ty awaits to the last bite! =)

..LOVE is the nickname..

I like sleeping a lot. When I say a lot, it means I can hardly noticed my pillow lying on the floor. Or my blanket not serving its purpose of providing me warmth and comfort I felt like there were massive windmills in the room. And worst, raped with consent by Derek Ramsay. (Just go back to the first two options). 

Sometimes, I sleep like I cannot feel I have two legs from hours of walking the space of the ICU. In the middle of a good slumber, the most unholy of all hours when my saliva is at its verge of doing its job, my phone would then ring. There I knew that Popeye is not obsolete. She is dressed in black nightie looking at her phone  reading the caller's name: Robz. In an instant, the saliva disappears, like a morning dew has seen the morning sun rays. "Did I wake you up?". Good morning Sis! No! Of course, no. The quick answer with eyes like those of Popeye. 

I do not regard it as an emergency. Especially if there is a tone of excitement in my sister's voice . As simple as sharing the details of her previous going out with her crush. Or just the coffee shop dream we long wanted to have. Even if the conversation took place with a 5-hour difference in my watch.

Because anything related to my family is always a top priority. Irregardless of the hour of the day. Irregardless if my voice is hoarse from clogged nose. Or the temperature is so inviting for another snooze. It's a pleasure to be the version of Popeye.

I spell Love as Time. 

And Time is equated to Love.

No other noun can replace the other. 

They are interchangeably inseparable.

Like a cord is to a placenta.

Like a heart is to its beat.

I knew what my Love Language is.

Time is the name.

Love is the nickname.

 

..The Size of Your Cross..

One day, I woke up and glanced at myself in the mirror. I have no complaints, despite of my untamed hair ready to be nested by birds. As I closely neared my face to my image, I noticed some pimples on my already mole-content face it looked like a replica of big dipper. My chinita eyes slowly widened just like in anime, the bathroom walls twisted I feel like I’m in Milky Way as my tonsil is visible uttering the word “Nooooooo!”. Well of course, that’s an explicit over rated reaction. I prayed to God that if my moles are impossible to be removed by an eraser, He can just stop telling my pimples to go away. I won’t complain if it looks like a Big Dipper.

The Heavy Cross.

I’ve been working as a nurse for years. When I left home, I took the big risks. My mom used to think that I was crazy. Crazy enough to leave my US application just like that after passing all the Foreign Exams that cost her much. Crazy enough to leave my family, my friends, and the comfort of home. I took the biggest detour of my life. Three months after I left, my grandmother died. I was in reverie if I did the right decision. For I will never see her again. Never to hug and kiss her the day I had those last embrace. I felt like it was a heavy cross too much for me to bear. My being rebellious, I thought, was taking its toll on me. I wanted to stop being a nurse.

Days unfolded, yet, every day is a struggle to recuperate. Until I learned to forgive myself. And managed to dance with the thought that I cannot undo the time, so I will make the best out of those decisions I made. I wanted to be a nurse again. Be the best nurse for my patients. I’ll make my grandma proud.

I don’t know how to elaborate the nature of my job. It knows no holidays. It knows no seconds, minutes, or hours. Because every moment counts. It doesn’t care if your tummy is growling, especially if your patient is deciding to which it will bind: life or death. It’s not oblivious of the sunrise, or sunset, or raindrops. When your patient is off from the ventilator, when he starts to mumble words, or even just a slight movement of his finger, then he becomes your sunrise, your sunset, your drizzle. More beautiful than the one you can ever paint. You forget the many aching muscles and the emotional upsets. You forget how heavy your cross is. Because you learned to embrace it.

The Lighter Cross.

I do not handle patients lately. No more night shifts for almost a year. No more adrenaline rush when the patient goes on flat line. No more bed baths and smell of sh*t. I have a lighter cross to carry. The ironic thing is, I missed my days of patient’s contact. That feeling of relief when you wipe your forehead and say, “whew, that was close”. That feeling of relief when your doctor says, “we have a pulse”. The “lighter” Cross seemed not suiting me well. I miss my other Cross, the one that gives me growling tummy, the one that provokes my adrenaline rush. Even if it means missing the sunrise, and the sunset, or the raindrops.

So in one cold afternoon, while the 31-bed new ICU is basking in solitude, I sat down in desolation  and conversed with the Lord.

“How’s your Cross lately?” He smiled.

Errr, lighter, I squint. Can I ask You a question? But don’t get mad.

“I’m listening.”

Why did you gave me those pimples? You know, in the bathroom, front of the mirror.

“Ahh. Those pimples. You always complain of those moles in your face. Big Dipper, right?”

Errr, yeahhhh. I bit my lip.

“I heard you bargaining to keep those moles and that I take those pimples away, instead. Well, your moles might be a heavy cross for you. So I gave you a lighter one. Your pimples. They are just temporary, it’s an easy, "lighter" cross. But you wanted me to keep that “heavy cross” instead of the lighter one.

Kim, I designed you in a way that you may be able to carry the right cross for you. Not too heavy, not too light. I gave you paths that are fitting in your journey while you are carrying that cross. Not so rocky, not so smooth. Just enough so you can pass through it. I gave you people to help you carry it through. Not so many, not so few. Just good enough so they can bear your pains and joys.

That one day, you’ll knock at My doorstep, giving back the Cross I gave you. I wanted to see those eyes, those smiles that glitter in pure surrender while I am listening to you saying, “God, thank you for the size of my Cross. It fits so well.”

..Your Daddy's Got A Name: An Open Letter to the Daughter of PSI Ryan Pabalinas, Fallen44

(c) Daddy's Girl

Hi!
I'm Rolenkim.
You don't know me. I don't know your daddy, either.
But recently, I did.
The Philippines did.
I lost my father when I was 9.
He's not a soldier like your dad, but I know how it feels to lost one.


Why do leaves have to fall?
Why do the sun has to set?
Why does the day turns into night?
Why God takes the good people away?
Is heaven not big enough that He's afraid they'll run out of space for good people?
I asked the same questions when I was a little girl like you.
But God has always been this "quiet".


When I learned of your father's passing, I cried.
I remember you.
I remembered that little girl in me.


I can imagine him kissing your forehead before he leaves for duty.
The way any dad does to their baby girl.
He may not be doing it everyday before.
But he'll be kissing you everyday...now.
Because he'll never leave you anymore.
He's in the air that you'll breathe.
And you'll breathe his love.
Anywhere.
Everyday.


Be strong.
This is what I've been telling to that little girl who lost his dad years ago.
Someday, I hope you can write your story.
Your dad's story.
And how he tried to make your world, my world, a better place.
Be proud.
Your daddy's got a name.
The Nation calls him Hero.


P.S.

Dear Sir Pabalinas:

It's sad to have known you this way.
But thank you!
Thank you for the life that touched the hearts of the world.
That touched mine.

You left the pain worth remembering in the lives of the Filipino people.
Especially to the heart of your little girl.
I know you'll still kiss her.
The way you do whenever you leave for call of duty.
I bet you'll be doing it everyday...now.
Because you'll never leave her anymore.
You're in the air she'll breathe.
And she'll breathe your love.
Anywhere.
Everyday.

My salute to you.
And to the 43!

..Details, Love and the Ambubag..

(c) Love and Other Drugs

It’s been almost half an hour that I've been precariously unloading the contents of the cabinet to look for the *ambu bag. I emptied the equipment inside the cabinet one by one and put it back one by one only to find out that there’s no ambu bag inside. I searched for the belly-shaped bag as Ate Claire clearly instructed that there is one left in the cabinet for spare purposes. But no ambu bag to my avail. My legs are cramping already and the cold room aggravated my headache. I restarted the task of emptying and arranging the stocks to find the most-prized ambu bag. It’s a “do or die” search. I am at the verge of giving up when a box caught the corner of my chinky eyes. I read the package that says “Resuscitator”. Duh Kim, shame on your ability to collate synonyms.

That simple act of complete lack of audacity made me smile as the bus’ engine started. Too often in life, we are too fond of the details. In my mind, it's fixated that an ambubag is a belly shape thing with thin tube at the end connected to a mask. We create a picture of our own “what-should-be”.

We wanted to love someone according to the details we've set in our mind. He should own a house, ride a car, speak words of wisdom you feel like the muscles of your arm weakens as you imagine him wearing a sexy apron as he cooks in the kitchen, and well, it’s an added blessing if he looks like Derek Ramsay and owns the same abs. Even the lucky girl you’ll be if:  A) he doesN’T cheat, and  
A-1) he doesN'T tell lie(S). Single ladies, I understand your predicaments!

Don’t get me wrong. We need plans in our life. Just like you need a blueprint in building a house. Because if you don’t have any, it’s hard where to start. The loophole in having plans is that we become too entangled with the details. What if God plays the trick? What if the details you set are not His details for you? What if He sends you a Resuscitator in your effort to find an Ambu bag? What if He sends you a Man in your effort to find a Guy?

Sharing this reflection I received from a good friend:

"When we ask the Lord for answers to our prayers, we have to be prepared to take care of the things we will receive or the situations we'll find ourselves in. God is good, but He will only give us what is good for us. Have you thought about what will happen when God answers your prayer?" 


~God, keep my heart open to your possibilities. Keep my heart ready for my Resuscitator. Keep my heart ready for my Man.



*An ambubag is a hand-held bag device commonly used to provide  breaths to patients who are not breathing adequately. Other names are Resuscitator or Bag-Mask-Valve

..The Longest 20 Minutes..

I rubbed my palms nervously after I removed my overcoat. I felt the cold cross pendant hanging around my neck as I started to unlock my necklace. The inside of the room seemed too narrow as the light is accentuating the coldness I feel. It has been months that I've been postponing this.

I laid my shivering body on the slender metal bed. I wrapped the blanket around me and took a deep sigh. I can’t feel my toes as the machine started to move towards the close-space tunnel. I understand what claustrophobic patients feel. The earplugs I wore didn't serve its purpose as the ticking sounds prompted the ventricles of my heart to pump faster. I kept my eyes close, my head still, and my hands clenching each other. It’s the day of my brain MRI.

I know my eyelashes are moving though I am sure that my eyes are still close. I can’t figure out the space I’m occupying, and the voice that I can’t comprehend from the outside of the room. Thoughts are streaming in my mind and I was afraid if the machine will be able to read them one by one. The first thing that came in my ongoing scanned mind is that, “God, whatever the result is, please don’t let me die a poor virgin”. Thank goodness the machine is not capable to record those thoughts. The ticking changed to a harsh, my-eardrum-will-explode-anytime-by-now swishing sound. And then it slowed down. I moved my toes just to ensure I’m still alive. I remember the 5 kids I wanted to raise, the man I want to sleep with and wake up each day, the lists of my dream travel, the articles I wanted to publish, the books I wanted to read, the words I wanted to learn, and the life that is waiting for me outside this room. I feared to open my eyes.

The sound took a halt. Another one started to create its own melody. This time, more gentle, if it’s an acceptable description. I remember the throbbing headaches I endured. Apart from that, I remember the insurmountable pains I never knew how those came to passing. How I am still fighting the good fight in the race of life. My lashes are still moving, but now dampen by welling tears.

The test lasted for 20 minutes, the longest 20 minutes by far.

 But it felt an eternity to see your life unfolding right before your close eyes.

*Let me search You in the depths of my heart amidst the cold darkness and harsh sounds of life.