..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.”