As I lay down in
room 223, I started to count every living thing in the ceiling just to
temporarily forget the horrors I am going to face after 4hours. I ceased
counting when all I can see is a bunch of lizards, chasing each other
and some moving things occupying the same space I am in. One particular
lizard or "butiki" as we may call it, caught my attention when he (i am
presuming its a male) ran fast and bit another lizard. I was wondering
what the dismembered lizard felt after his tail is devoured like a
quarter of lamb chops in a cozy fine dining resto (cue pyscho music!).
The immediate need for survival is the first thing that crossed my mind.
The lizard ran away to save his other limb from the predator lizard who
looks like jigsaw to me ready to play a game (SAW 7 is coming!) Every
time I hear someone knock, I feel like jumping out of the window and be
gone forever. Someone will get a blood sample again. Invade my veins
again with the needles I never dreamed of meeting.
Its 7 in the morning. The sun is high and so am i. I removed all my clothes and wore the hospital gown which I would not dare to wear even if its designed by Ralph or Oscar. When I entered the room, the bladed silvery shiny objects greeted me with audacity. I lay down on the squishy bed again after the nurse told me to. The wait is an agony in the garden but without the third-degree burned man who considers temptation, a hobby. I prayed to God. I prayed that I will be alive after the castigation. I called Hippocrates and requested him to be present before I am going to be sliced.
I woke up an hour after. I am alive! Shocked that I cannot feel my lower body, I panicked. I felt like a totem pole being severed into pieces. A person being dismembered, and fly at night strolling to look for a victim. (insert manananggal annoying laugh!). But the ultimate victim is the nurse I called and harassed big time! (poor nurse, forgive me). He exclaimed that I am perfectly normal. Oh, with the state and the place I am soaked into, I cannot summon normalcy anymore. Anyway, I am brought back to my wonderful room complete with a liter of fear and an ounce of irritation, but compensated with tons of support from my family and friends inside.
When my friends are gone, I decided to offer my boredom to the television in front of me. Turned it on. Scanned for channels and ended up watching the favorite drama slash noontime show! (I could not just fathom why other studio players are forcing their tear ducts to bleed). The host in "Wowowee" distracted my already disturbed mind. I thought of the gyrating girls while the show is on. I thought of their linens which covered their glutathionized skin, and the too abbreviated panties punctuating the area, where no syntax error can be committed in describing it. When the game show punchline is effective, that is also the time when I can remember that I was slashed hours ago. Its painful. I love pain, it makes me feel that I am alive but not this level of pain I felt, aggravated by the pain I have, every time I hear the host of the show trash talk and inundate the floor with all the nonsense you could ever imagine.
Five Days. Five long days inside the white painted room. Five long days inside the detention cell minus the orange suit and the handcuffs. Five days without the grooming. I stink already that even the average local fly would not dare to touchdown. I miss life already. I miss the scorching sun. I miss Mr. street smart. Sleeping at night is a chore. But not just like any chore the Monday or Tuesday Cleaners would get. Its an extraordinary chore every time I move and stand. I felt like I was wearing a straitjacket with the little possibility of movement. Wait, did I mention the tube inserted in my elixir of life? That made my locomotion worst. I abhor that tube. It made me think of Alighieri and his Inferno.
I can see white people going in and out of my room. Some of them are nice and friendly yet some of them are naturally annoying. Some of them even asked "Sir, how many times ka po naka-ihi this day?" OK. Ask the tube if it can talk. haha. or take this, "Sir, mga ilang baso kaya sa tantya niyo ihi niyo po ngayon?" OK. First, the first time I learned how to pee, It never crossed my mind to measure it with a glass and second, how on earth can I measure it when the tube made me feel detached from my excretory system?
But on the lighter side, some of them are courteous, friendly and sensitive enough to know my state. One of them took care of me when my body is engulfed with fever. That nurse persisted in checking my temperature, add that up with the smile which made me happy.
When the doctor told me that I can go out if I can produce the magical gas, I prayed again to the almighty to send some gas. But not just any other gas. A friendly gas to hover inside me and find its way out to instant stardom! (well, talk about the attention it gets after its out). The Divine Provider then answered my prayer. It came out in full blast which made Hurt Locker disappointed. I informed my brother about it and then he told my doctor. Of course, my doctor arrived with the big news! I am going out! Thank Heavens! I just want to be out from here. The place made me recall of not-so-beautiful things in my past. The place made me smell stinking death more than the aroma of life which automatically depressed my olfactory sensation.
It was Monday afternoon. My schedule to go home. I stood up and went to the mirror. I combed my hair. The oil in my hair is already at par with those of Iran and the peaceful country of Iraq (well, that's another story). I removed the protective gown which could let people see and invade your kingdom. I washed my face then wore real clothes. I waited for the clearing before I can go out. I was on a wheel chair when I went out of the room (this made me look even more fragile). I was greeted by the nurses in their station. One of them said, "sir, i will miss you". I replied, "you will really miss me for I assure you I will never go back" and they laughed.
I will surely treasure everything that happened. My brother and our helper who never left me. My brother who was there for me in spite of the workload he has to finish and despite of the sweating when buying medicines downstairs. Our helper who traveled from our house and back for the errands. My brother in Ireland who never failed to check my state. The wife of my brother who assured me of the prayers for my immediate healing. My nephews and nieces who were there to lighten the yoke I felt. Tita Jan who was there to make me smile. She also handed me a small book talking about courage and hope which I read few minutes before the surgery. My father who is always there for me and proved to me that loving his children cuts across seas and oceans and that proximity will not always complete the fatherly affection. My friends who visited before and after the surgery which made me happy, although happiness at that time is an understatement. I did not expect so many friends inside the room who gave up a fraction of their precious time just to visit me. And most importantly, the Almighty who gave me the second chance to live and the second chance to appreciate life and take good care of it. Today, every time I look at my scar, It always reminds me of one thing: that two years ago, my life was changed in Room 223.
Its 7 in the morning. The sun is high and so am i. I removed all my clothes and wore the hospital gown which I would not dare to wear even if its designed by Ralph or Oscar. When I entered the room, the bladed silvery shiny objects greeted me with audacity. I lay down on the squishy bed again after the nurse told me to. The wait is an agony in the garden but without the third-degree burned man who considers temptation, a hobby. I prayed to God. I prayed that I will be alive after the castigation. I called Hippocrates and requested him to be present before I am going to be sliced.
I woke up an hour after. I am alive! Shocked that I cannot feel my lower body, I panicked. I felt like a totem pole being severed into pieces. A person being dismembered, and fly at night strolling to look for a victim. (insert manananggal annoying laugh!). But the ultimate victim is the nurse I called and harassed big time! (poor nurse, forgive me). He exclaimed that I am perfectly normal. Oh, with the state and the place I am soaked into, I cannot summon normalcy anymore. Anyway, I am brought back to my wonderful room complete with a liter of fear and an ounce of irritation, but compensated with tons of support from my family and friends inside.
When my friends are gone, I decided to offer my boredom to the television in front of me. Turned it on. Scanned for channels and ended up watching the favorite drama slash noontime show! (I could not just fathom why other studio players are forcing their tear ducts to bleed). The host in "Wowowee" distracted my already disturbed mind. I thought of the gyrating girls while the show is on. I thought of their linens which covered their glutathionized skin, and the too abbreviated panties punctuating the area, where no syntax error can be committed in describing it. When the game show punchline is effective, that is also the time when I can remember that I was slashed hours ago. Its painful. I love pain, it makes me feel that I am alive but not this level of pain I felt, aggravated by the pain I have, every time I hear the host of the show trash talk and inundate the floor with all the nonsense you could ever imagine.
Five Days. Five long days inside the white painted room. Five long days inside the detention cell minus the orange suit and the handcuffs. Five days without the grooming. I stink already that even the average local fly would not dare to touchdown. I miss life already. I miss the scorching sun. I miss Mr. street smart. Sleeping at night is a chore. But not just like any chore the Monday or Tuesday Cleaners would get. Its an extraordinary chore every time I move and stand. I felt like I was wearing a straitjacket with the little possibility of movement. Wait, did I mention the tube inserted in my elixir of life? That made my locomotion worst. I abhor that tube. It made me think of Alighieri and his Inferno.
I can see white people going in and out of my room. Some of them are nice and friendly yet some of them are naturally annoying. Some of them even asked "Sir, how many times ka po naka-ihi this day?" OK. Ask the tube if it can talk. haha. or take this, "Sir, mga ilang baso kaya sa tantya niyo ihi niyo po ngayon?" OK. First, the first time I learned how to pee, It never crossed my mind to measure it with a glass and second, how on earth can I measure it when the tube made me feel detached from my excretory system?
But on the lighter side, some of them are courteous, friendly and sensitive enough to know my state. One of them took care of me when my body is engulfed with fever. That nurse persisted in checking my temperature, add that up with the smile which made me happy.
When the doctor told me that I can go out if I can produce the magical gas, I prayed again to the almighty to send some gas. But not just any other gas. A friendly gas to hover inside me and find its way out to instant stardom! (well, talk about the attention it gets after its out). The Divine Provider then answered my prayer. It came out in full blast which made Hurt Locker disappointed. I informed my brother about it and then he told my doctor. Of course, my doctor arrived with the big news! I am going out! Thank Heavens! I just want to be out from here. The place made me recall of not-so-beautiful things in my past. The place made me smell stinking death more than the aroma of life which automatically depressed my olfactory sensation.
It was Monday afternoon. My schedule to go home. I stood up and went to the mirror. I combed my hair. The oil in my hair is already at par with those of Iran and the peaceful country of Iraq (well, that's another story). I removed the protective gown which could let people see and invade your kingdom. I washed my face then wore real clothes. I waited for the clearing before I can go out. I was on a wheel chair when I went out of the room (this made me look even more fragile). I was greeted by the nurses in their station. One of them said, "sir, i will miss you". I replied, "you will really miss me for I assure you I will never go back" and they laughed.
I will surely treasure everything that happened. My brother and our helper who never left me. My brother who was there for me in spite of the workload he has to finish and despite of the sweating when buying medicines downstairs. Our helper who traveled from our house and back for the errands. My brother in Ireland who never failed to check my state. The wife of my brother who assured me of the prayers for my immediate healing. My nephews and nieces who were there to lighten the yoke I felt. Tita Jan who was there to make me smile. She also handed me a small book talking about courage and hope which I read few minutes before the surgery. My father who is always there for me and proved to me that loving his children cuts across seas and oceans and that proximity will not always complete the fatherly affection. My friends who visited before and after the surgery which made me happy, although happiness at that time is an understatement. I did not expect so many friends inside the room who gave up a fraction of their precious time just to visit me. And most importantly, the Almighty who gave me the second chance to live and the second chance to appreciate life and take good care of it. Today, every time I look at my scar, It always reminds me of one thing: that two years ago, my life was changed in Room 223.
