Monday, March 24, 2008

ANTics


I sat under the mango tree today with a pad and pencil, planning to draw, while my husband watched a rerun of Voltes 5 dubbed in Filipino. It's a nice hot afternoon, and it seemed such a waste to spend it indoors.

I was distracted by one intrepid red ant traveling along the back of the plastic chair where I had put my feet up, and before it could reach my leg I smashed it flat with my daughter's Barbie ruler. Soon enough, another ant came aong and stumbled upon his dead friend. I assumed he freaked out. He sniffed around, felt along the dead ant's head and tail, and then he commenced to drag it by the neck, back up the chair and on to the chico tree where the chair was tied to.

I repeated the murder of the ant. As soon as I whacked one ant, another would carry it off by the neck. I've known that an ant can carry twice its own weight, but I didn't know they followed a protocol for carrying their dead.

"The neck! The neck! It's crucial! Hoist your comrade up your back, lift, and heigh-ho! Back to the nest we go!"

News must travel fast among these red ants. When quite a few lay squashed, a crowd of their colleagues came and inspected them. They tend to gather more around the half-dead ones, as if unsure of what to do with them.

"How do we carry them without injuring them further?"
"Splint for broken legs!"
"But all six legs are broken!"

I have smashed five again; there are at least 30 ants gathered round the casualties. The two really dead ones have already been carried off, always by the nape of the neck.

I prod one of the bystanders with the tip of my pencil. It reared up its bottom and bit the lead. I put the pencil in the middle of five ants who are probably arguing who will carry their maimed friend. All five, with their butts in the air, attacked the pencil. I pinned one of the ants down and flattened its tail. When I lifted the pencil, seven ants converged on the tail. Much as I want to believe that the seven are trying to apply first aid, it certainly looked like they were drinking the moisture from the smashed tail. And then the fallen ant was carried off, still struggling, by the neck.

Now there are more ants. Are they waiting for more casualties? Are the dead ants brought back to the nest as food? Do the maimed ones recover, or are they eaten? It's summer; I suppose they are gathering food stock, but I don't remember seeing in Animal Planet that they eat their own kind.

Now a whole squad of ants is marching down the tree trunk. Someone has reported to headquarters about this mysterious enemy: flat and transparent, with little pink human lettering that spells "Mattel, Inc. All rights reserved."

I've been watching the ants for over an hour. I try to smash another ant, but quick as a flash this one dodges the ruler. He climbs up and onto my hand. I try to shake it off, but it goes up my arm, up my shoulder, and takes a quick bite on the back of my neck. I slap the ant-- dead-- but my nape stings.

Sweet revenge, he must have thought. I wonder if he planned to commit suicide. I get up to find something to put on the ant bite. I think I will watch the cat next time.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

medical city

I am one of those people who, by some stroke of luck or good genes, rarely get sick. The last time I was hospitalized was when I delivered my daughter seven years ago. So I am not a fair judge when it comes to comparing hospitals or medical services.

On Thursday last week, after a rather heavy lunch, I had a stomach ache. It was the kind that told you you had to go to the bathroom and free some space, so I went. I was in the bathroom for almost an hour, and was unsuccessful. By that time I was already miserable and sweating and my stomach was tight as a drum. Since I am seven months pregnant I went to the clinic to ask if I may be given a suppository so I would not strain so much, but when I got there, the medical staff got very busy with me. They said I was already having contractions. Fifteen minutes later I was in an ambulance, going to the emergency room of Medical City.

The doctors said I was going into pre-term labor. I was admitted, hooked in an IV drip with a uterine relaxant, and confined to the bed. The private room I picked had cable TV but no fridge, since I thought I would go home the following day. I understood that I needed the supervision of an OB-Gyne so that I would not push the baby out by straining to defecate (let's be delicate here). I thought a night would be fine. I called my husband, and the nanny came that night with a couple of books and a change of clothing.

Being on bed rest was strange. Since I could not go to the bathroom, I had to do my business in the bedpan all the time, and it was not funny. There was so much food. Medical City gave you three square meals and two snacks, and since there is a food court in the second floor, you could have Pizza Hut, Red Ribbon cake slices, Max's take-out, hotdogs, leaf-wrapped meals. (Good thing they did not restrict my diet.) The drugstore was stocked like a convenience store. A nurse gave me a sponge bath, and I honestly don't remember ever getting a sponge bath in my 31 years on earth.

The doctor said I should stay one more night to finish the drip, so I was scheduled for discharge on Saturday noon. I was already feeling fine after the sessions with the bedpan, and I was bored. Then the time to settle the bill came. I only had to sign the statement of account because the bank will take care of it, but still 15,000.00 for 2 days came easy to swallow but hard to digest.

The hospital charges were carefully itemized, from the gloves and syringe down to the washtowel and basin used for my sponge bath. The nanny reacted to items (1) cotton balls at 16.00 (which she does not remember being used) and (2) micropore tape at 57.00 (which she says I only used two short strips and therefore we should ask for the remainder of the roll!). The doctor must have stayed in my room for a total of 5 minutes in two days, asked a few questions, and signed the clipboard, and the charge for her service was 5,000.00. We brought home the pillow, the basin and washtowel, the bedpan, and the 'welcome kit,' which the nanny says are souvenirs of my stay. What, am I going to bring out the bedpan when we have guests and say, 'Look, I got this from Medical City! And my washcloth has a logo!'

Medical City is a hospital that puts the patient first. You really feel pampered. Not once did I see a nurse who is not smiling or pleasant. It's as if you're the only patient they ever had. The food, though bland as hospital food goes, was hot and very prompt. When they put you on bed rest, you literally don't lift a finger. When I was discharged, someone accompanied me to the Billing Section and out to the van that would take me home. My medical certificate was handed to me even before I left the room.

The hospital does not come cheap. But if you have money (or if someone else will pay your bill), the stay is worth the price. More than making you well, the staff makes you feel good. You are treated with respect, and you know you're in the hands of competent human beings.

So there goes my Medical City experience, and all because I wanted to poop.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

gohan the cat


My husband brought Gohan home in a shoebox when I said I wanted another cat. When I saw him I thought he would die in two days; he was scrawny, a bit dirty, and he was trembling all over (but I guess that was because his shoebox was tied to my husband's motorcycle and the ride home took about half an hour). But stray cats are tough.

Gohan is white with black-gray spots and a long black tail. His eyes are a pretty blue green. He is mild-mannered and he got along well with my other cat, Miminchi. However, he did not like our dogs, unlike Miminchi who still cuddles up with the dalmatian on cold nights.

Gohan discovered the joy of sitting beside the stove burner. Of course, it would be warm when we had something cooking, and it is a common sight on most mornings to see Gohan curled up beside the kettle of hot water on the burner, his fur all singed and smoking on the side closest to the fire. Sometimes his tail would catch fire, and he would look comically indignant, as if wondering how in hell such things could happen to a cat trying to stay warm. The kitchen often smelled of charred hair.

Gohan would always try to sneak inside the house and find the most convenient lap. Often it's the person sitting down for breakfast. He would first twine around the legs, then he would stretch and put his paws on the person's knees. If the victim did not react, he would jump up and squeeze between the person's back and the chair. Then he would try to do it one paw at a time, slowly, slowly, until the beleaguered person would become so exasperated with swatting the cat that he would sigh and relent. Then Gohan, with his blue-green marble eyes, would grin and settle down. He would then stretch his nose, one inch at a time, until he could taste what was on the plate. I've never seen a cat with such persistence. If he was a kid, he'd be black and blue from the swattings he got even before he succeeded in getting to the lap.

Of course, when the baby came, there is less patience around the house for Gohan's antics. You would often see Gohan flying out the door, because my husband kicked him out again. Gohan loved to sleep in the baby's stroller, so imagine the father's wrath. Much more so when the baby is in the stroller, because then Gohan would try to catch her wriggling feet out of sheer insecurity.

He also liked to stalk birds, but not your ordinary brown birds that come flocking at all times of day. He particularly likes my husband's African lovebirds. They're all in their cages, and it makes a fun sport for Gohan to see them fly around while he try to kill them through the bars. When he is caught, he has the nerve to look aggrieved, until he learned to do it when my husband is not around.

So on most days you'd hear these dialogues:

"Gohan, if you don't get down from there, I'd fry you with the chicken!"

"Gohan, what are you doing in the washing machine? I'm going to spin dry you!"

"Gohan, do you want to fly again?!"

Monday, March 10, 2008

the footprints of god




The Footprints of God, a novel by Greg Iles, treads the thin line between science and religion. In the tradition of Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code, it combines killers, scientists, secret agencies, religious hallucinations, and computers. A secret group of scientists, all Nobel laureates, join forces to build a super-supercomputer capable of-- dig this-- not duplicating the human brain, but reasoning like a human being. It is so powerful that it can decode a 128-bit encryption instantaneously. The supercomputer, called Trinity, worked by having a neuromodel loaded into it, which is accomplished by obtaining a super-MRI scan of the person. Trinity would then have all the memories, stock knowledge, and reasoning power of that person. It has released the intellect from the human body, and that mind will live on forever.

So there's this ethical scientist, Dr. Tennant, and his tag-along psychiatrist (who eventually fall in love with each other) who are driven to stop Trinity from taking over the world. He does this because he has dreams remembering he was Jesus. The psychiatrist goes with him because he has narcolepsy attacks, and because she was convinced he had Jesus-delusions. Because they were trying to get away from the killers, they go to Jerusalem and there he has an epiphany of what God is all about. They return to America to find it about an hour away from annihilation because Trinity triggered commands for nuclear warheads to rain on American cities. Dr. Tennant, of all things, decide to talk to Trinity.

The suspense builds up to something that you hoped would give a big bang, but the ending is a bit... deflated. The mercenary, Geli Bauer, was there since the beginning, as the all-knowing, all-merciless guardian of the secret, but at the end you think she got lost somewhere. Trinity becomes some kind of a benevolent grandfather computer. With all the buildup and the exhibition of its apparently unlimited power, of it becoming like God, there is a little disappointment.

It's a good read, though it did not make me question my faith in God, it did not make me fear the prospect of computers ruling the world, it did not wrench my heart. Most of the book is dedicated to killers chasing the hero and how he got away.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

duma key


My brother gave me Stephen King's new book, Duma Key. Edgar Freemantle was a wealthy builder who met an accident in a construction site that left him one arm less, a divorcee, and a bitter, angry, self-declared outcast. He goes to live in Duma Key and discovers a strange new talent. Edgar painted frightening pictures of the sunset from his house, and his paintings carried power. He could make things come true when he painted them. Before long he learns that an ancient evil was working through him, through his talent, through his paintings. And when he sought to stop it, the evil awakened and started killing.

I didn't like it that Edgar's favorite daughter had to die, but it has always been things like that that makes Stephen King's novels horrifyingly human. Like Gage Creed's death in Pet Sematary, Charlie's dad's death in Firestarter, Susan becoming a vampire in 'Salem's Lot, and Susan's death in Dark Tower V. It's the death of these loved ones which usually proves to be the undoing of the hero, because the evil uses this to weaken him.

I read one time that Stephen King's novels take the ordinary things in life and twists them into something that scares the daylights out of you. You could almost say 'It could so easily happen to me.' Cujo was like that. In Duma Key you see a broken man redeem himself, becomes a talented painter, and almost succeeds in recovering his life, only to have everything shattered by an evil that he did not understand.

It is, as usual, a masterpiece.