flat chests and scant eyebrows

When I was a kid, my grandmother would utter one of those withering grandmotherly comments when I did something stupid. She'd say, "Where were you when God distributed brains?" And I'd roll my eyes and think, Where was I when God distributed grandmothers?

When I became a teenager, she proclaimed that I'd better be good at being smart, since I was not a great beauty. So I figured that she got it wrong; I had been busy catching brains when God was distributing beauty. It was my grandmother who told me that my face was too narrow, I had baggy eyes (that I got from my father, who was incidentally her son), my hair was too unruly, and I looked malnourished. I also had nonexistent eyebrows and equally nonexistent breasts, and I was short. I guess she was relieved that she did not have to worry about suitors swarming her ancestral house.

I don't remember anyone telling me otherwise, and so I suppose I believed it. I wasn't beautiful; get over it and do something else you are good at. I went to college, got good grades, graduated, got a good job. And somewhere along the way I figured that I didn't have to look like a beauty queen to be a beauty queen. I learned to be confident. I made a lot of fashion hit-and-miss before I discovered that it's hard to intimidate someone who can run in stilettos, and so I started to love 5-inch heels. :-)

I married my first boyfriend. Well, there's your reassurance, grandma.  I caught a man! And it must have been good for me, because now, one has to try really really hard to make me insecure. 

And now we've come full circle. I have a teenager. Not much has changed; people tell you thin and tall is beautiful. Big boobs are beautiful. There's TV, social media, and all those clothing advertisements. There's Victoria's Secret Angels. In this place and time, it is so easy to get insecure because you're a bit on the heavy side, you wear eyeglasses, you're not very tall, and you have blackheads. 

And while I have never told her she was ugly, I might have forgotten to tell her she is beautiful. Maybe not right now, not on the surface, but deep inside, in ways that matter, she is.

See that picture on top? It's from Dove's 'Campaign for Real Beauty' in 2005. I'd like to tell my daughter that beauty is not just in the eye of the beholder. It's in the eye of the holder. If you believe you are beautiful, if you believe in your goodness, why, then, you are.  

I still have a flat chest; I still draw on my eyebrows when I get ready for work in the morning. And why not? That's what I caught when God distributed breasts and eyebrows. And I am more than breasts and eyebrows. Beyond that, I believe I'm a hell of a woman. My grandmother would have been proud.

revival

Irene brought me this as a present from her trip to the US. I received it with glee; National Bookstore sells it in hardcover at around Php1,300. And while I have already read the e-book back in December, there really is a distinct pleasure in turning the page of a real book. I love my Amazon Kindle, but I am still a sucker for holding a dog-eared copy of a book you've had for 10 years, with old bus tickets as bookmarks, while you sit on the toilet. Try that with Pet Sematary at one in the morning. I assure you it's a real thrill.

Jamie meets Charles Jacobs, a well-loved small-town minister who also dabbles on experiments with electricity. The minister's wife and son die in a gruesome accident, and he denounces God. Later in life he became a faith healer. Jamie in turn grows up, develops a drug problem, and gets 'cured' by Charles. Charles then lures Jamie to help him with his final experiment by promising to cure Astrid, Jamie's childhood sweetheart, who had terminal cancer. Jamie agreed, and Astrid was cured.

The final experiment had Jacobs using electricity (and whatever forces he gathered) to bring to life a dead woman. He wanted to know what was beyond the door, or maybe where his wife and son went. And what they do see is not a view of heaven and the cherubs, nor the seven rings of hell.

The horror lies not only in the conclusion, not in what they are given a glimpse of. The horror, to me, lies in the every day sweet things that death turns ugly. Your sweet little boy, turned into a bloody mess on the road (reminiscent of Gage Creed's death in Pet Sematary). Seeing your childhood sweetheart dying painfully of cancer. The loss of hope, the loss of love.

Death, to me, is a void. A blank. You become nothing. Some people believe you go to a place where you relive your happiest moments over and over. I am surrounded by death and loss these days: I have a friend whose mother is given just a few months to live. I have a neighbor who has terminal cancer and has come home to die. At lunch time today, we went to the wake of Milette's husband, who also died of cancer. And you can believe what you want, but you never really know what is beyond.

Revival is not a good read when you're thinking of death most days, but we read on, don't we? We stay glued to the pages, even if you knew what was coming next. And though you end up gloomy, your hands itch to get the next book this perfectly horrifying author comes up with next.

happy birthday, chloe.

Happy birthday, Chloe. I did not have the heart to wake you up this morning before I left for the office. You were sleeping so soundly, and this is after all the last week before school starts. But I did not forget. I was watching you sleep, and I marvel at how big you've grown, and how funny, and how beautiful. Mothers get teary-eyed at things like that, but it's hard to repair smeared mascara, so I wrote you the birthday note and left.

I know you don't expect a party, or guests, or gifts. Both you and your sister were not raised that way. I feel a little guilty about that, but I was also raised that way, and I suppose I'm passing it on. You do not expect a new dress and shoes to wear every school Christmas party, you do not expect a new bag every school opening, you do not expect a mountain of gifts on your birthday. You do not have a sense of entitlement, just because there is an occasion. That may change when you grow older, but I think for now, we're fine.

It doesn't mean we're not celebrating. Tomorrow I may take you out on a mother-daughter date, since it's Saturday. But know that every day, not just today, I celebrate having you. You and your sister are the most precious things to me. I hope I am doing a good job of raising you well, of teaching you how to live simply, of showing you how to stand up for yourself.

Someday, when you grow up and have daughters, you will understand these things: why school supplies take priority over balloons and clowns, why mothers have to go to the office on your birthday, why birthday celebrations can be simple and still be meaningful.

And know that I love you. With all my heart, I do.

playdate!

Chloe is not a very outgoing child, and so we encourage her to play with the neighborhood children on weekends. In the afternoons the street is cool enough for the children to go running and screaming around, supervised by the various mothers and nannies. While I prefer to rearrange my closet, I sometimes do watcher duty. Most days I do ok. Sometimes I overdo it.

Yesterday I saw her go out the gate. I went to get my slippers, and when I turned around, she had disappeared. I tracked her in a neighbor's house three doors down, after I had gone around the block once. And so to avoid getting a heart attack, I invited the neighbor's kid to my house, so I could watch them both.

Woe to me. Another little girl appeared at my door a few minutes later, whom my daughter welcomed gleefully. This was followed by another, and another, and one who was brought over by her mother. They played with loom bands awhile, then watched Dora the Explorer on DVD. Then they checked out the books, while I picked up about 200 loom bands all over the living room. They briefly went out and found the stash of little toys in the garage, and shortly after, there were little boys as well. By 7:00 pm, I had 16 little kids on my hands, with 6 of them dancing to Taylor Swift's "Shake It Off" at full volume. They have eaten all the marshmallows in the pantry, as well as a container of cereal and a pack of wafer biscuits. All my water glasses were now dirty. One little boy asked me whose birthday party it was. Another asked me if he was allowed to jump on the sofa.

The noise was unbelievable. There were toys all over the garage, and cookie crumbs in the carpet, and dirty footprints on my cream-colored sofa. And before somebody started asking where the fried chicken and spaghetti were, I called a halt to the impromptu 'party' at 8:00 pm. The bigger kids were easily driven away; the smaller ones had to be fetched by their mothers. The fetchers all smiled sympathetically, and were all admiration about how I could handle all of the children, while I have suspicions that they were merely glad to have the kids off their hands for a couple of hours.

The children left, but not before asking, "How about tomorrow?"

Thankfully it was Sunday, and all the kids have to go to school the following day. If I had been faced with the prospect of another playdate, I would have locked myself inside the bedroom and combed out all the Barbie dolls' hair in peace instead.

  

damn the dengue

We visited my in-laws over the weekend, and when it was time for the updates on the relatives, we were informed that one distant cousin's child had died of dengue.

The boy had recurrent fever and was confined at the local doctor's clinic, but the relatives took him out of the clinic to bring him to an albularyo. By the time he was properly diagnosed, it was too late.

I don't know the child or his parents, but for a moment, I felt anger. It's not a very rural place, almost everyone has cable TV and therefore would have a passing knowledge of what dengue fever is, and how dangerous it could be.  They have access to medical professionals at the town proper, one jeepney ride away.  The family is not destitute either.

But how could you not know that there is something very wrong with a child whose fever keeps coming back, and who is so pale his limbs look bloodless?  How could you not understand it is serious when he passes blood in his stool? How could you think that he might still be afflicted by some engkanto or maligno?

They say the mother blames herself.  I am sorry.  I have no wish to find fault or add to the anguish. I guess it's the mother in me that reacts strongly to the story of how he died.  I would move heaven and earth to keep my children with me.  And my mother's heart breaks a little for the loss, for all that the child could have been, for the missed chance to have him well and laughing again.

And call me paranoid, but by the time we have rested, my husband and I scoured the neighborhood stores to look for insect repellent lotion. I lathered the kids, then we spent the night in his sister's house, which had screens on the door and windows.

That damned mosquito might still be flying around.

the misadventures of chloe, part 2

Day 2

Chloe watched Barney on DVD while getting dressed, so she would not remember that she did not want to go to school.

She came home without her pencils.

Day 4

Chloe came home with a very wet diary.  I asked her what happened, and she said, "It's rainin'."  It was not.  On my husband's suggestion I hung the diary behind the refrigerator to dry.  It did, so now she has a rather rumpled but very crispy diary.

Day 5

Chloe has not been eating her packed lunch.  Her class adviser and I had a written exchange, where she explained that the class has a supervised lunch break, but Chloe does not want to eat lunch, only the snacks.

Day 6

Chloe came home with a box of crayons-- not hers.

Day 7

Chloe came home with a box of crayons-- hers-- but with only half the crayons in the box.  The pencils are missing again.

Day 8

Chloe came home without her diary.  The reminders were pasted in her Science notebook.  She needed to bring 4 long folders with fasteners, which I have to buy from National Bookstore on my way home.

Day 9

The diary reappeared, wet again.  Back it went behind the refrigerator.  Now the pages are looking decidedly tattered.

Day 11

Chloe came home with another child's lunch box and a spoon.  Her own spoon and fork are missing.

I had to go to the department store to buy a new water bottle so we could hopefully avoid wet diaries and books.  Now she needed to bring 9 color-coded folders for her folio.  It's fortunate that I have to pass through Megamall on my way home, where the bookstore is just a short detour away.  It's unfortunate that the neighboring shoe stores have their end-of-season sale.  It's stressful, I tell you.  I also got the new water bottle, with a couple of microwaveable bowls thrown in.

Day 12

I am waiting for 4:00 pm so I could call home and find out what she has lost this time, whether the new water bottle is fine, and if I have to go to National Bookstore again.  I tell myself that she'll get used to the big school, that she will stop declaring she doesn't want to get dressed because her school is closed, that she'll enjoy it soon, that we'll settle into a routine of peaceful mornings getting ready for school.

But in the meantime, darn, it's tiring!

the misadventures of chloe, part 1

Alright, I mislabeled it.  It just doesn't sound humorous if I called it 'The Travails of a Mother Raising A Mightily Tiresome But Dearly Beloved Six-year-Old.'

Chloe entered first grade this school year.  It's a big school.  From her pre-school class of only 8 kids, they're now 33.  I shudder to think of the noise level they can generate.  And because I thought it was fashionable to display some separation anxiety, I took a leave from work on her first day of class.  Heck, I even took her picture at 6:00 am and posted it on Facebook.

I went with the school bus and delivered her to her classroom, counting the things she brought and counting the little kids who were already crying in the room.  I didn't see if she joined in the tearful getting-to-know-each-other session because the teacher made us parents leave.  I joined the other parents milling in the grade school lobby-- there must be about 3 dozen of us-- and took comfort in the fact that they all looked as worried as I was.

That was when I realized that I had labeled all of Chloe's things: her pencils, bags, water bottle, notebooks, but I forgot to label her.  She would not lose her school things but she could lose herself.  I freaked out.  Chloe is trained not to speak to strangers, and so I was sure she would not say her name even if somebody asked, but little kids often display a tendency to trust grown-ups if they seemed kind or acted authoritatively.  I thought it was so easy for someone to get inside the grade school building, pretend to be a parent, and get a small child from the classroom.  Sure, there was a guard at the entrance to prevent unaccompanied kids from getting out, but would he stop an adult with a kid in tow?

I had to call my husband.  He suggested I calm down and go home, and just wait for the school bus to bring the kid after school.  I did.  I attacked the laundry, ironed clothes, rearranged my study, all the while wondering if Chloe ate her lunch, if she cried, if she'd made friends, if she'd agree to go to school the following day.  And yes, I wondered what I'd do if the school bus didn't come.  Then I waited for 4:00 pm, calling the school bus monitor twice to make sure they got my daughter from class (well, she had no ID yet, remember?).

Chloe arrived, disheveled and hair undone.  Her face was blotched from crying.  Her lunch bag looked like the victim of a bear attack.  Privately I wondered if it was too soon for her to go to a big school, but for now, she was home.

"Chloe," I asked, "did you cry in school?"
"Yes," she said.
"Did you sleep?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to school again tomorrow?"
"NONONO."

There is no tuition refund.  I'll just remember the name tag.

on sale!

Seen this?

Today is payday and tomorrow is Labor Day, a holiday.  I'm sure working moms all over Ortigas are contemplating their lists: school shoes and school bags, socks and underwear, school supplies, and while you're at it, check the trendy little boutiques and the home section.  And if you get exhausted, well, come back the following day.

I like checking out sales.  Nothing beats getting a pretty black blouse for P99 at Karimadon (well, except when you bought the white version for P750 a couple of months ago.)  Or finding picture frames usually sold at P100 apiece, now at P35, perfect for mounting my Japanese greeting cards.  Or bargain-hunting at Uniwide Coastal mall and finding a Chester the Cat mug-- selling at $38 in Amazon-- for an unbelievable P25.  

But when Megamall goes on sale, I avoid going there, even if it means taking a breathless detour to an overpass outside the mall to get to the other side of the same mall.  True, I would have saved up to 70% on their great selections, but the amount I would spend on a dozen little things that I do not need but could not resist buying would exceed the original price of the things I had actually planned to buy.  Such is the temptation, and we mortals often succumb to it.

There are people who would go there just because there's a sale, and they are 'looking for something to buy,' maybe some advance Christmas gifts.  Most working mothers can't do that.  They live on a budget and they'd probably go on a guilt trip if they buy a spur-of-the-moment pair of heels at 50% off, if they thought their kid needed new school shoes in June.

I'm not trying to sound righteous about my buying habits.  Who wouldn't love to go shopping?  Lucky you if you'd need a van to bring home your purchases on Friday night.  It's just that I've had a conversation with myself, and it went like this:

There would be very nice Celine dresses on sale.

Ok.  Do you need a new dress?

No, but I'd like one.

How many dresses do you have?

Shut up.  I'll go home.

ate jenny and my grandmother

Sometimes there are people who, through no fault of theirs and no desire of ours, become an influence in our lives.  They become part of the reason why you're fucked up, or why you're a star in your own right.  And they don't know it.

I had Ate Jenny.  She was a first cousin on my mother's side.  She was already sort of grown-up when I was a teenager.  She lived in Manila, I lived in the mountains.  Back in those years when you only saw your relatives when there was a wedding or a funeral, I didn't know if she was a knockout or a nerd, but boy, they said she was smart.

My tyrannical grandmother brought me up.  She had high esteem for smartness.  She had respect for noble professions in medicine, law, accountancy, architecture, all those fields of study that could give you additional abbreviations before or after your given name.  Needless to say, she had the opinion that writers, designers, and poets die of hunger. She was a teacher (and so are both of my parents), so she thought teaching was nobler than all those professions combined, but she didn't want me to become one.  Lesson plans gave you prematurely white hair.

All my teenage years I heard about Ate Jenny.  She studied in Far Eastern University back then, and her grades were always wonderful.  She could write really well, even her sisters said so, and they would recall with misty-eyed fondness how her writing could touch their hearts.  My grandmother was usually quick to find fault in my mother's family, but she had a grudging admiration for Ate Jenny and how she was raised.

My grandmother said I was also smart.  Suspiciously, I was sent to Far Eastern University to study high school, and I was encouraged to write.  So I wrote letters to my grandmother every week, in English.  I wrote poetry.  I wrote short stories.  I wrote in my diaries.  I hid what I wrote.

Ate Jenny was in medical school then.  I would accompany her when she did her reviews.  I was impressed by the fact that you reviewed for the medical board exam by going to Parks and Wildlife, sitting on the grass, reading those thick books.  And then she passed the board.  Ninth place, I think.  Back home, my grandmother waxed ecstatic, as though she paid for the review sessions.  And when I went to college, she declared that I would take Psychology, which could lead-- in a roundabout way-- to Medicine.  Then she declared that I would take advance summer classes to hasten the college process, after which I was supposed to become a doctor.  Of course.  Like Ate Jenny.  I didn't know if I hated her, but she has unofficially become THE idol whose accomplishments I could unquestionably surpass, with a grandmother like mine.

Life interfered.  I didn't become a doctor.  I grew up, got married, had kids.  I still write.  Once upon a time Reader's Digest Asia published a story I wrote about my grandmother, and I know she would have been proud.  But every now and then I would start thinking, would my grandmother have been prouder if I had become like Ate Jenny?

Maybe.  But this is who I am now.  Ate Jenny is in the US, a heck of a doctor, and she praises what I write when she finds the time to read my blog.  I met her husband a couple of weeks ago, and he said that their daughter writes well too.  He said he told Jenelle to write me.  How about that?  It gives me a warm feeling.

If my grandmother was still alive now, and if she would mention that one could still study to become a doctor at 37 years old (and that she would pay for medical school)--- AND if Ate Jenny would second that, maybe I would.

the perfect job

What is the definition of a perfect job?

They say it's when you do what you love for a living, and it no longer seems like work, but all fun.

Nice answer when you're being interviewed for a job, when you're twenty-two, fresh from college, and the goals in life include getting a studio-type condominium unit and summer vacations in Boracay to improve your lovelife.

But when you're in your mid-thirties, with children in school, a mortgage on the house and a car loan, a perfect job is the one that gives you payday-to-payday assurance that the bills will be paid, that the cat has cat food and the dog has dog food, the twelve-year-old goes to her field trip and gets new eyeglasses, and that there's always toothpaste in the bathroom.  You don't say that the perfect job is the one that allows you to fight poverty in the Asian region.

I used to say that I loved working in the university because it gave me a chance to make a difference.  Every day, I helped solve little problems, and what I did made an impact on the well-being of the student and the people around me.  The sense of accomplishment is immediate, and I felt good about what I was doing.  I see Jabez on Facebook these days and remember that eight, ten years ago he was doing Approj in a blue uniform, and now he's a college instructor, and I'm still proud of him.

It's a different thing when you're in the corporate world.  My official position title now is Senior Treasury Assistant.  Most days I am simply a highly-paid secretary.  It's not exactly what I wrote in the slam books when I was younger, in the blank for 'What's your ambition?' I dreamt of writing for a living.

Don't get me wrong, I am proud of what I am doing.  My job is the reason why we have the house, the car, the children in private schools, the tablet, the five-inch-heels.  There are times when it feels like logging 87 documents in a single day is a thankless task, but you learn to look at it as increasing your typing speed to 80 wpm, and not as the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome.

It's not exactly 'writing for a living.'  A couple of months ago, the only significant writing I got done was panel minutes.  These days, it's minutes of meetings. But when you can't do what you like, it's time to start liking what you do.  There is something good in every little thing, no matter how insignificant it may seem at the moment.  There is something to learn in the mindless little tasks, no matter how small you may seem in the scheme of things.

I don't see myself sitting in front of a 17-inch HP monitor for the next 23 years.  I have not decided what I want to be when I grow up.  But you see, when you're older (and hopefully wiser), you learn that whatever you do for a living, it becomes a perfect job when you give it your best, every day.

And well, if I want to write, I can always blog.  :-)

letter for camille

Camille, if you’re reading this, then something bad has happened, and I need help.  Please come as fast as you can. 

Please see if they’ll tell you where Garnet is.  I think they took her away.  She’s your goddaughter after all, and she’s only one year old, but if you get the chance, tell her I love her.

I don’t know how it could have gone so wrong.  Remember when we were in high school?  We thought we were gilded in gold.  We were bright and beautiful, and everything was ours for the taking. 

We were also young and very stupid.  Peter was going to university; I was going to be an actress.  Then I got pregnant.  I thought his mother would kill me, but I guess she thought I’d give her beautiful grandchildren, so I was forgiven.  They also had fat bank accounts, so it didn’t really matter.

You came to the wedding, but you never got to visit us in the new house.  I loved it.  You opened the door to space that reached up to the ceiling, and you looked up and there was this lovely crystal chandelier.  Swarovski, I’m told.  His grandmother’s gift.  The floor was marble.  On the left side the staircase curved up, sort of framing the space around the chandelier.  It ended at the hallway that led to the bedrooms.  When you opened your bedroom door in the morning, the first sight to greet you was the chandelier, with the sunlight from the tall windows striking the crystals.  The banisters at the top were waist-high, and it was easily twenty feet to the ground.  I liked imagining my daughter coming down the stairs when she’s eighteen, in a velvet evening gown.  I must have sent you the pictures that Peter took of me on the stairs.  Did I?  He said I sparkled so, the chandelier paled in comparison.  He said things like that, and they took my breath away.

And then Garnet came.  She was the love of Peter’s life.  It seems strange to resent my daughter for the smile that she put in Peter’s face, but I felt like I’d been replaced.

I was also no longer beautiful.  I was prom queen and had been in the cover of teen magazines, but now I sagged and bulged in all the wrong places.  I cried easily, and I got angry easily.

Did you know Peter got a bit successful with his camera?  He called himself a professional photographer, and he got projects that took him away from home for days at a time.  I guess that’s where the trouble started.  I found pictures of a woman hidden in Peter’s backpack.  Peter’s photography made me look like a sugar princess, but the woman in the pictures looked like a goddess.  I don’t believe they were commissioned photographs.  I wondered what honeyed words he used to get that smoking look in her eyes.  She was hot, and I hated her.

Of course he denied it.  He denied everything, until I caught them together.  Then we fought a lot, every night, it seemed, and he accused me of using post-partum depression to justify being a bitch.  He called me ugly.  Then he started hitting me when we fought.

But you see, I loved him.  I loved him then and I love him now.  I tried so hard to make it all better, said sorry, and could we start over?  I went to a shrink, got a makeover, started on a diet, but it didn’t get any better.  He came home to smile at Garnet, then he went out again.

Last week, he came home very late.  I waited up for him because I thought he might want some dinner, and I was in the baby’s room when he arrived.  He looked in, saw the baby was awake, and picked her up for a quick kiss.  Then he looked at me and said, I’m leaving you.  I’m taking Garnet.

I was stunned.  I was also very angry, and I didn’t understand what had gone wrong.  I thought we were good together.  I asked if it was the woman. 

I think maybe I started yelling, or throwing things around, because he backed out of the baby’s room in a hurry.  Garnet had started to cry, so I picked her up and followed him.

He was going down the stairs.  I was in the hallway, holding on to the banisters, looking at the fucking chandelier, when I realized he meant it, he would really leave me, and I called out, Peter, I love you. 

He yelled back, Fuck it, I don’t love you!

I held the baby up.  I thought I meant to shield myself from the words so they won’t hit me and break me, but the words must have hit anyway because something in me snapped.  After that I don’t remember.

I next remember looking down when I heard the sound.  It was a wet and horrible sound.  Peter was bending over something on the floor, he was screaming, and I started to go down to ask him if he had hurt himself when he got up and ran to me and slapped me and his eyes were wild and his hands were red.

That sound.  Like dropping a watermelon.  I wake up in the middle of the night hearing it.  I am talking to people and I suddenly hear it in my head and it hurts.

Peter said I held the baby up by one arm over the banister and the baby was giggling.  Peter said I was smiling, but how could that be, when my heart was broken?  He said he screamed at me to put Garnet down and I… he… I don’t remember.

Peter said he didn’t love me and that sounded so final.  He didn’t love me.

Please come, Camille.

brand (un)conscious

Last week, Harper's Bazaar posted an article on 'How to Pronounce Moschino, Miu Miu and More Designer Names.'  And admit it or not, I bet a lot of us spent a few minutes whispering air-vay lay-jah to ourselves, congratulating ourselves on the one piece of information that we will not mispronounce when we visit the newly-opened SM Megamall Fashion Hall with our more knowledgeable fashionable friends.

I grew up being happily ignorant of brands and what they meant.  I was already working in my third job, married and with children before I met people who wore labels with such gleeful abandon.  And although I was not easily impressed, I didn't mind learning either.

I had friends who taught me to wear Aldo and Nine West, Pedro and Charles and Keith.  I bought a lot of clothes from Celine before it got extra publicity from the TV series Ina, Kapatid, Anak and then I bought some more :-)  I like Forever 21 with its overwhelming selection of clothes.  I bought gifts at Marks & Spencer and Beauty Bar.  I bought Guess and Levi's from Amazon.com and contemplated Kate Spade.

That's a meager and unimpressive list, and some of my friends would raise eyebrows at how little I know.  I've seen Ferragamo and Jimmy Choo on the feet of officemates, and didn't know it.  I cannot distinguish Murano or Charriol jewelry, although  I have a couple of pieces.  I didn't know enough to get ecstatic over the opening of the H&M Store.  Aside from the fact that it comes from the same country that produced IKEA furniture, I didn't see what was so special about it.  I walk past it every night on my way to the transport terminal, and I am not tempted to look.

I can easily wear ukay-ukay finds as well as Zara, and nobody can tell the difference.  I've never met a person who would praise what I was wearing, then demand to know the price tag.  Designer labels to me are just proper nouns with capital-letter status that are, for the most part, beyond my means.  I have no dark desire deep inside to decapitate people who wear them.  But I also acknowledge that recognizing the labels, and sometimes owning an item or two, horribly expensive they might be, adds a certain distinction-- if not value-- to a person.

How many people would recognize a Montblanc pen, or know that a Limited Edition Agatha Christie Fountain Pen sells for $4,500?  Not many, perhaps, but in a meeting where you're merely the minute-taker, someone is bound to do a double-take when you start taking notes.  Right, Claire?

When I'm wearing something expensive, something special, I feel good about myself.  I like it when I meet old friends who look at my feet and smile with easy familiarity, because they recognize the shoes from where we bought them together.  We live in a society that places value on material things-- on brands-- and there are occasions when ignorance places you at a disadvantage, such as a gathering where someone asks you if you've ever heard of Christian Louboutin.  I'm sure it would give you savage pleasure to be able to say, oh yes, I'm wearing them.

More importantly, people may not always know that what you're carrying is an imitation Louis Vuitton, but you will always know.  I once bought one, and I carried it once to a party, to see if someone would take note.  Nobody did, and like the bag, I felt like a fake.  The thing is, I could have bought a real one.  I could have saved for it.  But it didn't make sense to own a 2,000-dollar handbag.  That's the amount of tuition for my two kids for one school year.  To me, there's a big difference between being able to afford one and deserving to own one.

A friend once told me that I should not sanitize my writing, but I have to remember that what I write may one day haunt me.  One day, when I become an Hermes-toting, globe-trotting socialite, I'll remember this blog and how I mouthed the syllables of the labels properly.  And I'll laugh, and I'll put it down to naivete, or inexperience.  Or honesty.  That's always forgivable than having too many social pretensions.

one hundred bags

A couple of weeks ago I went to my regular salon to get my hair fixed.  I was transferring to a new department and I figured I needed a new look.  Besides, it was the New Year.

My regular stylist wasn't around, so they asked me if it was okay if another stylist did my hair.  It was, and so Erika was called over.  She (he) was very thin, tall and tottering in her high heels, talked nonstop, and looked like she had a quarrel with her eye shadow palette.  She decided I needed to look glamorous, and she said she'd make me look like this antagonist Amor in this long-defunct TV show that I didn't even recall.  The trick with these stylists was to agree and make encouraging noises while they talk, lest they get carried away and I'd end up looking like a chicken that had a close encounter with a hawk.

And so, as she dyed and chopped my hair, I listened to her New Year's resolutions.  She said this year she'd start a collection, and she wanted 100 bags.  Not expensive ones, mind, because what can one afford on a hairstylist's salary these days?  And she doesn't mean buying all of them; she asks for bags as gifts, or takes hand-me-downs from friends.  

I was flabbergasted.  What would one do with a hundred bags?  We often hear about celebrities and their expensive bags in glass-fronted cabinets, but these people make a living out of showing off.  An ordinary working girl would carry a bag for about 240 days in a year, a few days more if she went out on weekends.  If you had 100 bags, you'd use each bag 2.4 times in a year.  I would consider it a great waste.  

I asked Erika what she'd do with her hundred bags at the end of the year.  She said she'd do a garage sale, then she'd think about her collection for the next year.

It brought to mind an officemate of mine, Sheila, who said she only had three bags: an office bag, a casual bag, and a dress-up bag for more formal occasions.  I was equally amazed at that.  Sheila said she'd use a bag till it falls apart, which may take years, considering that she bought Longchamp bags.  I admire the no-nonsense reasoning in that.  Three bags.  

For me, a bag was a receptacle for an umbrella, a small makeup kit that also contained Dolfenal tablets and mechanical pencils, a wallet, a hankie and my keys.  My bag should be spacious, sturdy, and doesn't easily get dirty.  I liked them to match my outfits, or better, my shoes.  I have about a dozen bags, but I regularly use only three or four, since I dress in neutral colors.  If I could have only three bags, like Sheila, I guess I'd get myself Hermes bags, so I'd feel like Jinkee Pacquiao, but then maybe I'd wrap them in plastic bags if it rained on my way to work.  Such bags are not meant for commuting working mothers.  Now if I were Erika, and I had some closet space, I'd get some Kate Spade, and some from Charles & Keith, and some from SM Department Store, only I'd probably sigh over them every day, because it would be such a shame to own so many things and not use them well, and I would be saving up for each piece that I add to my collection.  Remember me equating Promil pre-school milk for a pair of shoes a couple of years back?

Two hours' worth of chitchat later, I left the parlor with copper-red hair, and I was quite sure Erika did not succeed in making me look remotely like Amor-whoever-she-was.  I also had a few arguments with myself over the issue of bags.  

It's always nice to get a new bag, only I cannot justify buying one on a whim since I still have quite a few serviceable ones.  Now, for the sake of argument, let's say I could get rid of a couple of Nine Wests in their dust bags, the ones I very rarely use.  That would bring me closer to Shiela's bag count and I'd probably feel very efficient.  Now, arguing further, I could give the bags to Erika, bringing her closer to her dream of a hundred bags.  I admire her for the sheer fun-ness of that goal, and I would maybe see her at the end of the year to ask if she succeeded.  

But I am not Erika nor Sheila.  Getting rid of a few bags would leave quite some space in my closet.  So taking the argument further, one could say that a new bag would fit there quite nicely.  Well... the pretty bag in the picture is Anne Klein's It Takes Two handbag, $89.  

I could give it some thought, until my next haircut.

one tough mama

Tell the world who she is.

I saw this poster in a bookstore in 2008.  I wrote about my mother and sent it, and I was hoping I would get an acknowledgment in print that I could give my mother as a birthday gift.

She got more than that.  My entry won my mother a place at the 5th Working Mom Balance Awards, alongside Senator Pia Cayetano, Pinky Yee of Goldilocks, Dr. Rosalinda Hortaleza of Splash Corporation, and Atty. Gaby Concepcion, among others.  The awards night was held at Blue Leaf in The Fort, with celebrities and politicians in the audience.  The Philippine Star article for the event is here.

She did not know about the award.  An aunt dressed her up for the event and told her they were going to a photo session.  We got a van-load of her friends who travelled six hours from Quezon Province to get to The Fort.  For that one night, this public school teacher was a celebrity.  But all my life, I guess this public school teacher has always been my celebrity.  She is my mother.

This is what I wrote for her:
     

I hear the word “mother” and the image that immediately comes to my mind is a crying child running to his mother for comfort over a scraped knee. We look to our fathers for protection against the playground bullies, but we seek our mothers for hugs and kisses. Because we are raised in the notion that mothers are there to comfort and to nurture, we do not often see the spunk and the fire.


My mother is no different. When I was growing up, I thought she was the gentlest soul that ever lived. I have never heard her raise her voice in anger, she has never quarreled with anyone in public, and she has never hurt her children with her hands or her words. I was raised to fear my father’s spankings, but I tried so hard to behave because I was more afraid of disappointing my mother.


It changed somewhat when I got older. She separated with my father when I was in college, and I wondered if she gave up so easily. I thought she was weak because she hated confrontations. I also did not want to become a teacher like her, because I remember her laboring over her lesson plans by lamplight at night and despairing about the meager salary.


I never really knew the stuff that my mother was made of. That was, until Typhoon Winnie hit the Philippines on November 29, 2004.


On that day, my mother was going back to Infanta, Quezon after a weekend with us in Manila. We knew there was a typhoon, but we did not have an idea how hard it would hit the provinces. We received text messages that night from my husband’s family that landslides had occurred in Real, Quezon. All throughout the following day, we kept receiving pleas for help, saying that the water was rising, that the living, the dying and the dead were all huddled together, that there was no food or water. Our calls could not get through. Apparently, our text messages were not received either.


Real, Infanta, and Gen. Nakar in Quezon Province were among the hardest-hit towns in Quezon Province. You would recall the story of Repador building in Real, where over a hundred people took shelter at the height of the typhoon and were buried in a landslide. My grandparents lived two houses away from the Repador building. They were missing, along with most of our relatives. There was no word of my mother.


Since radio reports were very sketchy, my husband and brother left for Real on the second day. Thirty kilometers from Real, the road ended. They had to climb boulders, detour to the beach, and wade in waist-deep mud to go on. There were plenty of people on foot, trying to reach Real and Infanta to search for their families. In an equally large number were people going in the opposite direction, trying to get as far away from the place as possible, all muddy and wet, carrying children and meager belongings, their faces filled with shock.


They returned to Manila on the fourth day, bruised and limping. By then, relief operations were being organized and aid was finally trickling in. Soldiers had already arrived to help with the excavation of the Repador building. We learned that both of my grandparents were in Repador, and they had died along with thirteen other relatives. We also learned that my mother was alive, but we did not know where she was, if she was hurt or in need of help.


On December 10 we set out for Infanta to look for my mother. We reached Real just as Stella Marie Sor, three years old, was being lifted from the ruins of the Repador building. Stella Marie, her grandmother, and two teenage boys were the only survivors after ten days in the collapsed building. They survived on rainwater seeping through the debris. Stella Marie is my niece, and she is as old as my daughter.


Infanta was filled with thigh-high mud. You slipped when you wore slippers, but you stepped on sharp objects when you were barefoot. The one-storey houses had mud marks up to their roofs. Overturned vehicles lay in the rice paddies that had become mud rivers. Gigantic logs were on top of some of the houses. A single tomato cost ten pesos and no one had had fresh bread for several days.


If you search “Repador” in Google Philippines, the third entry comes from the Department of Education website. It is a first-hand account written by a teacher when the floods hit Infanta that night and what happened in the aftermath of the tragedy. The author is my mother. She was rescued by neighbors when the floodwaters rose. When we saw her in Infanta her bruises were only starting to fade in multicolored hues. She could not speak then of all that she had gone through, but she later wrote about it. She did not know we would come for her.


She thought she would die. Before the neighbors could hoist her up to their house’s second-floor terrace, she made sure that the two girls staying with her were safe. She knew how to swim, but the current was too fast, she was hit by logs under the water, and she was weakening. In the dark, she said she thought of her children and decided to fight.


She lost all her belongings in the flood. She also lost her parents and thirteen other relatives. But when we arrived in Infanta on that day, she was digging up around her collapsed house, drying old family pictures in the slight breeze, finding a spoon here and a pot there. She was so determined to pick up as many pieces of her life as she could, and start anew.


After the flood, we have repeatedly asked my mother to move to Manila with us. She refused, saying that there was work to be done and that her school needs her. The first thing she did when the water subsided was to find a way to get to her school, to see what needs to be done.


My mother was the principal of Alitas Elementary School in Infanta. The school was badly damaged. Since the water during the flood reached almost to the roofs of the classrooms, all the books were ruined, the students’ desks were broken, and the offices were unrecognizable. Worse, their only source of water, a deep well, was buried in mud.


My mother rallied her teachers and met with the parents. They organized a cleaning and repair schedule that would take weeks. Since the school was far from the town proper, it would not immediately receive aid from the local government. So she became creative.


She wrote about her experience as a report and submitted it to the Department of Education. She solicited help from private organizations.


In January 2005, barely two months after the flood, officers of FEU – East Asia College in Manila arrived in Alitas Elementary School, bringing donations of books, school supplies for the children, computers, and financial help to install pipes to supply potable water to the school. Her school became the first recipient in the area of any substantial aid from an organization.


She went further. She got in touch with a rotary club in Australia and requested for pledges to have her library built. She asked prospective donors to visit the school and see for themselves what they could do to help. She organized little beauty pageants to raise funds and recruited parent volunteers to get actively involved in rebuilding the school. She haggled with the division offices for funds. And the school was slowly restored.


My mother is now 58 years old; in two years’ time she could retire. But still she insists that the school needs her. The library has to be filled with new books; three classrooms need new roofs. There are PTA meetings to chair, contests to organize, requests for sponsorship to type.


I did not fully realize the strength of my mother’s character. This diminutive, soft-spoken mother whom I regarded as the most disorganized woman in the planet has managed, by sheer force of will, to turn a personal tragedy into a driving force to contribute to her community. I look at her, complaining that she has nothing to wear from a closet full of clothes, and I have to marvel at the tough side of her I did not know existed. She sits quietly while I argue with her, and I wonder how many arguments she won for the sake of the school she helped rebuild.


When I was thirteen, I wrote my mother a poem. Part of it goes:


Do you remember, Mommy,


When you taught me to live, and love


The best way I know how?


I remember, Mommy,


So I live in your example,


And love you


With the best of me.




It does not come any truer than this.

and the mountains echoed

This is a story of colliding lives.  This is the story of Pari and Abdullah, brother and sister separated by unfortunate circumstances; of Nila, unhappily married; of Nabi, bound by duty to stay by the side of a sick man and stayed out of love that he himself could not understand.  There are other little stories: of Markos, a Greek volunteer in post-war Afghanistan; Timur and Idris, the affluent Afghan-American cousins who try to 'give back;' of the little boy Adel who discovers in a heartbreaking way that fathers are not gods; the other Pari, who chooses to be the dutiful daughter at the cost of her own dreams.  They come together, eventually leading us back to Pari and Abdullah, the brother and sister, to see where their separate lives have taken them.

The book is not as powerful as The Kite Runner or as moving as A Thousand Splendid Suns, but it evokes a certain yearning.  The words stir in you the lost chances, the what-ifs, the dreams you let go, the love you did not choose.

Take a look at Idris, who went to Afghanistan to try to recover his family's old lands, and meets a badly injured girl in a hospital.  He became attached to the little girl, and he promises to help her.  When he returned to the States, he became busy with his home theater, his Americanized sons, the good life he worked hard for.  At one point he asks his wife if they 'needed all that.'  For the price of his precious home theater, he says he could build a school in Afghanistan.  His wife tells him, 'Then why don't you do both?'

But Idris soon forgets how strongly he felt for the little girl in Afghanistan, and in the end does nothing.  Several years down the road, he meets the girl again, not so little anymore, healed and signing the book she wrote.  She autographs the book for him, writing 'Don't worry.  You're not in it.'

That is just one of the little stories.  They come so real.  They come with a little barb that stings you, and you feel it for a while, or at least until the next good book comes along.  I ended the book feeling a little unfulfilled, wishing that all the people in it had happier endings.

In real life, though, you don't always have happy endings.  You take what life throws at you, and you do the best you can.  There's a prayer framed in my office desk that begins with 'O God, help me to make this day a perfect day, a day at the end of which I will have nothing to regret.'

So be it with our lives.

world's most powerful moms

This article in Yahoo lists Forbes.com's The World's 20 Most Powerful Moms.  Hillary Clinton ranks No. 1.  Sheryl Sandberg, Facebook COO, is 4th, and Michelle Obama is 7th.  The list includes the presidents of Brazil and Argentina (both women, yes), Melinda Gates, and Beyonce.

The list is based on money controlled, decision-making power, and multiple measures of influence.  These power women publicly acknowledge that being a mother and a professional is very difficult, and they have strategies to succeed both in the boardroom and at home.

Most of them are married; some are divorced; a couple are widows.  Most of them say they make time to be with their children, and some of them were raised by strong mothers.  All of them are tough, and all of them are very rich.

I sighed.  I am inspired and in awe of them.  And then I thought, wait, most powerful mom?  We ordinary working mothers may not close billion-dollar deals, but we do great things.

We bought Avengers plastic tumblers from Petron after the kid has watched the movie... and we panicked when they no longer had Thor.  It took us a long ride home, detouring to four gasoline stations, to find Thor.  We got home and the kid is already asleep, so we were late for work the following day just to see the look on the kid's face when he saw all four tumblers lined up in the dining table.  Of course, the tumblers were forgotten when Spiderman came along.

Our child got in a fight with a playmate over a marble, and as a result we got in a fight with the other kid's mother.

We would sometimes wish our child never got on a bicycle, or climbed trees, or rode the bus, or got a boyfriend, if it meant we could spare our child all the scrapes, the hurts and the heartache.  

We ordinary working mothers are the source of infinite riches.  Our Kate Spade wallets (bought in four gives) produced Barbie dolls, movie tickets for Ice Age 4, and McFloat and fries.  Of course they don't know the loans we've filed to pay for their tuition.

We control money.  It takes a lot of effort and a session with a calculator to make ends meet every payday, and still have some enough left to bring cookies home, or treat your daughter to a hair spa, or buy some new underwear.

We are powerful decision-makers.  From the food served at lunch to the school the child goes, from the doctor's appointments to the new curtains for Christmas, we usually have the last say.  It makes for a peaceful household when you let us have our way, and of course you can always blame us when the kid gets a new scrape on the knee, or the fried chicken was burnt, or the in-laws were disappointed by the way the children behaved.

And of course, you can never underestimate the influence we exert-- or impose-- on behalf of our children.  Ever tried getting an appointment with a class adviser over a test paper that had grammatical errors in the questions?  Ever tried arguing with the mother of a child who got sideswiped by a tricycle while crossing the street?  Ever seen a mother confront the boyfriend who got her daughter pregnant at sixteen?

We are not perfect.  We try to do the best we can, every moment, hoping we are not wrong.  Sometimes, when our kids grow fucked up, we get blamed for their childhood.  But for a sweet, beautiful time, in the little worlds of our children, we are the most powerful mom.  We move heaven and earth for them.

day 35: the thank-you list

We brought Ate Malou home on 8 March.  She is now busy getting better, talking all the time.  She sleeps in the living room surrounded by her contraptions, and we have granted her full control of the tv remote.

This goes out to all the people who helped us through the one month that Ate Malou was confined at the Philippine Orthopedic Center.

To Mommy Janet, our neighbor, who bathed and fed my four-year-old, brought her to school and fetched her after class while Ate Malou was away.

To Gohan, Kitty and Grace, Shasel and Ms. Cecile, whose referrals made us breathe easier, and made us understand the workings of the government hospital system.

To my officemates who responded to the email and forwarded it to friends, and to the resident surgeons at East Avenue and Makati Med who kindly offered to help.

To Irene who paid for the pediatric crutches; to Liza for the bulalo lunch that Ate Malou thoroughly enjoyed; and to Pia for the care package.

To Shirley whose sister brought the wheelchair to the POC; and to Joanna who brought the pediatric walker to the office.

To Jackie whose sister sent money and whose brother brought the commode chair to the charity ward and caused Ate Malou to become a celebrity-of-sorts in the ward. The commode chair now resides in my living room and the cat has claimed it as her throne, when Ate Malou is not sitting on it.

To Eva and Jun at the Department of Health; we are very grateful.  Come over one weekend when Ate Malou is well enough to cook, and let's have lunch together.

To Ate Baby and the watchers at the ward who helped at one point or another, you give kindness a whole new meaning.

To my mother-in-law, who makes a mean pork steak and who has taught me how to properly wash my husband's shirts. :-)

To Dr. Badiee and Dr. Chua, and the team who handled Ate Malou's operation, thank you.  I still marvel over the staples on Ate Malou's leg, and since I am afraid of needles, I will always be in awe of someone who can put injured people back together again.  Thank you too for taking the time to respond to my text messages, and for kindly putting Ate Malou's mind at ease every time you visit.

And here's to the POC staff: to Nurse Mario and Nurse Red at the third floor, whom Ate Malou said were particularly solicitous to the patients; to Nurse Jenny at the second floor who was cheerful and kind, and to the nurse who helped Ate Malou's mother navigate the billing procedure.  The staff at the Philhealth Office were efficient and friendly.  The lady at the Medical Records was strict but very helpful.

To Sol at Billing, who didn't know me, but who pleasantly accommodated my questions in the many days we were at the hospital.  To Karen at the Social Worker's office, who showed me the many ways we ordinary people can help others.

When I submit the formal report, your full names will be there.  This is my informal thank-you list, but this one is just as heartfelt, and this one will also be read by people.

I wish you could have seen my little daughter when Ate Malou came home.  They hugged so hard I was afraid I'd have to bring Ate Malou back to the hospital for more broken bones.  I also have to put some bandage and micropore tape on her leg so she could properly sympathize with Ate Malou.

To all of you out there who wished Ate Malou well even if you didn't know her, she doesn't know I'm blogging about her, so I'm thanking you all on her behalf.  Bless your kind hearts, people.

day 28: the operation

On 22 February we were informed that Ate Malou's schedule was on the 28th, but given our experience the previous week, I wasn't going to believe it until I actually see it written down in her chart.

The doctor has already given me the prescription for the antibiotics and the materials needed for surgery, but the ward watchers tell me that someone has to be on standby, because the requests for additional materials would be given the night before surgery, and other medicines would be required in the recovery room.  So on 27 February, I was there, double-checking the list.  I asked the doctor if everything was complete, and if the clearance is still valid.  I thought I'd suffer a heart attack if we would be informed that one test needs to be repeated this time.

The nurse explained to me how the schedule for surgery gets finalized, from the time the anesthesiologist makes his rounds, to the advise to the nurse station, to the operating room lineup.  The anesthesiologist will make his rounds in the late afternoon, and we'd get the instruction to bring the form to the blood bank.  Then they'd run through the checklist.  The nurses on shift would keep checking the materials until the patient is ready for surgery.  I should get the name of the nurse; she is helpful and pleasant.

They kept the watcher running that night.  She bought the anesthesia, then the nurses were asking about the intravenous solution and the sheet for the operating table, which weren't in my list.  Finally, at 6:00 am on 28 February, Ate Malou was brought to the operating room.

Ate Malou says she was semi-conscious throughout the operation.  The doctors were discussing, and she could hear the pounding of some metal, which she assumed was the implant they were going to use on her.  She said she could recognize the voice of her doctor, and that of the anesthesiologist, and they both sounded nice and light-hearted.  Finally, the doctor said they were finished, and she said she thanked the Lord, then thanked the doctor.  The doctor texted me when they finished, and you don't know how relieved I was.  It is a big deal, when the doctor tells you everything went well, and it is a bigger deal when the doctor takes the time to inform you.

I spoke to Ate Malou the following morning, 1 March, and already she was so talkative.  She said she needed blood transfusion, and that she had a fever.  But she remembered to greet my husband a happy birthday.  She also said she had a new doctor, and this doctor is also cute and very cheerful.  The new doctor explained the whole operation to her, and what is expected, and what the possible problems are.

Ate Malou's version is that when the doctors were trying to screw the implant to her thigh bone, her bone would disintegrate.  So they made another incision to try getting some bone from her hip, but that didn't work.  Her hip bone was very thin.  They got some bone from their bone bank and fixed the implant in place using that.  The doctor said it was successful.

That's what's important.  It was successful.  We can worry later about preventing infection, and the risk of hospital pneumonia, and why she had fever, but in the meantime we're only glad she's out of surgery and talking about going home.  I'll make sure I can personally thank the doctors.  They have no idea how grateful we are for helping Ate Malou get well again.

day 26: the watcher

Ate Malou has a neighbor in the ward, a lady who has been in the hospital since November.  She was supposed to undergo surgery for a broken hip, but the doctors have learned that she has goiter.  She has undergone medication at the hospital, but she needs further tests, a biopsy, and treatment before she can be scheduled for surgery.  Said specialized treatment was not available at the Orthopedic Center.

The lady was crying, because she was being sent home.  Her doctor has advised that she could continue the treatment on an outpatient basis in another hospital, and then she can come back for surgery when her goiter is ok.  She will need a wheelchair when she gets discharged.  She was crying because she can't afford a wheelchair.  She is a fish vendor in Navotas.

Ate Malou cried with her, of course.  Such is life in the ward; you share each other's miseries when you've been together long enough.  Her watcher, Ate Baby, asked Ate Malou if we could help her sister obtain a wheelchair.  We said yes, we'd try to help.  At this point we were already talking to DOH, so we might as well include a request for a wheelchair.

Ate Baby has been living in the ward long enough to know how it works, and more.  She is the one the other watchers ask when they're not sure where to go.  She runs to the drugstore to fill another patient's prescription when the watcher is not available.  She coaches the other watchers what to buy first in the prescription, and which drugstore offers the lower prices.  She advises the other watchers what time to go to the blood bank, where to get the medical abstract, where to buy water.  When Ate Malou needed to get her thyroid test brought out, it was Ate Baby who offered to go to the laboratory, and she refused the money Ate Malou gave for her fare.

The ward watchers share what they have: food, magazines, gossip about Coco Martin's lovelife, kindness.  They are poor, but they have a good heart.  They look out for each other, and they wish each other well.  They seem truly happy for you when your patient's test comes back normal, and they rally around a patient who gets scheduled for surgery.

It is Ate Baby who will run to Red Cross when Ate Malou needed blood transfusion after the surgery.  It is Ate Baby who will buy the paracetamol when Ate Malou got a fever at 3:00 am, and who will bring Ate Malou's mother to the right office to be interviewed by the social worker.

Right now we're deep in debt due to the hospital expenses, and I'm truly anxious about the bill.  We've asked numerous people for help.  Ate Malou will need her own wheelchair and crutches when she gets discharged.  But you know what, I think I'll ask a few more people.  The lady will get a wheelchair too.

There is enough kindness to go around, even among strangers, in the ward.  This goes out to thank Ate Baby, and I wish her sister well.

day 22: how to make the charity ward your home

If you're a watcher for a long-term patient at the charity ward of the Orthopedic Center, here are some helpful tips.

1. Secure a sleeping space.  If you share the bed with your patient you run the risk of falling off the high bed and become a patient yourself.  You can sleep sitting up on a hard chair.  You can sleep on a cardboard under the patient's bed, which is more comfortable, since some watchers have installed an electric fan under the beds.

2. Get up early to beat the bathroom queue, since bath time is only 6:00 to 8:00 am.  Bring your own pail and dipper (there is none in the bathroom), and guard your shampoo sachets zealously.  Become a master of quick baths, and be willing to share the cubicle if the line is long.  Dispose of your dignity; the shower curtain is a shredded garbage bag.  Take breathing lessons.  The line for the single toilet is usually longer.

3. Don't worry about food.  There is a woman who takes food orders before lunch and collects the payments afterwards.  You can order lunch for two people for P50 pesos.  The food is delivered in styro packaging, neatly labeled with what's inside: 1 kanin, tokwa baboy.  At merienda time there is a vendor who walks down the corridor, shouting, "Camote cue! Turon! Ice candy!"

4. Be creative about doing the laundry. You can dry them in the ward terrace, but only at night, and be mindful of the space you take.  You can dry freshly-washed underwear under the beds, while you sleep at night.  The electric fans dry them up nicely.

5. Make a budget.  A lot of little expenses add up.  3 gallons of drinking water should be enough for two people for one week, but you have to buy the water in those 24-hour drugstores outside.  You'll need plenty of tissue paper and alcohol, some laundry soap and dishwashing paste, sachets of sandwich spread, 3-in-1 coffee mix, instant cup noodles, and packets of biscuits that your patient can nibble at 2:00am when sleep is elusive.

6. Make friends with other watchers.  They can watch your patient if you need to run out to fill a prescription.  They can also lend Tagalog pocketbooks and glossy magazines with Coco Martin on the cover, for the times when you're dying of boredom.

7. Take advantage of the interns.  They come in jolly little groups, very cheerful and eager.  They offer to give sponge baths and give you tokens, such as face towels, soap bars, and alcohol.  They poke and prod and chat you up and try to look knowledgeable, but they're a refreshing sight from those surly older nurses who've been around a hundred years and have seen every broken bone you can imagine.

8. Learn to become invisible.  When the doctors make their rounds with their retinue of assistants and interns and nurses-in-training, you blend into the walls.  You don't speak unless spoken to, you don't get in their way, you don't offer information about the patient. On that note, you don't undermine the authority of the attendants, the cleaners, and the nurses, some of whom will look at you as though you're a lower species of mammal.

9. Lift your patient's spirits. You can always chat with the other watchers, and therefore learn their sad stories. In turn, you can share them with your patient, and you can highlight those who have a sadder story than yours.  You've been in the ward three weeks? Oh, cheer up. The next bed has been here four months.  The one beyond her?  Six months.

10. Be thankful for the little things.  This is hard, but this will keep you going.  Among the many unfriendly staff, there will always be one who is kind.  There are complete strangers who will smile and say hi.  There are people who hold Mass in the corridor on Sunday afternoons.  Be thankful for the one test that turns out normal, the antibiotic that turns out unnecessary, the nurse who actually explains the situation, the other watcher who would offer to buy water for you, the doctor who takes the time to chat and joke around.  Count the little kindnesses, the little funny things in your day, while you're waiting for the big thing.  Like finally getting out of the darned hospital.