Photo: All Saints Day

Wax and Light. August 2011. Baclaran, Manila.

"Lighting a candle is a way of extending one's prayer and showing solidarity with the person on whose behalf the prayer is offered." (full article here.)


This is in remembrance, as well, for all those that we have ever loved and have gone ahead of us.

The big oral exam

The best place to study would be poolside, where I live. There's a good breeze (So not Manila
-like), and the people pretty much do their own thing all the time.

I'm kind of feeling the willies over the oral exam tomorrow. I have the tendency to talk really fast when I'm nervous, and to begin with, I already talk fast to begin with, be it in whatever language or dialect. It's almost, well...manic.

:-p

One time, I had a supervisor who wanted me to tape my interviews with patients, and I found out some surprising things about myself, I.e. I tend to talk (a lot) with my hands, and that I shouldn't wear a dress and that among others, I shouldn't be too, well, perky (because I usually am.haha)

And an important thing to note was that I shouldn't be wearing a skirt with a hemline above my knees, and that pants are better becAuse they make it easier for you to run when you need to. Oh, and that I shouldn't stAy within "grabbing" or "kicking" distance from the patient.

Its funny watching yourself do an interview on video. On can never really be aware of their own little tics until they see it for themselves. Oh, and another useful thing I learned from that was that...the angle from the left suits me better than the other. Haha.

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it is the first year anniversary of my grandfather's death today, and I've been meaning to write something special about it. I was going to do it the other night but I didn't get to becAuse I was crying. Nd I was tired from work. But mostly, it was because I missed my grandfather so much.

I wasn't with him when he died. I was 2 hours away at the hospital where I worked then, and I had just done my first 24 hour shift when my cousin Chris called to tell me that Lolo was indeed gone. I was just quiet at first, but when it finally sunk in, I had to cry. And not just cried tears, I sobbed like a big kid. But I could not apologize for what I was going through that day, that big loss that I had felt in my heart. My grandfather, the kindest person I had ever known was forever gone, and I had never had anyone close to me die, and leave me like this.

I stayed in the doctors quarters for most of that morning (luckily I didn't have any patients that morning), and just lay motionless, wallowing in the finality of my loss. My friend Ivy called me after I texted her (she lost her dad at an early age, and she understood). I called another friend as well, someone I felt I could talk to about anything then, and he just listened while I talked about what I had felt. He had never met my grandfather, of course, but I felt much much better after I talked to him. I recall that he teased me about it, it almost felt like he was just patronizing me. But in the end, I felt a whole lot better after hearing his voice, I almost felt like I was home.

Losing people we love is never easy...they have become a part of us, in such a way that when they die, it's almost as if a part of your heart was also taken away.

------

I grew up with a lot of love, I suppose. And I have a lot to give. And I'm very thankful for that.

-----

(I miss you, lolo.)


----

Happy Sunday everyone.

Love,

s.

Farewell, Sir BVR....and Thank You.

This afternoon, Mer, Trina, Chamie and I went to Cubao to pay our last respects to Dr. Baltazar V. Reyes, who I've written about in my previous entries. Sir BVR (as he was fondly called), was also considered to be the Father of Psychiatry in the Philippines, and he was well-loved by everyone here (and all those he had ever taught).

We didn't have a lot of time with him...just a handful of one-hour sessions (4, to be exact) when we were doing our pre-residency last October (I got to report on "Dreams" on the last week of pre-residency). After that, he took ill...and was admitted to the ICU. We never got to see him again. We were all informed that he had passed away in the morning of December 12, 2010. 


He was a kind man, a great teacher, and, from what I've experienced, was a very inspiring individual...a giant among psychiatrists, but could talk to you in a way that could make you feel like you could stand on his shoulders and see the beauty of Psychiatry from his lofty height.

We offered our heartfelt condolences and  told his son that we didn't have a lot of time with him, but he made such an impact on us anyway. He said that his dad loved to teach... 

I am saddened by his passing, we all are. And because lately I've been getting searches on the man on my blog, I've decided to put up pictures of his wake. His wake will only be for two days, and so we won't get to see him for much longer. 

Chamie, Trina and Mer 

At the Chapel of the Ascension, Cubao.

The Guest Book.

Sir Baltazar V. Reyes, Psychiatrist and Teacher Extraordinaire

Sir BVR's urn.

The Mass Cards.

A collage of Sir BVR's pictures.

There were white flowers everywhere. The arrangements seemed to be strictly just in that color.  It was a good choice though, purity was befitting.

Since we came by ourselves, we didn't know who was the immediate family for sure, so, we went on a hunch (Mer knew Dr. BVR's neurologist son by face) and we all went to offer our condolences (with myself going first, of course. I don't know why that seems to happen most of the time...I figured it was because I was the "least shy" of the bunch? And I mean that as a euphemism.)

I don't know for sure if he will be inurned in these spaces...or be carried home.

For posterity's sake. and maybe, as a last picture in remembrance. (I wish I got to attend the service, though. I would have loved to hear more stories about him.)

Christmas Eve

I stayed at the station 'cause I was doing a "20-20" salbutamol on an asthmatic patient earlier this morning...the loud whirr of the nebulizer was put to the back of my concerns as I tried to get some sleep slumped on my crossed arms on one of the tables.

...I had just started a light light dream about a cellphone message when suddenly i hear rapid footfalls down the corridor, people were running, everyone was in a rush, "Doctor, doctor! My husband won't wake up!!" cried the panicky woman.

The patient was a stout man, 5'9", about 90 lbs, was cold and clammy, and unresponsive when he came in. There was no sign of a pulse, nor a rise and fall of the chest...no signs of life. His pupils were fixed in a wild, empty stare...the cold blue lifelessness had already started to form, it was creeping up from his neck to his face, and his nails and toes had already taken on the lifeless hue.

He had died ("expired") before he got to the hospital. Resuscitation didn't work.

His wife didn't know what happened to him. She had no idea what he had been through the last two years he was abroad for work...no inkling as to what medicines he was taking, what he did there, and all that. Apparently, he had just arrived for the holidays three hours before she saw him just turn rigid in bed, with his eyes wild. And then he was gone.

Two years, two long years of being apart, and now this...a final goodbye on Christmas Eve pa.

It's very unlucky, really. A weird, twisted way to experience loss. To finally have the time to share something (i.e. Christmas) with what (who) you wanted and then have him wrenched away so brutally away from you, I pity the poor woman.

But I did not show it.

I ordered what was supposed to be done and did the medical side of the situation, instead of holding her hand, or crying with them.

For some reason, although it was unfortunate that it happened, I felt that there was probably a big reason for something that's happened, or a bigger cause.  I did my work methodically and as impersonally as I could manage.

I felt detached.

And then, it was over.

What a way to welcome Christmas eve.

Never Cry

July 7, 2009 - Entry on Death of CR, 5:10pm, Holy Child Hospital

“Never let a patient and his family see you cry…”

One of my teachers back in internship year told us that a physician was not supposed to shed tears, or to show weakness in front of the patient and his family in the event that he/she was right with them when they died.

You were the doctor, she said. You were therefore expected to show composure, and be onjective when everyone else was emotional and not thinking rationally. However, if you couldn’t help yourself, the best thing to do would be to excuse yourself into some back room, where you could cry privately, preferably alone, with no one around to see you. And then when you’re done, you go back to your patient’s room and face everyone, acting as if nothing ever happened.

Call it coldness, call it being stoic, but when it really comes down to it, the patient’s folks would appreciate it if someone were more in control. Calm and collected under the intense pressure, giving orders as needed.

To be objective is to avoid clouding one’s judgement with sentiments so one can focus on the task at hand and act on it effectively. Problems that arise from medical management are settled more easily when one decides from a perspective unmarred by emotional entrapments.

(Meaning: DON’T get too emotionally attached /involved. :-p)

I was thinking this actually, when I was standing there at the foot of the bed of my friend’s father, Uncle Dodong, as he lay dying.

Three days earlier, he was working, as usual, driving his cab around. His co-drivers saw that he had pulled over to the side and then was seen to have lost consciousness. They thought he was just taking a nap, so they left him alone, and almost one hour after, they noticed that he had begun to turn blue (medical term: Cyanotic). They then rushed him to the nearest hospital where resuscitation was done. He was said to be pulseless when they examined him initially, and a defibrillator was applied to charge his heart back to pump, judging from the burn marks on his chest.

He was revived somewhat, admitted to the ICU and maintained on medications while being attached to a mechanical ventilator to help him breathe. There were times when he’d open his eyes and seem to glance about things in the room, but he never really gained consciousness. His attending physician explained that because of the delay in getting help, he had already suffered massive damage to his heart and brain due to lack of proper oxygen deliver y to these tissues. The chances of a full recovery were therefore nil.

In the end, his family decided to let him go, after much tearful discussions. They could no longer afford to pay for the prolonged time in the ICU.

And so, I’m writing this while I sit in a coffee shop here in the city,because just a few hours ago. I kept on asking myself whether it was okay to cry in front of the others. My instinct in situations like these is to keep up a stiff upper lip so I can , hopefully think straight.

But then, I realized that I wasn’t there as a physician, I wasn’t there to examine him and he was not my patient.
I was there as a friend. I was there, in the last few minutes of his life as a friend of the family, as an adoptive niece, as a person who cared and mostly as a person grateful to have known such a good and kind man. He was a good father to his children, and a loyal and faithful husband to his wife, Auntie Sonia.

Here was a good man, a person who I respected in our community, and someone who always supported our group of friends when we were putting together our community projects some years back. He would offer his house for our club meetings, as well as give me a ride home when I needed one (he always had good timing, passing by school during the busy rush hour.) He was quietly, a strong presence in our community, an honest man who did an honest day’s work all the time.

I was there too, standing at the foot of his hospital bed, quietly brushing away tears that I could not keep from falling. Saying goodbye always, always gave me a reason a sense of profound sadness…”

(Goodbye, Dear Uncle Dodong, thanks for everything! We will defintely miss you.)

Rest in Peace, Carmelito Rojonan