Twice Awakened

It’s been 40 minutes since I started writing this entry. I don’t quite know how to begin. I tried to make an introductory paragraph, managed to make three versions, but trashed all of them. Perhaps I ought to skip the opening and just get on with my story.

Went to PGH with my classmates and our professor today to visit cancer patients. Some of you reading this will probably see the word “cancer” and click the close button almost immediately. If you’ve read on this far I ask you not to do it. Don’t click on that X. You need to hear this. And you needn’t worry – I have no intentions of making this entry sound like an episode from a horrid soap opera. My intentions are not to depress you with a story chock-full of drama.

That’s the weird part of it, you see. I hate drama. I don’t like watching sappy, tear-jerker movies. I hate crying in front of people. And I thought I had mastered the technique of being the anti-drama queen, until today.

It was the nearest thing I had to a breakdown, I suppose. We were standing by the doorway of the first room we were to visit. A few minutes prior we had been briefed by the doctor – we were going to meet people who were sick, some of them dying. Almost all of them had no money.

I had a first glimpse of her – she was 24 years old, but her frail and skinny frame made her look like she was 12. The doctor leaned towards her bed and they were in silent conversation. My classmates and I watched through the doorway.

I couldn’t help myself after a few seconds. The tears just kept coming. And I used to be so good at holding them back. I felt horrible, because I knew it was the worst time to cry. We were there to try and give these people comfort at their dark times. To cry was the most selfish thing I could’ve done.

It took a few minutes to get my composure back. Raise your head, look out the window as if you’re admiring the view outside, anything to hold them back. After a while I was ready to meet her.

She was in pain, it was easily evident. She was dying. We introduced ourselves and we asked her questions and made stories. My classmate did most of the talking. I would’ve joined in on the conversation but I was afraid that doing so would make me cry again. And to be honest, I didn’t know what to say. So I listened. She had difficulty talking so there were times she had to spell out what she was saying by writing them on air. She had a son, he was four years old. She got married when she was nineteen. Her husband was downstairs. After a while he came into the room and we met him. He too was quite young, and was very polite and courteous towards us. He was a simple man, one you would pass by on a sidewalk and not even notice, but as he stood there by his wife he gained my respect and my admiration. I was humbled by his dignity and love.

Afterwards we went into the next room and met a middle-aged woman. She had stage 2 cancer, which meant that she didn’t look as sick or as fragile. She sat on a stool by her bed. On top of the bed was a copy of the New Testament in Filipino. Unlike the first woman we visited, she had no one watching over her. She was 43 and had never been married apparently. In the strange workings of fate, we found out that she too was from Batangas. She had been at the hospital for more than three months. I asked her questions about her life. Being a spinster was difficult, she said. She had no children to take care of her. From the time she was admitted to the hospital she’d only been visited twice by relatives, and never again. She couldn’t come back to Batangas because she didn’t have the money to pay for the bus ride home. That’s only about a little over 100 Pesos, and she couldn’t afford it.

Soon it was time to go, so we said our goodbyes. We apologized in case we disturbed her, and she said not at all, at least she had seen a kababayan.

On the way back I thought of the two women I met. I wondered about what they were like before the cancer. I like to think they had wonderful, happy lives.

I don’t think I will ever look at my life the same way again after today. And I doubt I’ll live it the same way.