Reflections in Ward 4 Bed 43 and Beyond

I spent the afternoons of the last week of lectures in Ward 4, Bed 43 in PGH. That week was to end with the last module exams before finals, but I didn't care. My father's sister was diagnosed with breast cancer, the extent of which has been recently revealed by lab tests and the long awaited biopsy to be stage 4 and very aggressive.

That pre-visitation Monday afternoon I decided to first visit, an anatomate-orgmate caught me crying in prayer in the student lounge. I couldn't talk about it without tearing up, so she ended up praying with me. My birthday, when my aunt cooked for me and refused my mother's payment for the ingredients, is a lacrimal gland stimulus.

We aren't close-- my aunt and I-- but what she's going through is within the scope of my field, proximal to my heart. The cell cycle and the cancer genes were lectured not so long ago. About two weeks earlier, breast examination was tackled in our small group discussion, held in that very ward. I've felt breast lumps, and identified peau d' orange. I'm familiar with pitting edema and lymph nodes. I know what tachycardia and pleural effusion is. Now, it's all too real.

It took an ill-timed first visit (because they were at the biopsy place when I dropped by) for me to realize that I had no idea how to conduct myself in their presence. Primarily, because they're family and this fact embraces the irony of blood-ties and familiarity. Being practically strangers with them could've worked for me had there not been that relation of  kin and special occasions. Why that is, I have no idea. Secondly, how does one interact with the (possibly) terminally ill? Admittedly, I'm not at all a person of smiles and sunshine, with zero ability to cheer up anyone.

Just like any other ward, Ward 4 is complicatedly lined with numbered beds occupied by people plucked off by diseases from their daily routine. A musty, gray atmosphere looms over the place. Yet, there's a warm sense of community among its inhabitants, perceptible only after one spends sufficient time there. They share stories, and look after one another, especially when the other leaves their bed to get some tests done, or for some other reason. It's an atmosphere I like better than the cold lecture room.

There was an intern whom my aunts found amusing, aside from good-looking. I figure that's how I wanted to appear when it's my turn.

When my aunt asked if she's not supposed to eat prior to the bone marrow scan, and he replied in poker face, "Bawal. Bawal ka na kumain. Forever!" When it was time to call him for wound cleaning, he responded, "Wait lang, magnanakaw lang ako ng dressing." On the way to ultrasound, my aunt told him the dressing on her wound was no longer intact. With a "sige, mommy, dito tayo sa sulok," he pushed her chair towards a dark alley. When he overheard my other aunt and I talking about the oblation run, he asked what it was about, then went on a rant about how it wasn't UP students who really enjoy it. When asked his age, he makes us guess, but tells us right away anyway, saying "masyado namang bata yun" after the aunt makes him only a year too young.

Watching him and the other medical students do rounds, moved something. That is how I wanted to spend my life. Well, not only doing rounds, but making people feel better, in general. I didn't say that during the entrance interview, but I guess, I really do like helping others.

I stayed with the relatives until that Friday discharge time. Events unfolded undoubtedly with Someone's signature.

Another relative was supposed to pick them up around six, after being discharged about an hour earlier. Though they live in the area of my get-off station, I declined the invitation to ride with them because the LRT is good venue for pondering. Two hours later, I found myself in boots, wading back to the PGH lobby where I left them a few minutes earlier. Pedro Gil station was closed for train troubles, and the nearest operating station was Central which I has no idea how to reach. We ended up taking a cab because the ride was stuck in Makati traffic and rain.

In the cab, I pondered on the likeness of the Filipino concept of family and Christianity. The relative who assumed most of my aunt's care, aside from her husband, is her younger half second cousin whom she helped raise. They've had terrible feuds in the past, and they do speak harshly to one another, but it doesn't matter. The half second cousin comes whenever the husband couldn't be around. She was the one taught to clean the aunt's wounds. She talked to the doctors, bought food, fixed papers, etc. She even spent the nights in the ward, with only a chair upon which to sleep. She was asleep in the front seat throughout the cab ride.

In the backseat, the husband had his arm around my aunt all that time. It was pretty cramped on their side because of the huge backpack on his lap. He was on the window side, and she couldn't move much because of pain. Yet, they looked kind of cozy.

I wondered how he feels knowing the love of his life might not last that long and that it was her stubbornness that led to the magnitude of this condition. I've watched him take care of her. Feeding her, fanning her, going with her to the bathroom, explaining to her why she should do things and not do things in the calmest manner I've ever heard even when she was snapping at him were echoes of that Growing Old With You song. It was the first case I've ever witnessed in which it was the husband who looked after the wife. And then I wondered if I'd ever get to marry someone who'd do that for me.

As the cab arrived at their gate, my mother parked our vehicle.

So I failed one of the three exams in neuro (barely passing the two), but I regret nothing (except that softdrink the uncle bought for me which my pride wouldn't take, and that on the spot prayer request by the aunt that my timidness ignored). It's breast cancer awareness month.

Dear friends, we ask for your prayers. At the very least, I hope she gets to see me as a doctor. Her only son should've graduated college by that time.