tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258448702024-03-08T05:32:01.705+08:00My Mind Has WheelsInside my head, wheels are turning. Hey, sometimes I'm not so wise. You know, that old Carpenters song.marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.comBlogger69125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-20869574731711923762014-08-24T18:01:00.003+08:002014-08-24T18:01:45.281+08:00pillars of progress.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgki__Nxld11Lu56UTPtnJXS021kuDAlI66X6AHYaTPrwANULYijzz4ljDsIHASRLK3h9C33uKVrpNbHXC2Yq7ATS4b07gzwnjXaJHOa2mrq4UoGC2Wqf8rH7uvyJ2hQfBBOJMBDQ/s1600/1013444_10200109790059585_747038930_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgki__Nxld11Lu56UTPtnJXS021kuDAlI66X6AHYaTPrwANULYijzz4ljDsIHASRLK3h9C33uKVrpNbHXC2Yq7ATS4b07gzwnjXaJHOa2mrq4UoGC2Wqf8rH7uvyJ2hQfBBOJMBDQ/s1600/1013444_10200109790059585_747038930_n.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="text-align: justify;">(The piece below was written in support of Iloilo City Mayor Jed Patrick Mabilog's nomination for World Mayor 2014 - an annual award given to outstanding mayors all over the world. He is the only Philippine mayor to be included in this year's shortlist. Read more about the award at </span><a href="http://www.worldmayor.com/" style="text-align: justify;">http://www.worldmayor.com/</a><span style="text-align: justify;">)</span></i></div>
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I first met Mayor Jed Patrick Mabilog back in 2004 when I was selected as one of the Ten Outstanding Student Leaders of Iloilo City (TOSLIC), an event spearheaded by his HALIGI Foundation. For the non-Ilonggo speaker, “<i>haligi</i>” means support or pillar, and my initial impressions of him were just that: A big man with an even bigger heart, a “<i>haligi</i>” in every sense of the word.</div>
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In its website, The World Mayor Award seeks to recognize “a mayor who has made outstanding contributions to his/her community and has developed a vision for urban living and working that is relevant to towns and cities across the world.” For Mayor Jed, the contributions are surely many, but the vision has always been the same: Elevate Iloilo City to premier status by 2015, and snatch back its coveted title as the historical Queen City of the South.</div>
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And why not? History has always been the city’s claim to fame. Thanks to the efforts of the Iloilo City Cultural Heritage Conservation Council, restored Art Deco buildings now bask in resplendent glory along downtown Calle Real, the country’s newest heritage zone as declared by the National Historical Commission of the Philippines. Elsewhere, it’s a more striking tryst of the old and new: With business permits streamlined, government efficiency bolstered, and corruption kept in check, the city’s bullish climate became the prime battleground for the movers and the shakers of Philippine economy: Industrial parks took shape, shiny edifices rose one after another, and gung-ho investors arrived in droves. Roads and bridges enjoyed a facelift, and crime rate remained low. As a testament to these achievements, the city gained prominence in the Red Orchid Awards, the International Livable Communities Awards, and the National Competitiveness Council’s Most Competitive Cities, and bagged the honor as one of the official venues for the 2015 Asia Pacific Economic Cooperation (APEC) Ministerial Meetings.</div>
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Amid all these, environmental sustainability has not taken a back step. An avid cyclist, Mayor Jed championed the creation of crisp bike lanes along the swanky avenue slicing through the city’s new, burgeoning Central Business District. To alleviate the city’s perennial flooding problem (and avoid the cataclysmic scale of destruction spawned by Typhoon Frank in 2008), floodways were constructed in the suburbs, and the streets kept litter-free. But the administration’s crowning glory in the environmental arena would have to be the remarkable transformation of the Iloilo River – a dying waterway given a second lease on life, paragon host of the first ever Philippine International River Summit in 2012 and a finalist in the 2013 Theiss International Riverprize Awards.</div>
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Throughout the pursuit of progress, Mayor Jed has not forgotten the greatest catalysts of a city’s success: its people. In keeping with Iloilo City’s reputation as an academic center, education continued to be a top priority especially with the establishment of the Iloilo City Community College. Moreover, the government’s trademark womb-to-tomb program provides socialized services including maternal care, child immunizations, mass weddings, livelihood trainings, low-cost housing for informal settlers (especially those along the riverbanks), and even free coffin and embalming services. </div>
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Early on, Mayor Jed realized the importance of partnerships. He has harnessed the tremendous power of public-private partnerships (PPPs) in many of the government’s key projects, and has forged a crucial alliance with Iloilo City Representative and former Mayor Jerry P. Trenas (whom I had the pleasure of working alongside during Rotary Club’s Boys and Girls Week in 2002) and incumbent Senate President Franklin Drilon – the dynamic triumvirate orchestrating Iloilo City’s metamorphosis.</div>
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“I love it here. It’s very progressive,” quipped one of my medical colleagues during a trip to the city earlier this year. We were taking a leisurely nighttime stroll along the lush River Esplanade, a tourist attraction in itself. In front of us, a group of youngsters scrambled for a mandatory photo-op before a huge sign that read, “I Am Iloilo.” Such words, I believe, must have grown to become a slogan of shared sentiments, a symbol for a city on the cutting edge of change. Under Mayor Jed’s leadership, that change had indeed spiraled into an unstoppable wave breaking barriers in all directions. He became Iloilo City’s infallible “<i>haligi</i>”, the proverbial pillar behind the city’s sterling story of success.</div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-51760108540271246252014-07-01T01:47:00.000+08:002015-05-04T15:53:29.020+08:00the rules of romance.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi98tL5A6NJz6WPsqCr6nvgxnOyk5_JM4MmH461TXDOhfIGOciBhi_YSsF6MaMu_5qJFNdMbXi3glTM6Dx9F8WvRQk4Tl0RK2Vf9Ce-BufxlRV_EGRHSnNGuFeaefsXGHwleWmjcA/s1600/shuangxi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi98tL5A6NJz6WPsqCr6nvgxnOyk5_JM4MmH461TXDOhfIGOciBhi_YSsF6MaMu_5qJFNdMbXi3glTM6Dx9F8WvRQk4Tl0RK2Vf9Ce-BufxlRV_EGRHSnNGuFeaefsXGHwleWmjcA/s1600/shuangxi.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Last weekend,
I hopped home to attend a joyous reunion of sorts: Two high school friends got
married, and my dear cousin got engaged to an upperclassman. There’s the usual banter,
of course, the all-too-familiar buzz of how their love stories unfolded: how girl
met boy, or vice versa, the courtship, the proposal, preparations for the big
day. The Filipino-Chinese community in Iloilo is quite small, so to speak, and
in a city where everybody knows practically everybody else, one would be hard-pressed
to find a huge surprise (True enough, there were no real surprises – both
couples had been going at it for several years already.) The only surprise
arrived way before the wedding ceremony began, in the middle of a somewhat sweltering
June afternoon, with someone sidling up to me on the pew and blurting out,
quite matter-of-factly: “So, when’s yours?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Stuck in the
roaring years of the turbulent twenties, it’s not as if this were the first
time I found myself facing the music of the magic question, one best handed out
to old, graying maids and fat, balding bachelors. As one of my erstwhile Chinese
teachers remarked, “When people reach the right age, what do they do? They get
married!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ah, if only
it were that easy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Growing up, I
never considered myself really ripe enough for the romance arena, at least one
to be taken seriously. My childhood and teenage years were chock-full doing academics
and career stuff at school, while hobbies and family took priority at home. It
didn’t help that I grew up in a society of 100 million inhabitants, propelled
at a furious pace by the highest birth rate in Southeast Asia, and marred by
daily news of gruesome abortions, unwanted teenage pregnancies, and broken
families (Add a staunchly anti-Rh bill church and years of rotating in
congested obstetric labor rooms.) It didn’t occur as a surprise therefore, that
romance has always been out of the question. A personality test I took years
back required me to rank the following in terms of priority: family, career,
health, personal development, and romance – to which I immediately ranked romance
at the very bottom, with a smug expression on my face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Through all
seven years of medical school – plus another three for residency training, I
have seen how it takes an especially gargantuan degree of patience, dedication
and selflessness to establish a solid relationship and make it work, or to keep
an existing one going strong. For the less fortunate ones like me who had to
contend with the phenomenon of single blessedness in the meantime, it's a fact
of life we've grown to accept – the numerous February 14 solo dates where you pitifully
got your own cake and ate it, the parties where you had no one else but your
best friend or block mate to drag to, the myriad high school reunions where
everyone else had husbands and babies and you still had your boring exams and
textbooks. In the latter case, typical conversations included snippets of
"So, have you found her yet?" to be followed after by my subtle
attempt to digress. Only time will tell, I always retorted.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But time is also
ticking, and my medical colleagues know it best.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I once had a
conversation with a medical school classmate who’s right smack in her thirties.
When I asked her about residency plans after graduation, she became pensive and
shook her head. “Oh dear, I don’t think I can do residency anymore. My ovaries’
days are numbered.” I nodded slowly, smothered with a lot of understanding.
Another classmate, currently in her last year of residency, bemoaned the fact
that her own mother threatened her with so much as a trip to the local
matchmaker should she fail to, ahem, comply with due requirements in the
romance department. The urgency seemed appalling. As one family friend who got
married in the nick of time narrated: “Getting married has its own rules: When
you’re young, it’s all about the heart. When you’re old, it’s all about the
head.” (In other words, <i>kailangan mautak
na.</i>) When one beholds the fact that she came from a family of three
consecutive old maids, such words are bound to be perfectly understandable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Having grown
up in a typical Filipino-Chinese family, you eventually get the gist of
everyone else’s expectations: take a wife, bear a child (preferably a boy), and
carry the family name for generations hence. In this regard, Charles Tan has an
interesting and very informative take on the Filipino-Chinese wedding custom (<a href="http://charles-tan.blogspot.com/2008/06/essay-filipino-chinese-marriage.html">http://charles-tan.blogspot.com/2008/06/essay-filipino-chinese-marriage.html</a>) But just as
the tides wax and wane and cutting-edge trends evolve, the once elaborate rules
and traditions governing Filipino-Chinese marriages have changed as well. No,
we don’t do arranged marriages anymore, sacred tea ceremonies are not an
absolute necessity, and last I heard, getting kicked out of the family
inheritance for failing to marry a “purebred” Chinese is about as passé as the
ancient ritual of foot-binding.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, in this
crazy, postmodern 21<sup>st</sup> century era, what exactly are the rules of
romance?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can best sum
it up in perhaps three words: <i>Follow your
heart.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">May you all have
a lifetime of love and romance!</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-79332085109166080292014-06-19T23:48:00.001+08:002014-06-21T03:29:58.654+08:00psf 9 update.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNvLtTgrCp2upiGSlR-_j-U0IegWvFOWi-1r4xDEiJI7YeDq87rfweZAuRax2tqjvIvSB06e8_no6RxKWscjFFCE6vh7sbEq1OKYmNkbZblwy0fZl9wInfDAmuidanZVCd6TBRIQ/s1600/600_300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNvLtTgrCp2upiGSlR-_j-U0IegWvFOWi-1r4xDEiJI7YeDq87rfweZAuRax2tqjvIvSB06e8_no6RxKWscjFFCE6vh7sbEq1OKYmNkbZblwy0fZl9wInfDAmuidanZVCd6TBRIQ/s1600/600_300.jpg" /></a></div>
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At long last, the Philippine Speculative Fiction 9 anthology - which includes my short story "Mater Dolorosa" - has revealed its table of contents. From the blog of editor Andrew Drilon (<a href="http://andrewdrilon.livejournal.com/93889.html">http://andrewdrilon.livejournal.com/93889.html</a>):</div>
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Charles and I are very proud to announce the Table of Contents for Philippine Speculative Fiction 9. We have a wonderful range of stories for this volume, from the absurd to the ominous, profane to pious, fabulous to phantasmagoric. They are:</div>
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<b>Blood of Iron </b>by Christian Renz Torres<br />
<b>Panopticon</b> by Victor Ocampo<br />
<b>A Cha-cha with Insanity</b> by Vida Cruz<br />
<b>Only Dogs Piss Here </b>by Michael Aaron Gomez <br />
<b>Last Race</b> by Jenny Ortuoste <br />
<b>Oscar's Marvelous Transformation</b> by Kat Del Rosario <br />
<b>Stations of the Apostate</b> by Alexander M. Osias <br />
<b>Sikat</b> by William Robert Yasi <br />
<b>Deliver Us </b>by Eliza Victoria <br />
<b>Miracles under a Concrete Sky</b> by Franz Johann Dela Merced <br />
<b>The Unmaking of the Cuadro Amoroso</b> by Kate Osias <br />
<b>The Woodsman</b> by Cedric Tan <br />
<b>And These were the Names of the Vanished</b> by Rochita Loenen-Ruiz <br />
<b>Anthropomorpha</b> by Crystal Koo <br />
<b>Sofia </b>by Marianne Villanueva <br />
<b>Transcripts from the Investigation on the Life and Death of Alastor de Roja</b> by Vincent Michael Simbulan <br />
<b>TG2416 from Mars</b> by Nikki Alfar <br />
<b>Mater Dolorosa</b> by Marc Gregory Yu <br />
<b>Scissor Tongue</b> by Elyss Punsalan <br />
<b>Cogito</b> by AJ Elicaño <br />
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Definitely looking forward to the book launch and to meeting the other authors as well!<br />
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marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-45708645590820062882014-05-10T01:46:00.000+08:002015-05-01T17:57:37.994+08:00bright lights, bittersweet glory.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_wPF-iElELktYyYTgJYs6eoxBfARIs3nuEC2I7DZE98YVEROWBjNn7pG64bIfzx5DRUWi5l2f3Dk6MDMP1zNqP0m9EkT7UmbDgfRSNd6eNLwG8mGGK-p-J7FUP5BZIV8QLa5apQ/s1600/10250048_10154072990655510_2039105266281405370_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_wPF-iElELktYyYTgJYs6eoxBfARIs3nuEC2I7DZE98YVEROWBjNn7pG64bIfzx5DRUWi5l2f3Dk6MDMP1zNqP0m9EkT7UmbDgfRSNd6eNLwG8mGGK-p-J7FUP5BZIV8QLa5apQ/s1600/10250048_10154072990655510_2039105266281405370_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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There are battles, and there are<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>battles.</i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
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There are Olympic Games,
and there are PCP Quiz Competitions.<br />
<br />
Thank you to everyone who came, watched,
and cheered their hearts out for the PGH team.<br />
<br />
To Deonne, Jay, and Julie – one could not
ask for better teammates to fight the battle with.<br />
<br />
To our coach Dr Mark Sandoval – thank you
for your time, effort, and dedication in helping us reach peak fighting form
and play the game to a triumphant finish.<br />
<br />
To our resident colleagues in the
Department, our Chair Dr Rody Sy, and our respective families – thank you for
your love and support.<br />
<br />
Most of all, to the Almighty Himself who
makes all things possible – this is for You.</div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-67252486294046882622014-02-16T13:23:00.000+08:002014-07-13T02:36:32.363+08:00graphic tales (part IV)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKt64-pLdN5lXKk-MSTAOjlp9DPsauIAdz8DqmpZK_gfKCRmnOOw9UqeeLEcKxJlF_CIItxMoE5aJaawqmjeGLtmQqzR9cYaM14eWYaPWU55wr1WziWLPmYGslaCH7IZ9WN8xRsw/s1600/1383900301000-AFP-524452087.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKt64-pLdN5lXKk-MSTAOjlp9DPsauIAdz8DqmpZK_gfKCRmnOOw9UqeeLEcKxJlF_CIItxMoE5aJaawqmjeGLtmQqzR9cYaM14eWYaPWU55wr1WziWLPmYGslaCH7IZ9WN8xRsw/s1600/1383900301000-AFP-524452087.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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My short story "Storms" got published in Graphic today. Of all the stories I've written, I considered this the most relevant as it deals with the struggles of an ordinary Filipino family bracing itself for the imminent attack of yet another perennial nationwide calamity, in the process forcing each member to relive the ghosts of storms past. The story's publication comes just a few months after Typhoon Yolanda brought the entire nation down on its knees, with endless communities still reeling from the impact of the disaster. But similar to the Filipinos' resilience, the story is also testament to the fact that sometimes, however ruthless the storms that come and go, the strength of the human spirit still prevails.</div>
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Read below an excerpt from "Storms":</div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">When Lola first got wind of the tragedy,
she had stood petrified, her famished heart bursting with a sorrow so great it
seemed to engulf her entirely. Over and over she repeated to herself that it
had only been a simple journey: He had merely boarded a ship and sailed out to
the Visayan Islands where a crucial business meeting awaited him. She had kissed
him off at the port with the toddler in her arms and he had waved a cheeky
goodbye, promising a swift return after five days, and he would bring her
postcards of Magellan’s Cross, the Chocolate Hills, a cute, cuddly tarsier. She
had watched with a doleful look as the ship drifted along – as far as her hazy memory
allowed her – smooth, azure waters that bore no inkling whatsoever of the
terrible disaster that is to befall it, brimming instead with crystalline
ripples of infinite potential. She remembered that scene as though it had been
imprinted in her paltry mind: Her anxious face and his mirthful smile, the last
rays of the afternoon sun atop the foamy bed of crashing waves.</span></i></div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-18379299877493095792013-09-11T01:26:00.000+08:002014-07-13T02:16:26.407+08:00torrents and regrets.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYpPOli5nfT2dxePa2j9dTOrM-xzRDuTS1S8EPaLaD77VTeXuu0g7yVa0pz3qoEZms_Ma3i-QFOxXJa1qCrv2K4uNz6UKkR38m8tz2WGy4tMRSHX-J9IXyMHfBM18qpvyGSorG4g/s1600/leptospirosis-rappler-2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYpPOli5nfT2dxePa2j9dTOrM-xzRDuTS1S8EPaLaD77VTeXuu0g7yVa0pz3qoEZms_Ma3i-QFOxXJa1qCrv2K4uNz6UKkR38m8tz2WGy4tMRSHX-J9IXyMHfBM18qpvyGSorG4g/s1600/leptospirosis-rappler-2013.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After
the torrents, they came – in torrents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Storms
and typhoons have become a rather inconvenient norm for us Filipinos. And every
year, we brace ourselves for the storm of all storms: Last time, it was Milenyo
whipping up a tumult; the other time, it was Ondoy, swamping up everything in
its path; and for the past two years (this year included), we buckled under the
torrential rains of the not-so-puny habagat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But
storm or not, all of them carried a similar denominator in their aftermath –
swarms and swarms of leptospirosis patients.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">They
came – burning fevers, yellow eyes, failing kidneys, and all – to the gates of
the hospital, oftentimes armed with nothing but stories in their heads and
telltale cuts on their feet. And like the old times, we doctors were there to
promptly answer the call of duty – but only just.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Only
just?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
regret nothing in the way we handle our leptospirosis patients in PGH. Having
been stationed in the ER the past month and rotating with Infectious Diseases
this month, I only have praises for the selfless medical teams who work overtime – from the fellows and staff manning the dialysis unit to the pharmacists
dispensing boxes of antibiotics, to the administrators formulating workable
guidelines all the way to the unnamed benefactors of the PGH Leptospirosis Fund.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What I
– and most of us – wholeheartedly regret is the fact that every year, we hear
the same old stories. We see the same old faces, and face the same old
frustrations. The root of these endless leptospirosis epidemics obviously stretches
far beyond the confines of murky, rat-infested waters and life-altering storms.
It seeps its way into the shameless pork barrels of lawmakers who’d rather
guzzle up taxpayers’ cash abroad rather than invest on preventive health
programs. It finds its way into the shanties of the abject poor, devoid of any
access to basic education or information, oblivious to the fact that potential deaths
from complications such as kidney failure or pulmonary hemorrhage can be
averted with timely doses of an inexpensive pill. It knocks on the
doors of Mother Nature herself, collateral victim of haphazard and oftentimes
senseless urbanization.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sadly,
our role as doctors can only do so much. We see a case, work our asses off,
heave a sigh of relief upon the patient’s discharge, or mope in silence after
signing yet another death certificate. We know that each leptospirosis patient will
always be part of a far bigger problem – one that will take a huge amount of
national resolve, environmental advocacy, and political will to address. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then,
and until then, we shall always remain a nation of torrents – and regrets.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-62166361410841746472013-08-16T22:27:00.000+08:002015-05-09T00:10:05.840+08:00closures.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmt_jnGjkqtDBT693rCMF1x2qMCJE0VMnnVlEhEdbYlvdZ3jTf4V-ER-8NTU4HoGJtVxuJYq1PhqsltaRYS-Ra1eMIa2IWpR1GeC1JwQWTKRYY5DclmYRPbVzudE7VkpkCmDJH6A/s1600/hands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmt_jnGjkqtDBT693rCMF1x2qMCJE0VMnnVlEhEdbYlvdZ3jTf4V-ER-8NTU4HoGJtVxuJYq1PhqsltaRYS-Ra1eMIa2IWpR1GeC1JwQWTKRYY5DclmYRPbVzudE7VkpkCmDJH6A/s1600/hands.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Thank
you, doctor, for giving us closure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That
was what the patient’s sister said, in between shedding tears, as she gathered
with the rest of her family inside the humid, overcrowded emergency room of the
country’s biggest tertiary hospital. A frantic call in the middle of the night relaying
news of her brother’s moribund state had forced her on the first flight back to
the Philippines, and her weary face was at once a tapestry of mixed emotions:
denial, grief, desperation, guilt, and finally, acceptance. Earlier that
morning, I had engaged the family in an exhaustive talk that entailed a
detailed explanation of the patient’s condition (best summarized as terminal
cancer, comatose, poor prognosis), available options (to resuscitate or not, to
continue aggressive medical management or not), and continuous reassurance (whatever
your decision is, we will still provide the best possible care.) In the end, everyone
settled for a quiet, non-intrusive approach that allowed the patient a peaceful
death; no hefty measures. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Medicine
in the new millennium has always focused on the quest for innovation: new
drugs, new tests, new surgeries. These advancements in health care enabled
doctors to work at a faster pace and deliver better outcomes, but somehow at
the expense of less patient interaction. In an age where speed is king and
efficiency is the rule, barely enough time is spent explaining the nature of
the disease, offering diagnostic and therapeutic choices, providing ample
reassurance – things which are incidentally just as important as their
biomedical counterparts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I,
too, used to believe that the magic formula of
“subjective-objective-assessment-plan” – so lovingly imparted to us in medical
school – was the celebrated panacea to all my patients’ complaints. There’s the
stirring fire of youth and idealism, plus the messianic way Filipinos often
regard their doctors (As one patient entreated with supplication, <i>“Kayo na po ang bahala sa lahat.”</i>) During
my residency training in Internal Medicine, I was stationed inside a government
institution bursting at the seams with patients from all corners of the country.
A lot of these were intriguing, complicated cases, and I was determined to push
for gallant interventions no matter what. Many times, however, after an
overwhelming rollercoaster ride that cost my patients an arm and a leg, I ended
up tired and frustrated – a good number died despite my best efforts, and I
further faced relatives who were just as confused, angry, and depleted to the
hilt of financial and material resources. What happens when even the most
exacting principles of science cannot give us solutions? What happens when even
our noblest intentions fail to prolong life?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And
then, my patients slowly taught me the value of the talk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">By
talking, I mean a frank, honest, no-frills talk: A talk that raises no undue
expectations; only real ones. A talk that might sting with the intensity of
freezing water, but which will lead to a much-needed, much-yearned closure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
realm of medicine is a rapidly evolving one, with mysteries lurking at every
corner, answers waiting to be unearthed in the depths. Dr. William Osler, the
pioneer of modern medical teaching, often preached that the role of a doctor is
“to cure sometimes, to relieve often, and to comfort always.” Cure is perhaps
the most tangible concept, manifest in the myriad breakthroughs and discoveries
of medical research. Relief, too, comes in the form of alleviating pain and affording
a more acceptable health-related quality of life. But comfort is rooted deep in
empathy, the embodiment of an innate desire to help a genuinely suffering person.
Despite the inherent shortcomings of our relatively resource-poor health care
system, I realized that proper and meaningful communication seemed to raise the
bar each time I sat down with a patient and/or his/her relatives, making the
experience much more personal and profound. I eventually learned to throw away
the proverbial coat of invincibility and omniscience and lay down all my cards:
As physicians, we may not always have the remedy to every ailment – but we are
there to reach out a hand, to walk every step of the way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It
is a task both daunting and difficult, especially when you find yourself confronted
with a visibly distraught husband, a daughter transformed into a huge bawling
mess, or several passionately argumentative family members. And perhaps quite
understandably so. For how could a star athlete suddenly succumb to a heart
attack? (“<i>Hindi ito posible,” </i>his bereaved
girlfriend pronounced.) How could someone walking and laughing a few minutes
ago abruptly collapse from a massive stroke? (“<i>Paano nagkaganyan?” </i>The horrified brother countered.) Discussing advanced
directives, in particular, is a delicate matter. Many family members are unwilling
to make decisions for an incapacitated patient even though they possess the legal
right to do so. “<i>Ayoko masisi ng mga
kapatid ko,</i>” reasoned the eldest son. <i>“Hintayin
na lang natin ang aking manugang,”</i> begged the elderly wife. It takes a lot
of patience and perceptive acumen to guide the surviving family members through
the crucial process, but it is a necessary means for closure – and the result can
prove both enlightening and empowering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">More
than anything, helping people achieve closure made me marvel at the unique
strength of character, the tightknit closeness of kith and kin, and the
earthshaking, resounding faith in God that proudly characterizes the Filipino
spirit. I met families who chose to have their loved ones spared from traumatic
intubations or fractured ribs from excessive chest compressions during
resuscitation. I met families who chose to forego gargantuan procedures
bordering on the futile, with a firm decision not to pursue the farfetched moon
and stars. I met families who nodded with understanding, who managed to smile despite
the grim reality, who offered gestures of gratitude for words well-spoken and
time well-spent. I met families who saw the value of <i>dying peacefully.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Looking
back at that pivotal moment in the emergency room, I may have failed to keep the
patient physically alive, incurable as his disease is. But it warms the heart a
little to know that I was able to share what little time I had with the family
he left behind – now coming full circle, now cloaked in mourning, now bonded in
closure. I am reminded of Dr. Osler’s fabled words to “cure sometimes, relieve often,
comfort always,” and just like that, I learned to find it in myself as well – a
certain kind of closure no amount of medical training can ever give.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-39456990950495728002012-10-15T17:02:00.000+08:002014-07-13T02:36:48.685+08:00graphic tales (part III)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirFSH6CJ6MaH8lZJefhfbog5dRk_F4PxbvxA-dSM61e5EAFe5pHj3CAqApm5dt0kVp6JtCD9Ob_uKzgq1XdDvPYpGV81f-PrHZCMqg55PG9-i6cu4MaOV5RhThY22Uqcn76uGrvg/s1600/phantom-savings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirFSH6CJ6MaH8lZJefhfbog5dRk_F4PxbvxA-dSM61e5EAFe5pHj3CAqApm5dt0kVp6JtCD9Ob_uKzgq1XdDvPYpGV81f-PrHZCMqg55PG9-i6cu4MaOV5RhThY22Uqcn76uGrvg/s1600/phantom-savings.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Another short story published in Graphic today! I must say that this is turning to be quite a yearly tradition - in reality, more of a personal goal - just to goad myself into getting those creative juices flowing amid the doldrums of residency life (and believe me, the intense scientific atmosphere can get quite nauseating at times.) I find this story, "The Broadway Covenant", particularly close to my heart as it is a loving tapestry of two of my cherished passions: literature and musical theater. Set amid the backdrop of the blockbuster musical <i>Phantom of the Opera</i><i>, </i>the story chronicles the pursuits of a Filipino theater actor in the glitzy, gaudy world of Broadway. Here's hoping for another score at an awards night!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Below is an excerpt from "The Broadway Covenant":</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>At the back of his mind, he had other favorite musicals, of course. Les Misérables was definitely a stroke of genius, with its poignant songs and stirring patriotism. He remembered keenly devouring the Victor Hugo classic in high school, and had always wondered how it would feel to play the part of the perpetually torn Jean Valjean, the infatuated Marius, or the morally tragic Javert. His mind then flew to Evita, with its elegant air and quiet sophistication, and somehow fancied himself portraying the celebrated yet largely misunderstood Che Guevara. But no, he reckoned playing the ambivalent Dan Goodman in the Pulitzer-winning masterpiece Next to Normal would be so much better, where he could easily show off his acting chops and singing prowess to the delight of the spectators. Other times, he acquiesced to the classics, thinking it immensely rewarding to slip into the shoes of the debonair Emile de Becque in South Pacific, the nomadic El Gallo in The Fantasticks, or the sweet-tongued Billy Flynn in Chicago. Of course, no one came close to Phantom – with its magnificent, operatic tunes and timeless plot of romance and betrayal, the epic tale of a man eternally disfigured by the gruesome ills of society. </i></div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-54517816465496228572012-09-20T23:01:00.000+08:002014-07-13T02:43:34.991+08:00graphic tales (part II)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbDw1GR4xN1pCKF30PwRlg8FWylVr0dU0_zvrJLzSPqhRvoEUxgX1gtfG1RfhnRTiU-e2ggrTEOGZb45T8jUo4f_aHd9ZQjgTG0t3tWtO7HD06000b4naVBUt2qLtmnYw3hPpzg/s1600/Fotor0712231219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbDw1GR4xN1pCKF30PwRlg8FWylVr0dU0_zvrJLzSPqhRvoEUxgX1gtfG1RfhnRTiU-e2ggrTEOGZb45T8jUo4f_aHd9ZQjgTG0t3tWtO7HD06000b4naVBUt2qLtmnYw3hPpzg/s1600/Fotor0712231219.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the midst of a hectic first-year residency, I got a nice surprise when my short story "Scars" was selected as part of the long list of this year's Philippines Graphic-Nick Joaquin Literary Awards. "Scars" was my first foray into the realm of horror fiction, and eventually appeared in Graphic's Halloween issue. With a sprinkling of Gothic and Filipino-Chinese religious elements, I thoroughly enjoyed writing it very much - so much that I had to scratch the writing itch inside an impromptu internet cafe of a mall! To cut the long story short (pun intended), I didn't make it to the top three, but what the heck - literary awards nights are always magical. Congrats to this year's winners, and heaps of thanks to the ever-fabulous Joti Tabula for accompanying me!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">An excerpt from "Scars":</span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">When war broke
out and the Cantonese boss was abruptly dragged off by the ruthless Kempeitai
for interrogation, the family was forced to evacuate to safety. How Vladimir
managed to survive the war with nary a bruise or an injury puzzled many people.
According to one account, both his parents were shot dead by belligerent
Japanese sentries as they were fleeing from the city, but the bullets only
seemed to whizz past the boy’s puny body as he raced for the hills. Another
bystander claimed that the bullets indeed hit him and he swiftly crumpled to
the ground, only to rise seconds later as if nothing happened. A third account
contained more grisly details. Seeing his parents sprawled motionless, the
young Vladimir, not more than twelve years old by all appearances, flew into a
fit of rage and single-handedly strangled the Japanese soldier with incredible
superhuman strength, lifting his burly frame off the ground. When the dust had
cleared, the ill-fated soldier was found slumped in a pool of blood, reddish
froth oozing from his mouth.</span></i></div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-31569649988776515452012-06-27T23:38:00.000+08:002014-07-13T02:36:15.195+08:00a leap for lauriat.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrTh-O1YLWkIxSQKS0RLEjHk2Dt2bwGtIEPu2vig9-3syIYe2dyrPkdqFdTon2fWu2Inswik5G8uzw9184ejFu24xkq6uFwJQmcaZ7kpvpjC27YllZnNU3B1y0neXT0PO-k-dseg/s1600/Lauriat_frontcov.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrTh-O1YLWkIxSQKS0RLEjHk2Dt2bwGtIEPu2vig9-3syIYe2dyrPkdqFdTon2fWu2Inswik5G8uzw9184ejFu24xkq6uFwJQmcaZ7kpvpjC27YllZnNU3B1y0neXT0PO-k-dseg/s1600/Lauriat_frontcov.jpg" height="320" width="207" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Finally, the table of contents for the upcoming anthology "Lauriat: A Filipino-Chinese Speculative Fiction Anthology" is out! The book, edited by speculative fiction champion Charles Tan, includes my story "Chopsticks" (which previously appeared in Graphic and subsequently won a Nick Joaquin award) as well as other stories rooted in the richness and vibrancy of Filipino-Chinese culture.</div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The stories are:<br />
<div>
<br />
“Two Women Worth Watching” by Andrew Drilon<br />
“Ho-We” by Erin Chupeco<br />
“The Chinese Zodiac” by Kristine Ong Muslim<br />
“Pure” by Isabel Yap<br />
“Dimsum” by Christine V. Lao<br />
“August Moon” by Gabriela Lee<br />
“The Captain’s Nephew” by Paolo Chikiamco<br />
“The Stranger at my Grandmother’s Wake” by Fidelis Tan<br />
“Chopsticks” by Marc Gregory Yu<br />
“Fold Up Boy” by Yvette Tan<br />
“The Tiger Lady” by Margaret Kawsek<br />
“The Perpetual Day” by Crystal Koo<br />
“Cricket” by Kenneth Yu<br />
“The Way of Those Who Stayed Behind” by Douglas Candano</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Can't wait for the book's release - and congrats to everyone!</div>
</div>
</div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-36833749916322007852012-02-25T22:42:00.000+08:002014-06-19T22:44:10.485+08:00a hundred years of excellence.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm4M8Q6J2vZ_42bI7W_PdckjfBpPxAdAo5sSG6iApLEQ77Wacss96awvJ42GDJ5Zy3yTBxsTDlfjxAJgRZg2D7XatD4XUBqasmjlofNJcZqPodcnNFNNhLc9bmimjzYRJVz2dfpA/s1600/14109_105626669460266_100000388012188_140404_4437461_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm4M8Q6J2vZ_42bI7W_PdckjfBpPxAdAo5sSG6iApLEQ77Wacss96awvJ42GDJ5Zy3yTBxsTDlfjxAJgRZg2D7XatD4XUBqasmjlofNJcZqPodcnNFNNhLc9bmimjzYRJVz2dfpA/s1600/14109_105626669460266_100000388012188_140404_4437461_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">(The piece
below was written for the official coffee table book in commemoration of the Centennial
Founding Anniversary of my high school alma mater – Iloilo Central Commercial
High School (ICCHS), now renamed Hua Siong College of Iloilo.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The French have a term for having the right word to express
something. They call it “<i>mot juste</i>” –
“exact word” – the embodiment of the proverbial tip of one’s tongue. And that,
I suppose, is precisely what defining Hua Siong is anything but. There are no
exact words to define an institution that has stood ground for a venerable century,
the spectator of a brutal war, a cruel fire, the iconic rise and fall of
democracy, the advent of a new millennium. There are no exact words to describe
her generations of alumni, the motley lot who have flown out of her nest and
affirmed themselves as citizens of the world. Most importantly, there are no
exact words to gauge her tradition of excellence, stalwartly championed and
peerlessly untarnished even after a hundred years of existence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">To
speak of Hua Siong merely as a place where I received my kindergarten,
elementary and high school education would be a glaring understatement. In
fact, the correspondence borders on being pied-a-terre, a second home. My
grandfather, the late Gregorio Yu Sr., was Chairman of the Board of Trustees
sometime in the 1980s, the bony but big-hearted old man who juggled official
duties in between introducing his toddler grandson to colleagues in school. That
scene, I believe, fondly remains etched in perpetual wisdom: Toothless gums and
a generous smile, crisps of red and gold crepe paper, a battalion of studentry
cheering their hearts out as an entourage of distinguished guests entered the
pearly red gates. So goes the funny anecdote that I was mistaken for one of the
guests, and was even dubbed the progenitor of the mythical Shaolin with my
nearly-shaven head!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hua
Siong was certainly privy to my formative years in life, bearing witness as I
reached milestone after milestone. As a wide-eyed preschooler, I cavorted with
a lovely peacock dancer from China and portrayed someone else’s little son in a
play. These eventually paved the way for more ample opportunities and
achievements. My thirteen-year stay in ICCHS allowed me to expand horizons and
harness hidden talents – joining interschool competitions, assuming the
editorship of The Chain, being part of the historic Constitutional Commission,
giving politics a shot during my stint as City Mayor of Rotary Club’s Boys and
Girls Week.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I sometimes look back and wonder how these years had truly
been an incomparable experience. More than simply being overwhelmed with a
soaring, sweeping sense of nostalgia, our Hua Siong education stretched far
beyond the confines of the measly four walls of the classroom. We recall her
rallying motto of “Diligence, Sincerity, Loyalty, Courage” – the unseen
conscience that pervaded everyone’s hearts and minds, the much-respected
reminder to give it your all, do what is right, stick to your side, and face
the music without fear. As if somehow breathing life to the slogan itself,
activities inside Hua Siong translated to service personified: We took required
scouting subjects in the elementary grades, went through the “<i>hok bu</i>” system from first to third year
high school, and had regular CAT instruction in fourth year high school, the emphasis
on discipline and industry rubbing off quite handsomely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The enormity of this outstanding legacy goes on further to include
the awareness of a dual heritage, as only the second oldest Chinese school in
the Philippines can. We left Hua Siong enlightened persons with a heightened
social consciousness, courtesy of an intensive Chinese, English, and Filipino
curriculum that highlighted Buwan Ng Wika as much as the Mid-Autumn Festival.
What took place was even more significant: the seamless integration of Chinese
and Filipino values that guided us to our rightful place under the sun. We
learned the invaluable ropes and the myriad highs and lows that came with being
at the crossroads of two equally rich cultures, exposing and enabling us to
appreciate a culture that is uniquely Chinese-Filipino. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our celebration of Hua Siong’s centennial means saluting
the sterling individuals who have selflessly played a crucial role in the
school’s robust existence – from a fledgling barely holding her own in 1912 to
a defiant bastion of anti-Japanese resistance, razed to the ground in the 1966
fire and reborn from the ashes, cruising onwards to meet the challenges of the
21<sup>st</sup> century. In particular, we honor our teachers, the unsung heroes
of the classroom, relentless warriors in the crusade against ignorance and
indifference. I remember most vividly the late Mr. Ty Eng Liong, hailed as one
of the best Chinese teachers of all time. Out of the corner of my mind’s eye
there he stood, the gentle giant greeting students at the gate during dismissal
time, his stature a fitting semblance to his reputation as a noteworthy pillar
of Hua Siong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">With the auspices of time, these pillars have only grown stronger,
taller, and sturdier, and the school transformed into a gleaming oasis of
pedagogy with a spanking new building, a swanky elevator, and a sea of
unfamiliar faces. But looking beyond this pristine exterior, I shall always
choose to see the Hua Siong I knew and loved, the enduring vestiges of
yesteryears quietly tugging at the senses and the catacombs of memory lane:
Peeking hues of rusting red-and-white paint, strict bespectacled teachers
roaming the corridors, black-and-white computer screens that evolved in sync
with my journey from youngster to teenager.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the same way, I would quite like to believe that for
every Hua
Siong student nurtured under the vigilant eyes of his Alma Mater, this journey
shall always be fashioned out of the
same substance every well-lived life is made of – a saga
of unforgettable moments, of unending departures and returns, of the vibrant
intertwining of memories and experiences that have molded me into what I am
today: a
product of her long, epic past; a testament to her glorious present; and
hopefully, a part of her expectant future.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Who knows? “<i>Mot juste</i>” might just get to mean a hundred
years of excellence, no less.</span><i><span style="font-family: "Lucida Fax","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-71809149474915374402012-01-08T19:32:00.000+08:002014-07-13T02:38:07.078+08:00fairy tales and not-so-happy endings.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9801vZxkQ9gsehXoT2G66uKc9yRURjIEnMuSCEgEjCBR2478YUBVgRUkFIEDMc3-MG-MUijkxl9LtiuFiRdY0DpS2JdGb7L6hoaCtkJBo7WfczwmLG6h7VbSxPl48M-K_zhJ_w/s1600/185663_199879936690864_6232585_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9801vZxkQ9gsehXoT2G66uKc9yRURjIEnMuSCEgEjCBR2478YUBVgRUkFIEDMc3-MG-MUijkxl9LtiuFiRdY0DpS2JdGb7L6hoaCtkJBo7WfczwmLG6h7VbSxPl48M-K_zhJ_w/s1600/185663_199879936690864_6232585_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
G<span style="font-family: inherit;">lad tidings arrived today in the form of my very first story published in the Philippines Free Press (the other magazine great that regularly publishes literary works, apart from Graphic.) I was notified via email by no less than literary editor Joel Toledo himself - whose Palanca-winning poems are simply lovely. The story, entitled "Fairy Tales", was an experiment in the use of the female voice which I actually found quite enjoyable, a refreshing departure from my usual writing style. Add to that my childhood fascination with fairy tales and presto - as I wrote in my cover letter - read the story "as you would read a fairy tale." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here's an excerpt from "Fairy Tales":</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">The stories
of my childhood come alive in my daughter’s mind, weaving in and out of her
days, as only creative five year olds are wont to do. Seeing her engrossed in
the intricacies of a fantastic tale, the rest of the outside world shut out at
the corners, it occurred to me that Sam truly is her mother’s daughter, but
that she might be only coping with her father’s progressively protracted
absences. She pretends to be Thumbelina, impishly flitting among the flowers in
the yard, with the glittery cardboard wings Elmer made her for a neighbor’s masquerade
party. Other times, she is Goldilocks with a blue gingham frock and an
abandoned blond wig she found in the attic, Esmeralda with dangling earrings
and a hanky for a turban, the Little Matchgirl with a patched-up petticoat and
some leftover matchsticks in the kitchen. She would indulge herself in the company
of her animal friends from the forest – Simba, Bambi and Puss in Boots – “who are
intelligent talking creatures, Mommy,” she would tell me with broad, enthusiastic
eyes. “They make me happy when I am sad or lonely.” Sadness and loneliness,
those two deadly foes, treacherous cousins that took me forever to distinguish.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(Postscript: At the time of the story's acceptance, Free Press went strictly online leaving me no chance to go out and buy copies of the magazine for keeps. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Unfortunately, things didn't quite get a happy ending because Free Press - with all its online stories, including mine - eventually ceased to continue operations soon after. There goes my shot at a possible Free Press Literary Awards night. Sigh.)</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-5531761661609158892011-03-19T00:18:00.000+08:002014-07-13T00:23:28.679+08:00fluidity.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0kLTHmnbaTV4FmDYsX9ZqkJnfqh8pTz9W_Ov4g-fLmcfExUcrGNAqvgva93ll0yrgF-kqwr-d1hVmVJKZyrDl6Bz18Pl8EmEqD3QYywISMTN_Zo1ufwBXZGJcx5kaKXTcp25xGA/s1600/water_abstract_blue_waves_background_1920x1080_wallpaper_Wallpaper_1600x1200_www.wallpaperhi.com_-420x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0kLTHmnbaTV4FmDYsX9ZqkJnfqh8pTz9W_Ov4g-fLmcfExUcrGNAqvgva93ll0yrgF-kqwr-d1hVmVJKZyrDl6Bz18Pl8EmEqD3QYywISMTN_Zo1ufwBXZGJcx5kaKXTcp25xGA/s1600/water_abstract_blue_waves_background_1920x1080_wallpaper_Wallpaper_1600x1200_www.wallpaperhi.com_-420x400.jpg" height="304" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<i>“What goes in... must go out.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<i>Dr.
R Alonso<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
The domain of fluids, electrolytes, and complex
countercurrent mechanisms has always been a feared and daunting one, the
undisputed Achilles heel of medical school. Time and again, we have continually
persevered and grappled with its intricate theories and mechanisms, poring over
mammoth books in vain and groaning in frustration over seemingly
incomprehensible concepts. There’s supporting evidence to boot: Just recently,
it has been pointed out in a survey that renal topics were the ones deemed most
important by medical faculty and students alike, yet ironically were also the
ones considered most mind-boggling and difficult to deal with.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
I guess that perhaps, part of its notoriety stems
from the fact that Nephrology shuns the straightforward scheme of things and painstakingly
pursues our unseen inner workings, stripping us bare to our most fundamental functional
elements – fluids, molecules, and the myriad physiological and biochemical
interactions that govern them. In time, I found myself growing a soft spot for
its web of challenges, lack of candor, and rush of adrenaline that overwhelms
you as you carefully tip the scales and juggle cations, anions, and their ilk
in an effort to preserve the impeccable rhythm of life, weaving a seamless balance
that reverberates through the entire human body in striking fashion. One step
turned wrong, and the whole system might just go haywire. A nephrologist, after
all, isn’t called an internist’s internist for nothing. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
Two weeks of rotating in the section exposed me to
the fluidity of our wonderfully structured kidneys, and conversely, to the remarkable,
sometimes even dramatic, clinical results that materialize in their stead. I must admit that I never fail to get short of
amazed whenever I see a previously confused, drowsy, and disoriented patient
zap back to sanity and reality with just a mere few sessions of hemodialysis,
or a previously wan and weak-looking patient suddenly appear with the rosy
touch of health after a quick correction of sodium and potassium deficits. By
delving into the root of the problem and going molecular, we consequently
trigger nano-ripples of change that eventually translate into meaningful overt clinical
outcomes and manifestations.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
Unfortunately, I also got to realize that many, if
not most, patients hardly recognize or are even aware of kidney disease at all.
A good number dismiss it as something similar to and as trivial as an
uncomplicated urinary tract infection – and thus tragically arrive only for
consult when they have already been plagued to unbearable lengths by anemia,
breathlessness, and extreme bodily discomfort – with no possibility whatsoever of
fully reversing the damage save for a lifetime contract with dialysis. Which is
why, marching down the streets and waving balloons and hollering cheers on
World Kidney Day couldn’t have been timelier to serve as the rallying cry for
such an endeavor. In the lay forum that followed, we tirelessly promoted the
relevance of CKD to the public and felt immensely satisfied when a few patients
and watchers came up to us to show their appreciation, casually stating that
the activity inadvertently pushed them to acquire a newfound change of
paradigm.</div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
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What goes in must go out. As I entered this
rotation exactly two weeks ago less informed and less confident, so I emerge
from it more assured and armed with extra ammunition of knowledge and food for
thought (getting to observe catheter insertions were definite bonuses.) At this
point, I am still far off from being a perfect master of fluids and
electrolytes, just as Dr. Alonso’s CRRT talk still keeps me mildly at a loss.
But I know I’m getting there. All I need is to focus, plod down the long
winding path, and let the fluidity of things take over. </div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-28376170800249192652011-03-03T00:13:00.000+08:002014-07-13T00:15:28.727+08:00first aid(s).<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2tTlymeXm33wBxy_DhlOxTmGjGo2_0oKWao_O9a20dh0GTsSYP8xHnnVRN40nzr9RdaYdaKnDWe0vrLhla1CO_gztQFSOLLnj7NEGpqi6Z6RGnpRcgVSTWtlNbKnXYGL0-aQqxA/s1600/HIVVirusAIDSHistory2CSymptoms2CCauses2CDiagnosis2CPrevent2Cs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2tTlymeXm33wBxy_DhlOxTmGjGo2_0oKWao_O9a20dh0GTsSYP8xHnnVRN40nzr9RdaYdaKnDWe0vrLhla1CO_gztQFSOLLnj7NEGpqi6Z6RGnpRcgVSTWtlNbKnXYGL0-aQqxA/s1600/HIVVirusAIDSHistory2CSymptoms2CCauses2CDiagnosis2CPrevent2Cs.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
I still remember that fleeting moment way back in
ICC year when we had our very first lecture in HIV/AIDS, handled ever so
unpretentiously and so ingeniously by the tireless Dr. Lim, with matching “Wildfire”
games and mock condom demos (using a banana to represent the, ahem, thing) to
boot. At the end of the session, seeing us sated and sedated with a plethora of
information ranging from “retrovirus” to “non-nucleoside reverse transcriptase
inhibitor”, he decided it was time. He finally brought her in.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
The very first HIV-positive patient I encountered
in medical school.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
“I want you to hold her hand. I want you to know
that she is just like any one of us.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
I was one of those who readily shook hands,
although deep inside still half-harboring the slightest hint of reluctance as
to the true extent of such a feared disease and wondering about its
consequences. Of course, textbooks and common sense would easily tell you now that
you don’t contract full-blown AIDS from a mere handshake alone, but what I
realized that fateful morning stretched farther than just a sheer mechanical
dialogue on retroviral genetics and pathogenesis: They are simply one of us – walking,
talking, breathing human beings with their own lives to live.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
And now, two weeks after and nearing the tail end
of my Infectious Diseases stint, I must say that the single most significant
thing about this rotation was the way it exposed me, in all honesty and
openness, to the burgeoning spectrum of HIV/AIDS patients and thus continued the
crucial legacy left off after ICC year (History actually repeated itself when I
attended the same HIV/AIDS lecture given by Dr. Lim, who also facilitated a
“Wildfire” activity, this time among the unsuspecting fellows.) My rotation aptly
came at a time when I was fresh off watching the blockbuster musical “Rent” with
its bohemian and HIV/AIDS awareness themes. It was as if cryptic skeletons
finally tumbled their way out of an invisible closet, where I had to face the
reality of seeing call center agents, bank employees, massage therapists, teenage
students, and even an Ateneo professor congregate in pursuit of a common goal –
to confront the disease squarely in the eyes, at the same time seek timely help
in the process of rebuilding the momentum of their callow youth, shattered so
abruptly by the stigma of a society that fears what it does not fully know. There’s
no denying the clarity of the message, though: HIV/AIDS is quickly becoming a
global epidemic, and it’s closing in on us faster than we can say “PCP
pneumonia prophylaxis”.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
I was fortunate enough to be working alongside a
bunch of feisty fellows who knew their stuff, and knew it well. This was manifest
in the way the patients rendered their trust and starkly divulged even the most
sensitive bits of information, without so much as a trace of hesitation. In all
aspects of the past two weeks, from the wards and OPD to the pay floors,
peripherals, procalcitonin lectures and PPRISM conferences, I have to admit
that it had been quite an enjoyable and insightful experience. The nature and
practice of infectious diseases has indeed grown on me, with its corresponding nuances
and peculiarities. What initially seemed a drab, dreary realm of boring
antibiotics and culture studies was revealed to be so much more with a closer,
more discerning look – what with my share of exciting mycoses and
unconventional TB cases, not to mention the handful of STD patients that
destiny unwittingly transported to my doorstep.</div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
And by bringing to fore the clarion call of giving
first “aid” to “aids”, I thank the world of Infectious Diseases with all my
heart for these unwritten lessons, and for igniting in my head the rallying cry
of such a relevant endeavor. </div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-66754893709045165512011-02-18T00:23:00.000+08:002014-07-13T00:30:55.345+08:00breathing space.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnB_p98SUtAog5f5kpbKv1oMXZlBoDYJs6lctnBR4TkJV6KvT1JeNogaJHS0D8wD7nZAO6nGIyuVwySzbzpLXril-7Tw4p1zDIzxhprSvfX9H8W3vX9Aw9O84RYLHuKV9tWkMAbw/s1600/breathe1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnB_p98SUtAog5f5kpbKv1oMXZlBoDYJs6lctnBR4TkJV6KvT1JeNogaJHS0D8wD7nZAO6nGIyuVwySzbzpLXril-7Tw4p1zDIzxhprSvfX9H8W3vX9Aw9O84RYLHuKV9tWkMAbw/s1600/breathe1.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br />
<i>We inhale oxygen, and we exhale carbon dioxide.</i> This has been fundamental knowledge taught to us in grade school, brought up again in biology class, and resurrected in clinical parlance during medical school. It is the most basic respiratory process there is, and yet, every single minute, or fraction thereof, is a continual affirmation of the dynamism of life, as we take in and give off each specified quantity of air in a repeated process that we so easily take for granted in our daily humdrum.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
For my part, I guess all it takes is one glance at a bedridden patient, stricken with end-stage lung cancer and/or COPD and perpetually hooked to an AC mode mechanical ventilator, to realize the fact that the ability to breathe – fully and freely – is tantamount to being greatly fortunate.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It is all about breathing space, I thought. Hypoxia, hypercarbia, ventilation-perfusion mismatch, shunts, and similar mechanisms lend themselves to a host of airway diseases, parenchymal pathologies, and other pulmonary aspects of systemic disorders, the result almost always a harrowing, inhuman sense of difficulty to breathe. As pulmonologists, we can’t always bring our patients back to the fullness of normalcy (COPD and lung cancer being hard or altogether impossible to reverse, for instance) but we can at least alleviate their difficulty and help them avail, in one way or another, of this basic respiratory instinct of humankind.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
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Of course, there are the usual culprits. PGH as a whole continually reeks of PTB; in my two week rotation alone, just when I thought TB couldn’t surprise me any further, I was able to witness the metamorphosis of this dreaded mycobacterial disease in all its notorious forms and stages: from the completely asymptomatic suspect to the patient with active disease to cases of relapse, retreatment, and multi-drug-resistance, on to tuberculomas, tuberculous effusions and heavily disseminated cases. Even with the earnest efforts of the TB-DOTS programs that abound in the country, I believe much is still to be done and overcome in the long, hard battle against TB, in changing preconceived notions and false practices, and in the due encouragement of both collective and individual vigilance.</div>
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These diseases, I saw engraved on paper, thanks to the spirometry sessions that provided a breath of fresh air from the atmosphere of wards and clinics. My PFT sessions were a joy in themselves, as we went about trying to instruct patients on how to blow properly and then gradually seeing the graphic lines evolve on paper. It didn’t take me long to recognize the power of such a simple procedure. By merely looking at values and ratios alone, one could already determine the general pattern of pulmonary dysfunction and consequently take steps in further addressing and preventing functional deterioration.</div>
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But perhaps the most significant moment for me was when I stood inside the endoscopy unit keenly observing the conduct of video-assisted bronchoscopy being performed on a patient with a bullet to his chest. From an ordinary bystander, the airways seemed to look like ringed tubes with occasional streaks of mucus here and there, and I reckoned this is where one must submit to a flawless mastery of pulmonary anatomy, the scope poking and scouring the sturdy bronchi for potential problems.</div>
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Emerging from that endoscopy unit, I can’t help thinking how pulmonologists, in treating respiratory ailments and helping our patients to breathe, can create so much impact and difference in their quality of life. My meager experiences are but a slight preview of what lie ahead, the long road towards flawlessly performing endotracheal intubation, doing thoracentesis dexterously, or tinkering with the finer points of MV settings, but I hope I’m getting there. All it takes is one simple, genuine desire to help patients get better – and assure them their share of ample breathing space in the world. </div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-44603863345776194132010-12-10T23:12:00.000+08:002014-07-13T02:43:00.703+08:00graphic tales.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just when I thought winning second place in the Palanca six years ago was the ultimate feather in my writing cap, the venerable muse of literary graces treasured me with yet another orgasmic delight: my short story "Chopsticks" - submitted to and which apparently got published in the Philippine Graphic last year - won third place in the 2010 Philippines Graphic - Nick Joaquin Literary Awards. First place went to Kit Kwe for "The Fires of the Sun in the Crystalline Sky" while second place went to Easy Fagela for "Deadlines."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now I've always considered myself more of a creative non-fiction person, and "Chopsticks" was actually my first genuine foray into the realm of short stories. The spark came from out of nowhere, and before I knew it I was writing of silly feng shui anecdotes, painful memories, and your typical Filipino-Chinese family fussing over chopsticks. With a twist, of course. While this year's first and second place winners were both Silliman veterans, I am yet to sail the night boat to Dumaguete - that is, if I even get to. First timer's luck? Maybe. But then again, maybe not just.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thank you to the judges: the trio of eminent writers Krip Yuson, Susan Lara and Charlson Ong for believing in my work. Thank you also to the equally eminent Marra PL Lanot - Graphic literary editor last year and also my brother's Palanca judge - for deeming my work worthy of publication. And many thanks to the awesome Pete Lacaba for taking time to personally inform poor old clueless me of the great, great news.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Last but not the least, thank you to dear old Mang Nick (wherever you are) for serving as the hefty inspiration and the indelible spirit behind our colorful literary journeys – and victories.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Beyond the numerous congratulatory remarks and handshakes, everyone summed it all up with a single piece of advice: "Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing." Oh yes, I definitely will (As if this year's generous prizes aren't more than enough motivation, haha.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Kidding aside, here's to the future of writing. Here's to the future of Philippine literature. You'll be seeing more manuscripts from me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">An excerpt from "Chopsticks":</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>When I was five, I thought chopsticks were an absolute pain in the
neck. The first time I held them, they kept slipping from my fingers, and I
fumbled about gripping them awkwardly, each stick bumping into the other every
time I twisted them in the wrong direction. Mother always made it look so easy.
The chopsticks would lithely rise in her hands as she directed them into a
plate of steaming noodles, securely clipping a reasonable amount and bringing
them to her plate – or straight to her mouth.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“You have to hold them like
tongs,” she demonstrated. “And by all means, grasp them firmly. You don’t want
to end up with nothing.” It was understandably a test of control and coordination,
and somewhere at the back of my head I recalled her narrating that five
thousand years of practice made China home of the world’s best surgeons, her
voice swelling with pride.</i></span></div>
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(Postscript: "Chopsticks" was eventually republished in Lauriat: A Filipino-Chinese Speculative Fiction Anthology, which came out in 2012 - see <a href="http://wheelofthoughts.blogspot.com/2012/06/a-leap-for-lauriat.html">blog post</a></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">.)</span></div>
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</span>marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-85419407052312732292010-11-26T00:01:00.000+08:002014-07-13T00:17:39.502+08:00a joint affair.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Flashback to LU4. During our very first lecture in Rheumatology,
the lecturer (the indefatigable Dr. Penserga) stepped up the podium and uttered
her first sentence: <i>A joint is an organ.</i>
Right away, there was a personal moment of epiphany. What I had previously believed
to be a mere site of connection between two bones was, in fact, an active organ
harboring a host of cells, cytokines, and everything in between.</div>
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Three years seems an awfully long time when one
looks back at that definitive split-second and pauses to consider the potential
array of knowledge (and yet to be discovered knowledge) that lay beyond the
simple fabric of a joint capsule. Joints, as I later found out, only comprise a
minute fraction of this exciting field. In rheumatology, it was always about
recognizing patterns and asking oneself: “<i>Could
it be?”</i> with surefire gusto and the confidence of an acrobat on a tightrope,
hovering between a particular diagnosis and its really close mimic, never mind
that one or the other appeared nothing like the classic textbook illustration. <i>Dermatomyositis, polymyositis. Scleroderma,
scleredema</i>. (And you have overlap syndromes, too.) For the unwitting novice
with the untrained eye, the difference could only stretch a little farther than
a syllable – and the subtle signs that come with it.</div>
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Add that to the fact that the Philippines only has
about 90+ rheumatologists wracking their brains off a plethora of syndromes and
one rare disease after another. In my two week rotation alone, I was lucky to
have seen both ends of the spectrum – from the almost symptom-free individual
in remission to the barely conscious, intubated patient; from several cases of
Behcet’s disease to Takayasu’s arteritis and polyarteritis nodosa – and smugly
went home knowing something has piqued my intellectual curiosity and slaked my
inner thirst for the unconventional and the unfamiliar.</div>
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Two weeks slowly gave me insight into the palpable
difference between rheumatology and most other specialties. Rheumatologists
seek not an ultimate cure but rather, an acceptable functional capacity and
health-related quality of life for patients. And this is where tinkering with
steroids and NSAIDS comes into the picture – the same old drugs with brand new
tricks.</div>
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Even now we are already being ushered into the age
of biologicals. Meeting IL-17 – the latest kid on the block – had been a real
pleasure and so is trying my hand on the ultra-modern MSK UTZ. I thank all the
consultants and fellows for a time well spent and for generously accommodating
me into the world of inflammation and autoimmunity, where SLE and SSc are close
cousins with everyone else. When all else fails, I guess there will always be your
friendly neighborhood rheumatologist to help solve that rigged diagnostic
dilemma.</div>
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Now I say: ankylosing spondylitis, anyone?</div>
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<i>(Postscript:
I eventually did my internship research on ankylosing spondylitis, which went
on to win second place in the Annual Interns’ Research Forum for that year, got
accepted for poster presentation in an international conference in Granada,
Spain, and was eventually published in the Philippine Journal of Internal
Medicine.)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-18083133513237828532009-11-01T13:27:00.000+08:002014-07-13T00:04:20.524+08:00reading dan brown.<div align="justify">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just as he had done for the past two times, he did it again.<br /><br />I reluctantly pushed my nocturnal limits to an ungodly two-thirty in the wee hours of the morning, eagerly devouring the last few pages of Dan Brown’s latest novel The Lost Symbol. In the who’s who of bibliophiles, I don’t classify myself as a sprinter; but perhaps it merited some measure of braggadocio to have also wrapped up two of his other books in record time: The Da Vinci Code in ten hours, Angels and Demons in about twelve – apparently good enough response for someone whose writing has been dubbed by critics as clumsy, and whose works have been diversely labeled as inaccurate, fanciful, abstruse, slanderous, even sacrilegious.<br /><br />The question is not what causes us to gravitate to the pull of his fiction, but rather, why we gravitate to them. Like millions of readers, I turn to Brown’s books for the primary purpose that he wrote them: entertainment. His masterful thrillers provide a sought-after adrenaline rush, and a much-welcomed change from the humdrum of deadened routines. Through his stories, he has concocted a delectable compendium of just about everything that piques my interest – history, geography, art, literature, science, mathematics, even religion – seamlessly crafted into one gigantic, smashing, rollercoaster ride. Best of all, he toyed a bit with my fascination about Harvard (although I more than duly content myself with being currently schooled in the Harvard equivalent of the Philippines.)<br /><br />Reading Dan Brown is, in every sense, experiencing the inexperienced, expecting the unexpected, initiating the uninitiated. Villains become heroes, and heroes become villains. When I first plunged head-on into the then uncharted waters of the polemic The Da Vinci Code five years ago, I was instantly thrown into his clandestine world of arcane symbols, antediluvian legends, mystical phenomena – the plot thickening with every page, the secrets revealing themselves with every twist of the story. The thirst for unbridled momentum was infectious. As I picked up Angels and Demons and The Lost Symbol later on, a hazy pattern began to emerge.<br /><br />Somewhere that’s neither here nor there, Brown writes of a well-loved savant getting killed or kidnapped. He brews forth a terrifying madman, the unraveling of an ancient controversy, the pursuit to solve the mystery hurtling at full speed towards an electrifying climax. The meandering paths seemingly trail and coalesce downhill to an incredibly simplistic resolution, interjected with a handful of profound lessons that leave you thinking much more than just the way his fantastic tales ended. Because yes, there’s more.<br /><br />In a world beset with societal woes and plagued with problems from every side, Brown’s irrepressible characters have given us hope that we can always be unlikely saviors of our own generation. With his protagonist, Robert Langdon, he successfully painted the image of a renaissance man, the embodiment of someone imbued with messianic potential without actually realizing it. Langdon is hardly the epitome of a perfect individual. A noted historian and cryptologist, he waxes idiosyncratic philosophical for the greater part of his presence, oftentimes bordering on being overly quixotic. Desperate times call for desperate measures, however. Langdon promptly springs to action at the flick of a finger, whipping up a plausible solution faster than you can mouth “Eureka!”<br /><br />Fortunately, his moments of epiphany are as good as ours. Not content to sit back and let fate steer its sinister course, we gamble the odds with his every move, brainstorm with his every impediment, and silently rejoice with his every triumph. Indeed, Brown’s novels are thoroughly enjoyable not so much stark anthologies of facts as they are exercises in ingenuity. You exit his enigmatic world with no exact objects, locations, or explanations in mind; only the pleasant aftertaste of an enriching, gratifying, cerebral experience.<br /><br />I should know. Once upon a time, I, too, sat down in Philosophy class blatantly asking for the moon and the stars. What is truth? What is man’s destiny? What’s after forever? In the end, much like Brown’s novels, I was trained instead to strip myself of any existential pretensions and focus on the intangibility of human inquiry, to proffer the questions without waiting for the answers.<br /><br />In this regard, his novels incidentally helped me discover that hindsight can only yield so much insight. A stir of familiarity struck me upon mention of German painter Albrecht Durer, evoking unmistakable images of Humanities class as our professor engaged us to probe deeper and to scrutinize each artwork beyond what’s merely concrete and abstract. In between lines of an archaic riddle, in between elaborate depictions of The Louvre or The Washington Memorial, I surmise that this is what Brown tells us with overwhelming audacity: To look. Heightened observation, after all, serves as the very antithesis of perceptive mediocrity.<br /><br />There are heaps to be learned in the minutest and most puzzling of details, in the most insignificant of entities. There is more than meets the eye in those picture-perfect postcard panoramas of St. Peter’s Basilica, Westminster Abbey, or the soaring dome of the US Capitol. There is more than greets the mind behind the Mona Lisa’s captivating smile, the obscure markings on Raphael’s sculptures, or closer to home, the sacred texts of The Bible. Who knows? Our world is a world of possibilities.<br /><br />Yet akin to the celebrated Holy Grail or the fabled Ancient Mysteries, Brown’s works have never been about claiming that coveted trophy of the ages or that proverbial pot of gold at rainbow’s end. The spotlight is always fittingly passed on to something of far humbler, far higher substance – a quest for prayer, an affirmation of belief, an attempt to rescue an honorable reputation. Most importantly, his novels have aptly demonstrated that it takes a person of solid, unwavering faith to effectively hold his own against the persuasive tides of crafty reasoning, against the evidence-based debates of logic and scientific thought. What is faith, as Brown candidly put it, but the “acceptance of that which we imagine to be true, that which we cannot prove”?<br /><br />In literary context, I guess it takes a similar amount of faith, then, to keep the real from the unreal and still accept, albeit fleetingly, that which is imagined to be true, yet which cannot be proven. When all else stands unlocked and laid bare, Dan Brown’s saga of codes and secrets ultimately boils down to shedding light on the world as it is – rich, vibrant, unique – and being supremely thankful for it.<br /><br />And just like that, just as he had done for the past two times, he did it again.</span></div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-32394068451100672522009-10-26T12:20:00.001+08:002014-06-21T15:00:49.355+08:00gold, spice, and everything nice.<center>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now we're talking.</span></center>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-69582063360546945752009-08-05T18:27:00.007+08:002014-06-19T21:59:11.532+08:00beyond yellow.<div align="justify">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I first saw Cory Aquino in person during the premiere night of “Cory: The Musical” last November 2008, that loving tribute of songs and stories written in the eyes of and exclusively penned for her by close family friend Bing Pimentel. At the end of the production, when lead star Isay Alvarez and the rest of the main cast led the way for a thunderous applause, the 75-year old former president struggled up from her seat to give a few words of thanks and inspiration. It was almost clear then that her fragile state could not anymore hide the fact that this icon of democracy was, in fact, suffering from the terminal stages of colon cancer. It was almost clear, too, that I may well be seeing her for the first and the last time alive.<br /><br />My parents were not even married when Ninoy Aquino was killed at the height of the Marcos regime in 1983. I can plainly say with all honesty and naiveté that I never went through the odious years of Martial Law era, never felt the stirring emotions of a unified People Power in EDSA I, never experienced the harrowing loss of democracy in the dead of night – only to have it resurrected by an unlikely heroine-of-a-housewife more than a decade after. To stretch the gap even farther, I never had the privilege of shaking hands with the woman once famously chosen by Time Magazine as Person of the Year, never knew how it was to work alongside this Fulbright Awardee for International Understanding, never had an inkling on how it felt like to be a doting grandchild to “one of Asia’s most influential leaders of the 20th century.”<br /><br />What I have, beyond a few surreal meters of plush theater rows, is the lingering memory of having been able to vicariously trace her origins back to the old ancestral home in Quanzhou, China, eight years ago. More matter-of-factly, her husband Ninoy was also my exact natal predecessor of 55 years, a boon we share together with our noteworthy ears, academic inclination, and keen literary fervor (the idea of assassination has not occurred to me in my wildest dreams – yet.) Ninoy was the <em>yang </em>to Cory’s <em>yin</em>, the articulate voice to her lending ear, the convivial soul to her kindred spirit. With his death, she had to be <em>yin</em> and<em> yang</em> at the same time. As he watered the tarmac with senseless blood that fateful day in August, so must she sensibly redeem it three years later with a bloodless revolution in February. As his death sparked the flames that sent irate millions into a quest for democracy, so must her death fan the same flames that brought back the lessons of history.<br /><br />And so I write, because to write is sometimes all one can do in the aftermath of a nation’s sorrowful outpouring, in the aftermath of unabashed, unexplained grief. Because to write is to proffer the humble gift of words, served on the simple platter of reminiscence and tendered in the hope that heaven reads the muffled lips of a now orphaned people. Most importantly, because to write of the life Cory Aquino lived is to write of snippets of each and every Filipino’s life – and incidentally, mine as well: grim shadows of the past, firm reminders of the present, hopeful exhortations of the future.<br /><br />Fr. Catalino Arevalo, SJ, in his poignant eulogy, quietly pointed out how “selflessness, faith and courage” have always remained at the forefront of Cory’s life, the indelible trio of principles that constituted the bedrock of morals by which her whole life was founded on. Selflessness, manifested in the concrete hierarchy of “God, country and family”, has been her battle cry for living for others, for the continuous betterment of those around her even in her darkest, most painful days. It is with this realization that I marvel at the frail gallantry of Cory as a human person, and if only to generalize – to the extent by which the lot of ordinarily extraordinary persons make themselves extraordinarily ordinary. Courage, by way of defying fraudulence and a feared despot with the striking candor of truth and sincerity, places her in the league of a modern day Joan of Arc – shining sword traded for rosary beads, blazing red for canary yellow, final martyrdom on the stake with serene acceptance of disease.<br /><br />Cory, however, is not Cory without the unwavering and almost saint-like faith that shook mountains with a single prayer, and yet, in itself, was virtually unshakeable. (If a “Hail Mary Squad” so much as existed, she would have been, hands down and without question, ringleader of the gang.) As someone once put it: “Before, I was not too entirely convinced of a woman who brandishes prayer as her prime weapon; but it never budged under duress, and now she has made me a total believer.” Even as she reluctantly ascended the silver steps to Malacañang, and even as she voluntarily exited the chief commander’s throne with paramount grace, she knew her real power – and wielded it effortlessly across an archipelago mobilizing an army of sorts that rejoiced as she rejoiced, wept as she wept, and fought on even as her strength slowly succumbed to the dreaded Big C. We again swarmed out to the streets when she called for a defaced president’s ouster. We rallied behind her as she sought asylum for rebelling soldiers. We marched with her, church to church, school to school, when she took a stand behind the reputed underdog of a boiling political scandal. And now, more than ever, we raised the cudgels for her with her recent denunciation of the infamous Con-Ass, read aloud by a grandson as she lay stricken on her pristine hospital bed. All of which prompted me to ask: What is it about her that moves us? Rather, what is it about her that moves us <em>into action?</em><br /><br />The celebrated Pablo Picasso believed that “some painters transform the sun into a yellow spot, while others transform a yellow spot into the sun.” Yellow, of all colors, permeates the darkness the easiest and the most; the veritable, elemental mother of light. Cory, who took up painting in her twilight years, must have wisely understood the connection and so chose yellow to initiate the illustrious spectacle that dramatically engraved itself across the surface of our nation’s history, conveying a people’s shared sentiments and brilliantly capturing that tearful moment of joy once victory has been claimed. In a country barely holding its own under the dark for so long, yellow was a refreshing change, the gentle impeding strand that could, the provident beacon slowly but surely leading the way out of the proverbial tunnel. Yellow depicted the outrage of the angry throng of two million escorting Ninoy to his grave, and yellow, too, emblazoned the banner bearing our tireless crusades for deliverance. For all she’s worth, and for the “crosses and roses” patiently borne for the sake of an ailing nation, we thank Cory Aquino for transforming a yellow spot into the yellow sun of Philippine colors, for her legacy of light and the things that stood beyond it.<br /><br />But even in the light of one’s best and most noble intentions, one cannot please all, and at all times. There are those who attack her feeble handling of fiscal policies, the lackluster response to communist insurgents, the burgeoning energy crisis, the way she opted to tread the path of honor and hard work by politely shunning the World Bank’s offer to absolve us of our debt-rigged dilemma. Even then, in the midst of a thousand detractors, it is all too easy to single her out with her signature smile, shrugging her shoulders as if resigned to the fact that she was, and will always be, limited. A classmate of mine, a not-so-ardent fan in the spectrum of Cory fanaticism, once dreamt of her “on her knees, pleading for forgiveness for whatever errors she may have committed.” And it occurred to me that perhaps, it has always been her nature to forgive: Gringo and the numerous grisly attempts to throw her out of office. EDSA II and the eventual reconciliation with Erap. Bitter factions right smack in the Cojuangco clan. Daughter Kris and her rocky romances. Conrado de Quiros, the very same writer whom Kris once rued as being “so mean to my mom”, would later mean what he said and say what he meant when he called her “one damn good person.”<br /><br />With her passing arose a great many speculations about the theory of goodness, goodwill, good people. Sometimes, it meant introspectively looking at the fundamental basis of human nature and discovering that moral lodestar deep within. Other times, it rested on the more profound grounds of relativity, on cautious, unbiased deliberation of graded evilness: greater evil, lesser evil. In his speech at the start of “Cory: The Musical”, Sen. Benigno “Noynoy” Aquino III described his mother as being “so different from the powers that be that govern us today”. Without being unjustifiably cynical, I have come to consider her death as the unofficial end of an era, of bygone days where public service was an untarnished honor and personal integrity was still in vogue. No one would argue when I propose that for most of her life Cory played the part of a much lesser evil, her flaws a mere speck in the rancid frays of the contemporary political arena already marred and marred still, her shortcomings presumably given in to inexperience that had much to do with coping with gargantuan responsibility and generic demands at the same time. I once fielded such a question to my aunt: “How good was she?” To which she readily answered, “Well, I say she was good enough, wasn’t she?” For most of this country’s 80 million denizens, there was no doubt. She was good enough, damn good enough.<br /><br />In burying Cory, we give tribute to her simple yet significant contribution to the restoration of a free Philippines, tainted as it is by the unbecoming forces that threaten to break its cornerstone of nobility. In accompanying her for a straight, sacrificial eight hours to her final resting place, we commit ourselves to the perpetual cause of upholding democracy that she so adamantly fought for for much of her widowed lifetime. In braving the corporeal embodiments of searing sun and roaring rain, we testify our solidarity as a Filipino nation cloaked in mourning, sealed in love, and bonded in hope.<br /><br />“It is good to see the (people power) spirit still alive,” one person commented, no less than struck short of awed at the heartwarming sight of a million Filipinos flooding the flooded streets of the metropolis in a desperate attempt for last minute glimpses, tributes, and farewells (plus photo-ops.) It was definitely larger than life; the wonderful frenzy now fondly referred to as “Cory magic”. I was inclined to think that in this age of ephemeral transitions, just as pages yellow away and persist beyond the mortal days of their venerated authors, so shall the robust yellow of “Cory magic” elude death in its agelessness. After all, way after she stepped down as president, I was a personal witness to how a catchy Hiligaynon jingle (sung to the tune of a then popular jukebox dance hit, the title of which I cannot recall) continued to gain popular acclaim back home, ingeniously crafted as follows:<br /><br />“Everybody/<em>saka sa lubi</em>/<br /><em>Kung mahulog/singgit lang kay</em> Cory…”<br /><br />(“Everybody/climb the coconut tree/<br />If you fall down/just call out for Cory…”)<br /><br />The creator’s first intention, I would suppose, was certainly and primarily for amusement (as if anything else mattered more to a five year old kid.) But for those who knew better, it was more than an act of endearment, more than an acknowledgment of trust that goes well beyond embracing her as president, wife, and mother. With her passing, it is in confidently affirming that we can always count on the Tita Cory we knew to bring the country back to its feet, albeit in spirit, and to bring us Filipinos back to our feet, whenever, wherever, and always with a pleasing, soaring sense of heightened national consciousness.<br /><br />Twenty-three years ago, as the newly-instated president of a republic on wobbly knees, she beseeched the joint Houses of Congress to “join us, America, as we build a new home for democracy; another haven for the oppressed so it may stand as a shining testament of our two nations’ commitment to freedom.”<br /><br />Twenty-three years later, as a medical student of an institution sailing past its centennial year, I entreat my fellow countrymen to “join us, Philippines, as we build a new home for democracy; another haven for the oppressed so it may stand as a shining testament of our two heroes’ commitment to freedom.”</span></div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-9184395425035880402009-05-25T22:45:00.000+08:002014-07-12T22:50:09.501+08:00homeward bound.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“It would be good to
get away for a while.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps that
statement concretized what I felt upon deciding to have an off-campus elective
in Iloilo City in the summer, in lieu of taking one within the four PGH walls that
had housed me for the past three years. Not that I had grown tired of the
green, green grass of old, but I figured that if I were to stay within the same
four walls for the next two years or so, a change of scenery might be a welcome
diversion. I wanted something different, yet something relevant. Taking an
off-campus elective close to home was a tempting idea: Aside from the relative
convenience, it would give me the perfect break I needed right smack in the
middle of clerkship year. And it would definitely be, in itself, another unique
opportunity to hone skills, acquire new knowledge, and survey the health system
in the province.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was homeward bound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I chose to pursue my
inclination for the intricacies of Internal Medicine at the West Visayas State
University Medical Center (WVSU-MC) – fondly called by many as the “PGH of the
South”, as most of the top honchos are themselves UPCM alumni. Living up to its
name, the institution aims to be a center of quality health service in Southern
Philippines, catering to a diverse population with patients hailing from as far
as <st1:place w:st="on">Mindanao</st1:place>. The analogy is palpable: PGH patients
primarily represent the urban poor; those at WVSU-MC comprise mostly the rural
poor – some from the far-flung, remote regions who must have deemed themselves
lucky enough to have availed health services in the nick of time. And I
realized that this will be a scene repeated over and over again throughout the
country – the same indigent patients, the same bleak, wearied faces yearning
even for just a shot of relief from sufferance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Unlike the two
massive wards of PGH-IM that served around a hundred, there was only one
Medical Ward at WVSU-MC. There were no fancy callrooms, but a workstation that served
both nurses and medical students. WVSU-MC can certainly pride itself in having
fairly adequate facilities, but we got to appreciate PGH facilities more in a
different light, as we once again turned to plain resourcefulness and clinical
acumen when suddenly left without the aid of MRIs or DEXA Scans at the click of
a finger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The atmosphere was less
contrived and more informal, which I guess can be attributed to the fact that
it was so much less congested at WVSU-MC, allowing for ample breathing space
and interaction. Without a language barrier and armed with a home advantage, we
thought we had it all – but were quickly humbled upon discovering that there
were some Ilonggo words we couldn’t quite fathom out (terms for “chest
tightness” and “lymphadenopathy”, for instance.) Two weeks at the OPD and two
weeks at the wards – with a smattering of ICU and ER exposures – taught me
that, and much more. The daily morning endorsement rounds refreshed my rusty
and decidedly modest knowledge of medicine, while exposing me to my first case
of tetanus. The grand rounds, on the other hand, caused me to marvel at a case
of Takayasu’s arteritis and learn all about basic pacemaker technology. Of
course, nothing beats witnessing your first actual pleurodesis, plus the
anchovy-like consistency of an amoebic liver abscess during ultrasound-guided
aspiration.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just like PGH,
there’s no escaping TB and the stigma that goes with it. The whole gamut of
afflicted patients remained at the fore – from those mistakenly-diagnosed via
chest X-ray to those still taking meds on their ninth month. In the wards,
pneumonia and stroke claimed the upper hand with victims ranging from GCS
15-ers to those on the brink of falling into coma. For those hovering along variable
levels of consciousness (and prognoses), it amazed me how effective, empathic patient-doctor-family
interaction can be palliative in as much as it is informative. There were
patients who appeared jovial the first day, but suddenly turned up on the
mortality audit the next day. It reminded me of the extreme fragility of life
and the delicate role that we doctors play, akin to a tightrope. The first time
I performed CPR on a patient who underwent cardiac arrest the third time, even
science could not muster the courage to summon the whys and hows that dictated
the circumstances surrounding life, death, and what goes on in between. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As elective period
slowly rolled by, I came to believe that everything was all about realization
and reinforcement. Realization, in the sense that how things run at WVSU-MC
more or less strike a similar chord back at PGH: The kindly medical resident
who offered to pay the lab fees of an ailing patient. The overworked clerk. Too
many patients, not enough equipment. Reinforcement came with the resolve to pursue
more knowledge, better skills, richer interactions. All the while trying to
keep to heart the multifaceted characteristics of a five-star physician – a
practitioner, educator, researcher, leader, and social mobilizer. Four weeks proved
a short time for getting to know my own backyard well enough to run the mill; nevertheless
it gave me a sufficient overview of how the health system works in a
medium-sized urban community, 500 miles beyond the confines of the metropolis,
one called home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Because who knows, he
may just find himself homeward bound yet again – and maybe yet for good.</span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-62614981493370910282009-04-28T22:14:00.004+08:002014-06-19T22:07:57.222+08:00the speech that almost was.<div align="justify">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I could have very well titled this entry “The Speech That NEVER Was,” and it would still be 100% accurate.<br /><br />But on account of good ole Schultz philosophy, I chose not to.<br /><br />Traditionally, the honor of delivering the valedictory speech in behalf of the entire graduating class goes to the undisputed summa cum laude. No one but the revered intellectual among intellectuals deserves such a privilege for finishing with the highest honors in the country’s premier school of hard knocks. It was an honor I had always dreamed of achieving, yet knew well enough that being in an especially formidable course puts the stakes at close to sheer impossibility.<br /><br />But – surprise, surprise.<br /><br />UP Manila has NO summa cum laude this year.<br /><br />When I was informed by Ate Lucy last month that I was one of the four University magna cum laude chosen to vie for the title of valedictory speaker, my heart palpitated in leaps and bounds. The record for the College of Medicine last belonged to a certain Vince Faustino who made the cut way back in 1997, and since then the College has been suffering from a jinx for the longest time. If you were in my shoes, you’d be as giddy as Mary being showered heavenly tidings by the Archangel Gabriel.<br /><br />I have been speaking before audiences with surefire gusto for as long as I can remember. I was the <em>bibo</em> kid eagerly clutching a microphone in kindergarten school, tasked with and happily giving the opening remarks, the closing remarks, or coaxed by a prodding teacher to host the program altogether. I was the precocious declaimer in grade school, the starry-eyed narrator and storyteller, the unwitting performer of various shows and productions that had me gripping the limelight even in its wake. High school refined the fringes of my presumably verbose future. I spoke before teachers, students, and fellow citizens as editor-in-chief of the school organ, as a CAT officer, as a youth city official, as a young leader awardee – minute-long instances that taught me about the workings of the world as much as I imparted my own thoughts to others.<br /><br />Upon entering medical school, however, I found that the predominantly academic thrust somehow keeps you indefinitely holding your piece, save for the generic reports and case presentations that required more austere objectivity than artful eloquence and technique. Whenever I was tasked (or allowed) to speak, I felt “like a bird being finally freed from its cage,” and my classmates (particularly those in my own block) would readily attest to the palpable change in my stolid demeanor. Deep inside, I hungered for the sporadic opportunity to do non-scientific talk, once again.<br /><br />Now my multi-awarded brother recently delivered three excellent speeches to three different audiences last month, all within a week’s time from each other. The constellations must have decided that my turn had come.<br /><br />To cut the long story short, there was simply no blowing my chances away. I was determined to bring the honor back to the University’s oldest and perhaps most venerable College, to prove my mettle not only as a budding medical student but as one tendering a self-styled return into the realm of public speaking. I completed the page-long draft of my speech in just a couple of hours – on Black Saturday, to be exact – the sophisticated result of a premature burst of ideas that spontaneously fired like missiles the previous night. In stark contrast to many of my earlier, rawer, more heavyset speeches, this one was surprisingly light and humorous – even poking fun at a common and well-loved University emblem.<br /><br />I had always believed that a good speech informs, entertains, and enlightens at the same time. It must have an impact, one subtle and substantial enough to leave the audience sufficiently satisfied, yet gut-wrenchingly wanting for more. At the slightest hint of boredom, the speaker understands that he teeters on the road to perdition. This philosophy guided me in the days that followed, as I constantly buzzed around improving my finished product – reading and rereading, editing, reconstructing sentences and paragraphs, reciting lines in the shower, practicing before a whole body mirror, making sure equal emphasis was placed on diction, clarity, projection, modulation, facial expressions, eye contact – just about the entire gamut of essentials said to comprise the perfect, foolproof, winner’s speech.<br /><br />And then…it was time.<br /><br />Barely a week into summer break, I soon found my way back to the big city, part-nervous and part-excited. Hopping on the first plane at the crack of dawn, I was up and about before the appointed time, fussing over and fumbling for a smart enough attire, rushing my way through the perpetual Taft traffic threatening to send my hopes down the drain. Only one thought raced through my mind that sweltering April day: Get yourself late, and there goes the promise of a good impression. I wasn’t about to gamble what could be a lifetime’s bet over something as trivial as a petty temporal malfunction.<br /><br />That fateful afternoon, in the glaring sunlight, the hallowed interior of the UP Manila Board Room became a menacing microcosm of its magnified neighbor, the real life Supreme Court. Four “judges”, all smug and poker-faced, will decide the fate of four contenders in a miniscule audition now clearly reigning supreme over the current hit, hot American Idol season. Having arrived early, I took the prerogative to go second with the coy excuse of “a little jet lag”, retreating to the back room for a few uneasy minutes before a sharp knock on the door cut my introspective musings to a halt. As the first speaker wrapped up his stint, I silently took a breath, looked all four “judges” in the eye, and opened my mouth.<br /><br />There is something almost romantic about the way you start the first word, or the first phrase, or the first sentence, for that matter. As the spotlight furtively moves into view, you are left alone to contemplate the veil of muted silence, a baptism of fire into the vicious verbal arena. I caught a hint of a smile quivering at the corners of the lips of one “judge” as I delivered my first two paragraphs, which had previously sent both my mom and my aunt in ROFL mode. The rest, however, remained attentively impassive. I turned the game a notch higher as I settled comfortably into gear, confidently going about the remainder of the speech, stressing main highlights, nimbly swinging the mood from serious to comical and somewhere in between, rolling slippery syllables with so much as a smooth, clarion lisp. At one point, I saw all four “judges” nodding, exchanging cognizant glances, and took it somewhat as a good sign. <em>Three minutes is all I have to make it happen.</em><br /><br />The following morning, Ate Lucy’s words were the first to greet me upon waking up.<br /><br />As her voice cracked over the phone, my groggy disposition was in no state to probe what would happen next. And so when she awkwardly spilled out the disheartening words – “<em>Nalulungkot ako</em>”, “Better luck next time <em>daw</em>” – I rhythmically nodded, rubbing excess sleep off my eyes, and told her I understood. The conversation was over in less than one minute.<br /><br />It was the longest one minute of my life.<br /><br />What took place thereafter was a surreal pattern of events. The world around me seemed to spin as I stared into space, motionless. And then the full brunt of the realization hit me like cold, heartless iced water: I was well headed for Elizabeth Kubler Ross’s inevitable five stages – and mind you, it takes me a very, very long time and perhaps twice the amount of effort (plus thrice the amount of pain) to reach that last, definitive stage. It was hard slaving away four years of medical school; harder still, to have had ignited a hope so fervent and killed it just as instantly. Everything flashed before me in blinding reminiscence: The pursuit of the rare privilege to speak before the vast populace of the country’s flagship university; sacrificing a day of entertaining vacationing classmates; getting myself sick; spending thousands on promo airfares; sparing myself a week’s worth of extra appointments on the side. Suddenly, the little piece of paper that could remained a little piece of paper for good, tragically destined to become part of the dusty, yellowing family archive.<br /><br />Like a neurologist localizing an organic lesion, I searched high and low for a possible gap in the master plan: What went amiss?<br /><br />Theory # 1: I should have crafted a speech in Filipino.<br />(<em>Theory debunked. The instructions read: You can deliver the speech in English OR Filipino. Since the issue comes down to giving your best, I naturally chose to draft one in my preferred métier</em>.)<br /><br />Theory # 2: I should have memorized the entire speech.<br />(<em>Theory debunked. Oh yes, I did memorize my speech and can ruddy well measure up to the job if asked. But the thing is: I was asked to READ</em>.)<br /><br />Theory # 3: I should have delivered a more serious, more radical, more bombastic speech.<br />(<em>Theory debunked. A speech is different from an oration. Julius Caesar can fire away all he wants, but that won’t cost him a seat in the Roman Forum if his speech is as vacuous as a wailing siren. Contemporary times call for contemporary measures</em>.)<br /><br />Theory # 4: I should have served the main dish, not just a sleazy appetizer.<br />(<em>Theory debunked. From what I understood, we were asked to make “a speech”, not “THE speech”. And all in three minutes</em>.)<br /><br />Theory # 5: I should not have included Jesus Christ in the picture and committed undue sacrilege.<br />(<em>Theory debunked. By all means and intentions, Jesus had been depicted in the best of light – as a noteworthy academic, as a forerunner of truth. This I swear by the Second Commandment</em>.)<br /><br />Theory # 6: It is time to give chance to others.<br />(<em>Now this one I have yet to disprove</em>.)<br /><br />But back to Schultz and his ideals.<br /><br />For all his life, the famed Snoopy creator advocated the idea of looking at the glass half-full, instead of half-empty. Upon reaching that unmistakable halfway mark in a marathon, one must consider the fact that the battle is already half-won and the race half-finished, instead of saying that the battle is MERELY half-won and the race ONLY half-finished. “To be happy,” my grandmother stressed, “is to look at the less fortunate.”<br /><br />What could have happened had I not been offered the chance to formulate a speech, at all? Unlike Mikaela Fudolig, I am no 16-year old summa cum laude graduate of the State University. Unlike Patricia Evangelista, I am not an English-speaking world champion. Unlike my brother, I don’t have 11 gold medals in public speaking to my name.<br /><br />After I sloppily remarked that they “now have one less reason to attend my graduation,” my mom reprovingly shook her head and replied, “Remember that we are attending for the sake that you will be graduating, and graduating with honors at that. The speech is just extra icing on top of the cake.” But for the proud, prodigious denizens of a record-smashing INTARMED class (at least for those who knew the real story), news of a fallen flag-bearer stirred a perceptibly more intense reception:<br /><br />Reactor # 1: “<em>Argh. Eh di sino ang napili</em>?”<br /><br />Reactor # 2: “<em>Weh. </em>Whatever<em>. Sigurado akong luto yan</em>.”<br /><br />Reactor # 3: “<em>Dapat si Greggy talaga ito</em>. In our books, you’re still the speaker.”<br /><br />I clearly remember that in one of his impromptu speaking conquests, my brother was adjudged the silver medal to everyone’s open-mouthed surprise. However, it was hardly the end of the story. The audience’s general dissatisfaction at the unexpected outcome bypassed the official verdict when he was given a rousing standing ovation during the awarding rites, far eclipsing the proclaimed champion’s meager applause (no audience factor here). True, he may not have gone home with the golden bacon dangling around his neck, but in the eyes of many, it rightfully belonged to him.<br /><br />Fast forward to the big day where, clad in my black toga, I had just settled onto my seat after graciously shaking hands with UP President Emerlinda Roman. After basking for a few seconds onstage and receiving a glinting gold medal, after the numerous (and exhausting) smiles and photo-ops (some of which embarrassingly featured my beneath-the-toga matted hair resembling Javier Bardem in <em>No Country For Old Men</em> and Drew Barrymore’s creepy stalker in <em>Charlie’s Angels</em>), it was time for my personal moment of truth.<br /><br />The chosen student speaker took her place on the lectern and the reel rolled away before my senses.<br /><br />Yes, her speech was in Filipino. But it was neither near bombastic, radical, or memorized. She took off with a short narrative about ceramics and clay pots, how these supposedly undergo thousand-degree centigrade transformations before emerging into the light as objects of high human intrinsic regard. “<em>The same can be said of UP students</em>…”<br /><br />And then it hit me.<br /><br />There are times in our lives when God wants us to listen, even when all we want to do is talk. There are times in our lives when He wants us to pause, even when our voices are screaming for unbridled momentum. And there are times in our lives when He wants us to look inside – when all we want to do is focus on the shady exterior. With the student speaker’s message, I realized that He was bringing me a message of my own. I was about to enter one of, if not the most challenging phase in a medical student’s life, one that brings along with it a multifaceted challenge: physical, mental, emotional, social, even spiritual – a key turning point in the long, arduous journey towards becoming a licensed healer.<em> I</em> was the clay pot, <em>clerkship</em> is the fire – no, inferno – that threatened to make or break me. The message couldn’t have been more apt and timely for one who is about to (and who dreaded to) be a clerk in, well, a little over a month’s time.<br /><br />Ergo I wasn’t this year’s student speaker for the 100th Commencement Exercises of UP Manila, but I learned something else. Beyond clay pots and ceramics and the series of thousand-degree transformations awaiting me, I learned to be a little less afraid. The speech that never – or rather, that almost was – lived up to its job: It made all the difference. </span></div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-64782985392624133632009-04-05T22:21:00.000+08:002014-06-19T23:55:46.677+08:00five lessons you learn in hell week.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.0pt;">Hell hath no fury than a week’s worth of
exams scorned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.0pt;">Several weeks prior, the whole of Class 2011 was already
kept on a tightrope. When you consider the prospect of four final exams, a grand
practical exam, and an all out, year-ender comprehensive exam zeroing in on you
faster than the speed of sound, it wasn’t uplifting in the remotest sense. There
were bouts and relapses of insomnia, nausea, anorexia, amnesia – even mild
paroxysms of seizure-like attacks. It was doubly hard for me as I would be
coming from Community Medicine – a rotation notorious for late dismissals,
stacks of paper requirements, and pockets reduced to bareness from paying a
daily sequence of tricycle fares, jeep rides, and LRT passes. It didn’t help,
too, that the weekend prior was my brother’s high school graduation, which
meant having to traverse the 280 miles bridging school and home, by hook or by
crook. Time ever fleeting, I soon found myself back in Manila Sunday afternoon,
frantic and in panic, eager to stuff whatever I can into my stressed mentation,
equally frustrated at having to miss the very successful congratulatory bash
Sunday night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.0pt;">Hell week came, hell week went, and now only
the calm remained. In true Mitch Albom fashion, here are the five best lessons
I learned from my trip to hell and back:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.0pt;">1. Some things in life aren’t worth missing.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.0pt;">A sibling gets to
graduate from high school only once in his lifetime. In contrast, you get to
take piles and piles of exams as a medical student, as a resident, and even as
a consultant. I was reassured time and again: “You went home for a good
reason.” Even if it meant not having enough time which resulted to my first
ever truly difficult Neurology exam and not knowing whether I did enough to
merit a passing score (I soon found out it was a general class sentiment, but no
less distressing for someone who got away with 1.0 in LU 3 and 1.25 plus
topping all three exams in LU 4…and LU 5?) I guess there has to be a first time
for everything. But this I can readily say: I gave my best, studied what I can,
and as for going home – definitely no regrets. There will be blogging evidence
for the latter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.0pt;">2. Never say die.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.0pt;">Alternatively, the
euphemism is “Faith moves mountains.” In dire times like this, there’s only
forward to go and no turning back. I initially felt like one of the 300 stuck
at Thermopylae with no hope of conquering the massive Persian army, but
gradually gathered enough nerve to become like Caesar in one of his conquests,
ill-equipped but still possessing the gall to declare that “the die is cast”.
But I had the one thing they both lack: faith to keep me company. Barely
flipping through Pharmacology as my brother’s batchmates received their
diplomas, the light of divine providence shone through when I found myself
uncannily topping the finals with a good score, and a good number of points
ahead! God works wonders in His own time, indeed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.0pt;">3. Making a mistake
doesn’t mean you don’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.0pt;">If you forgot to
mention the mobility of a breast mass, ergo you didn’t know whether it’s mobile
or fixed? If you casually stated without so much as a second thought that “Hepatitis
B is a live attenuated vaccine”, ergo you have no idea that it’s actually an
inactivated vaccine? (Seems kinda obvious that I’m enumerating my own silly
blunders, hehe) The crazy individuals that we are, our brains sometimes
overshoot their usual workings and go haywire without any apparent reason,
making it illegal for someone to label you downright ignorant with a single
encounter. Through the years, I have discovered something else about the “art”
of making mistakes: I learn better from them. Heck, I can even remember some of
the ones I made way back in high school.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.0pt;">4. A little sleep lost won’t
hurt.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.0pt;">Hell week drastically
slashed my sleeping time from the usual 7-8 hours to a ghastly 4-4.5 hours.
Consecutive nights of sleeping at 2-2:30 am physically pushed me to nocturnal
limits with trying to combat grogginess and concentrate on the emergent task at
the same time. Of course, the worst part was waking up in the mornings with über
gritty eyes and an altered consciousness, floating somewhere in pseudo-reality
(This made me see the potential wonders of coffee in a different light.) With
my sleep record utterly shattered, perhaps I can now say I had been a “real”
med student, with suitably-sized eyebags for ample proof. Now I know there’s
hope in surviving clerkship without a mydriatic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.0pt;">5. All storms blow over.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.0pt;">That’s why Hell Week is a misnomer; I
actually think “Purgatory Week” is the more appropriate term. Unlike hell which
dooms you to eternity, “purgatory” week somehow thrusts you into the fire with
the promise of heaven after a taste of hell. The sickening hype of terror and
anxiety builds up in an exaggerated manner as the apocryphal event approaches
like an impending typhoon, only to have everything go back just as before in
its wake. How did it go? Some classmates attested that “it wasn’t so bad.” The
dreaded quadruple finals series “purged” our knowledge on their respective
fields; the leviathan OSCE refreshed our PE skills; and even the ultimate
comprehensive exam provided a bit of last-minute enlightenment. Yes, purgatory
exists for a purpose.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10pt; text-indent: 0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10pt; text-indent: 0.25in;">On a wider scale, such a week may have only
served as a timely primer to the bigger, more fearsome world of clerkship –
with its own unique collection of tragic horror stories. However, it also
taught us to be more confident of ourselves and to believe in our capabilities.
The devil may wear Prada, but he definitely doesn’t wear a sablay.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-22221433350368102432009-03-26T22:36:00.000+08:002014-07-12T22:44:46.127+08:00a community postscript. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNiao3DxHwa0vBQfgAAvA-u9bWcnW7XfBrdQGdsl6CcYhWFnU99OD83JzmvOjYawHodbw4mTB5erUQFSLs32R0uOuWhQ9kBNdB5CRgAwACuH4l6x_bAHKWwl5ZhUKJ0BtFhhynFw/s1600/DSC04168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNiao3DxHwa0vBQfgAAvA-u9bWcnW7XfBrdQGdsl6CcYhWFnU99OD83JzmvOjYawHodbw4mTB5erUQFSLs32R0uOuWhQ9kBNdB5CRgAwACuH4l6x_bAHKWwl5ZhUKJ0BtFhhynFw/s1600/DSC04168.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I first set foot on Barangay 137 in San Roque,
Pasay City, thinking I would find myself surrounded by a cacophony of howling
dogs and stinking dog poo. After all, as BHW and Kagawad Ate Nene would have
it, the matter has long been a pet peeve in the area. Many an irresponsible
owner would reportedly hie off to work leaving their furry friends unattended
to, randomly biting people and soiling the whole place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It came as a surprise, therefore, when I found myself
face-to-face with a lone goose – seeing the rest of its canine counterparts
securely tethered inside houses. I eventually discovered that such was the
result of a well-implemented Responsible Pet Ownership ordinance, which kept
both the dogs and the rabies count at bay. Looking back, I realized it was quite
a fitting eye-opener to the success story – or at least, one in the making –
that is the health care system in Barangay 137, San Roque.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The place is nothing much extraordinary. Statistics
spell your typical run-of-the-mill Filipino urban barangay: five main streets, 700
families, 500 houses, 2,900 residents, and a murky creek slicing through its
boundary with adjacent Makati. The health center, decidedly devoid of
ventilation sufficient to combat the sweltering summer heat, caters to at least
19 neighboring barangays, each competing with the others for its meager share
of basic health care services. Hardly the case for a miracle?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It may be so, but the stuff of legends doesn’t stop
with a few unattractive basics. Let’s say the legend took place in some area once
mired in poverty, disease, and hopelessness. Let’s say that bit by bit, the
place rose among the ranks of its fellow barangays to achieve an enviable
status, owing to the firm resolve of its leaders and the staunch cooperation of
its people. Let’s say the story ended with the people emerging victorious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our tête-à-tête with Brgy.
Capt. Narciso Ramson on the first day could only provide so much enlightenment
with regards to how this small locality, once a notorious hotspot for lawless
elements under the guise of “Gamban Bukid”, courageously stood up to defy the
challenges of the times, including that of a wanting, waning health system. What
struck me further is the fact that throughout the entirety of the conversation,
Capt. Ramson, who has thirty years of public service to his name, repeatedly
gave credit to the efforts of the community – citing solid actions and
exceptional willpower as the key to the eradication of crime and social
upheaval, to the revitalization of the creek, and to the gradual alleviation of
the barangay’s health woes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It is exactly this proactive stance that caused me
to ceaselessly marvel at the way things were run at the community. Besides
Capt. Ramson, the energetic BHWs stand at the forefront as equally crucial
catalysts in the barangay’s stalwart crusade towards fulfilling the tenets of
primary health care, that seemingly intangible but indubitable goal of “health
for all”. They leap to health matters with infectious enthusiasm, discussing
plans and organizing projects. Ate Nene, for one, has been a BHW herself for
decades and has simply seen it all – the incredible metamorphosis of the place from
disease-prone cellar-dweller to topnotch example, many thanks to the unyielding
efforts of the spirited BHWs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The health programs of the barangay are commendable
in themselves. Plastered across the health center walls are the various indicators
and monitoring reports that give one an instant rundown of the area’s health
status at a glance. From the maternal and child care activities, anti-TB and dengue
prevention schemes, to the numerous healthy lifestyle programs and the
thrice-weekly exercise program that has been going on for three years already,
you have a barangay echoing its steady testament to the affirmation of health
“not merely as the absence of sickness” but as a holistic totality of
well-being.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Many times I was prompted to ask myself: How does one
become a healer in a place that presently needs little, very minimal, healing?
Therein lies the intrinsic dilemma. Don’t get me wrong, though; Barangay 137 is
still your usual Filipino barangay. Now and then, you’d still see the typical scene
of a lone tricycle speeding along one of its five narrow roads, belching thick
smoke and clouds of dust, racing past children, animals, and houses to its
intended destination. Nonetheless, two weeks of staying in the community and
interacting with its constituents has taught me to see beyond mere
externalities. The barangay’s heart and soul lies not in the houses, or in the
creek, or in the modest communal health center. It will always be amongst its
people – who have been and who will continue to be its greatest and most
invaluable asset.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the same way, I am led to think that healing,
too, will always be about people: about forming new relationships, nurturing
existing ones, and empowering everyone along the way. Indeed, five years of
constant interaction and forming unshakeable bonds must have made UPCM an
indispensable part of the community – which we deeply thank for raising the
realm of our consciousness to heightened, more mature levels. Yet if there’s a
gift greater and more liberating than knowledge, it’s learning how to let go. A
chick must be ready to fly out of its mother’s nest once it has learned to feed
on its own, to aim for the heavens, to soar to even greater heights. Leaving,
of course, will be difficult. More especially for Barangay 137 – one of the
very first UPCM pilot communities in Pasay, and now almost a finished, polished
product.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But something tells me I’ll see Ate Nene and the
BHWs recalling the numerous projects and ideas on their own, now fruitfully materialized
into reality. Somewhere I know, they’ll have a heavy heart. But somewhere, too,
I’m sure they’ll end up smiling.</span></div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25844870.post-53606566067108462912009-02-26T21:58:00.001+08:002014-06-21T03:32:05.522+08:00celebrating toxicity.<div align="justify">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0hmKUuZxiFZAsJrIGsgOUzyfE_b1QGKRNP0FdOI9XipQKRdG8gGsixoSXWPXfz79Arg5qfNEt1OXZ2ugQhObNRd0Kg1ZdtdL9puNMX_wdfi64IX9_MAEK1xThQIFS24YZQ0l8w/s1600/Sablay+Spread.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0hmKUuZxiFZAsJrIGsgOUzyfE_b1QGKRNP0FdOI9XipQKRdG8gGsixoSXWPXfz79Arg5qfNEt1OXZ2ugQhObNRd0Kg1ZdtdL9puNMX_wdfi64IX9_MAEK1xThQIFS24YZQ0l8w/s1600/Sablay+Spread.jpg" height="128" width="320" /></a></div>
<em><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 85%;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">(After a year's wait, INTARMED 2011 will finally march down that elusive graduation aisle. In commemoration of this glorious milestone, I was commissioned to write an article paying tribute to that collective four years of blood and sweat, of joys and tears. This piece will appear in the forthcoming yearbook to be released this year - hopefully.)</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">At first glance, the thousand-page tome must have been too much for his scrawny, bespectacled frame. He sits by his lonesome on a secluded corner, studying intently to his heart’s content, when his solitude snapped with a sudden smack on the back, replete with the scornful mockery of someone screeching, <em>“Ang toxic mo!</em>” Almost reflexively, he whips around and retaliates in a most defiant tone: <em>“Hindi ah!”</em> Better yet, he raises the bar. Keeping cool, he lifts one sophisticated eyebrow and calmly lashes out, <em>“Mas toxic ka pa nga sa akin eh…”</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i>Such phrases must have grown over the years to become classic bylines among INTARMED 2011 members, the types that lend themselves more to affection than sarcasm during stressful times. After all, toxicity – that four-syllabled entity governing the mechanisms of our behavior – is something we have worn up our sleeves like a badge. The term historically referred to the idea of quintessential nerds slash geniuses with pitiful lifestyles, but in the context of forty close-knit youngsters harboring mutual dreams and ambitions, it has slowly evolved into a multifaceted concept rooted deep in the core of a collective spirit.<br /><br />There’s the toxicity of academics. The outside world unmistakably views us as the lucky crème de la crème who excelled in their respective high schools, aced the UPCAT, and are now poised with fiery enthusiasm to prop themselves up the highest trellises of medical achievement. We have been called high school students on an extended tenure of secondary school, who never had and who never will get a real taste of college. We have been dubbed humanoids possessing the most swollen eye bags on campus, for want of many a good night’s sleep.<br /><br />Sadly, that’s only seeing the tip of the iceberg. Enter a bunch of top students from different parts of the country, destined to spend the passing years in each other’s company. Toxicity spilled over in bloody fashion from day one as we buckled over the lethal synergy of math, biology, chemistry, and physics, glossed over the linguistic acrobatics of history, and incessantly faced the ominous consequences of impending memory overload. Incidentally, it also meant trudging over mountains, splashing down rivers, entering temples, conquering beaches, and wolfing down food – perhaps the most significant experience for a batch notorious for its gluttonous appetite, whose idea of carpe diem was to study hard and party even harder.<br /><br />Celebrating toxicity is giving tribute to that unique microcosm that is INTARMED 2011.<br /><br />It translates to smiling at the mere mention of someone else’s birthday, at the numerous lakwatsas, study sessions, Lady Meds, and Lantern Parades that evoke a relentless outpouring of recollections. As if these weren’t enough, a written document, christened “Nerdovia”, even attempted to chronicle our own distinct personalities with its pantheon of gods and goddesses, royal bloodline, scheming barbarians, and thriving citizenry, the saga mirroring the joys and woes of a class bent on fulfilling its quest for peace and unity, that utopian Pax Nerdoviae. In retrospect, the past four years were far from perfect – the ride was a little rough, the winds portentous, the storms unforgiving. But it was the “toxicity” of trust and companionship that kept us going, the resonant tunes of <em>“Toxic ka!”</em> providing unconditional reassuring pats on the back.<br /><br />Change, of course, was also “toxic” in its own right. Four years witnessed the dramatic transformations that triggered the unlikely metamorphosis of high school hipsters into mature individuals cognizant of their roles in society. Even the physical embodiments that accompanied us down our journeys couldn’t escape the waxing and waning of the tides. Oversized shirts and baggy pants became pristine white uniforms. Frogs turned into cats, and cats morphed into cadavers. Acquaintances deepened into friendships, some of which blossomed into minute bliss. We laughed, we cried, we loved, we lived. These changes weren’t always expected, much less welcomed, but we all agreed: They made us wiser, stronger, better.<br /><br />Whereto, then, after BS BMS? More importantly, whereto after 2011? If the wizened stargazers were right, fate would see us continually burning the proverbial midnight candle, poring over endless pages of edible print to consummate communal expectations. Much like how stories could have random endings, Nerdovia could go on to culminate in sweeping jubilation, or tragically end with the gods being banished from the heavens, the kingdom disintegrated, the populace thrown into discombobulating anarchy.<br /><br />Then again, as Prof. Esguerra himself told the class years ago, “I see it in you.” We do have the “toxicity” of passion, which overpowers everything else. The bespectacled, scrawny boy may still be rightfully “toxic”, but now he has learned to weave his own gift of nurturing and healing others. Who knows? It may be all he’ll ever need to reach that elusive happy ending.<br /><br />To 2011 and beyond!</span></div>
marcgreggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05148706542071353324noreply@blogger.com0