gold, spice, and everything nice.

Now we're talking.

beyond yellow.

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.

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.”

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 yang to Cory’s yin, the articulate voice to her lending ear, the convivial soul to her kindred spirit. With his death, she had to be yin and yang 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.

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.

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.

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 into action?

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.

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.”

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.

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.

“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:

“Everybody/saka sa lubi/
Kung mahulog/singgit lang kay Cory…”

(“Everybody/climb the coconut tree/
If you fall down/just call out for Cory…”)

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.

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.”

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.”

homeward bound.

“It would be good to get away for a while.”

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.

I was homeward bound.

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 Mindanao. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Because who knows, he may just find himself homeward bound yet again – and maybe yet for good.

the speech that almost was.

I could have very well titled this entry “The Speech That NEVER Was,” and it would still be 100% accurate.

But on account of good ole Schultz philosophy, I chose not to.

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.

But – surprise, surprise.

UP Manila has NO summa cum laude this year.

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.

I have been speaking before audiences with surefire gusto for as long as I can remember. I was the bibo 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And then…it was time.

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.

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.

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. Three minutes is all I have to make it happen.

The following morning, Ate Lucy’s words were the first to greet me upon waking up.

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 – “Nalulungkot ako”, “Better luck next time daw” – I rhythmically nodded, rubbing excess sleep off my eyes, and told her I understood. The conversation was over in less than one minute.

It was the longest one minute of my life.

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.

Like a neurologist localizing an organic lesion, I searched high and low for a possible gap in the master plan: What went amiss?

Theory # 1: I should have crafted a speech in Filipino.
(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.)

Theory # 2: I should have memorized the entire speech.
(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.)

Theory # 3: I should have delivered a more serious, more radical, more bombastic speech.
(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.)

Theory # 4: I should have served the main dish, not just a sleazy appetizer.
(Theory debunked. From what I understood, we were asked to make “a speech”, not “THE speech”. And all in three minutes.)

Theory # 5: I should not have included Jesus Christ in the picture and committed undue sacrilege.
(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.)

Theory # 6: It is time to give chance to others.
(Now this one I have yet to disprove.)

But back to Schultz and his ideals.

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.”

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.

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:

Reactor # 1: “Argh. Eh di sino ang napili?”

Reactor # 2: “Weh. Whatever. Sigurado akong luto yan.”

Reactor # 3: “Dapat si Greggy talaga ito. In our books, you’re still the speaker.”

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.

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 No Country For Old Men and Drew Barrymore’s creepy stalker in Charlie’s Angels), it was time for my personal moment of truth.

The chosen student speaker took her place on the lectern and the reel rolled away before my senses.

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. “The same can be said of UP students…”

And then it hit me.

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. I was the clay pot, clerkship 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.

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.

five lessons you learn in hell week.

Hell hath no fury than a week’s worth of exams scorned.

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. 

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:

1. Some things in life aren’t worth missing.

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.

2. Never say die.

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.  

3. Making a mistake doesn’t mean you don’t know.

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.

4. A little sleep lost won’t hurt.

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.

5. All storms blow over.

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.

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.

a community postscript.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

celebrating toxicity.

(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.)

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, “Ang toxic mo!” Almost reflexively, he whips around and retaliates in a most defiant tone: “Hindi ah!” Better yet, he raises the bar. Keeping cool, he lifts one sophisticated eyebrow and calmly lashes out, “Mas toxic ka pa nga sa akin eh…”

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.

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.

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.

Celebrating toxicity is giving tribute to that unique microcosm that is INTARMED 2011.

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 “Toxic ka!” providing unconditional reassuring pats on the back.

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.

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.

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.

To 2011 and beyond!

top ten peeves you wouldn't want to meet in mass.

What I have observed as one of the good things about Christmastime is that it brings us back to the very place where it all began – church. With the nine wonderful mornings leading up to Christmas day, the grandiose celebration on Christmas eve or on Christmas day itself, the feasts of the Holy Family and the Holy Innocents, New Year masses, and Epiphany wrapping up the whole package, we are all drawn to the Lord in many ways, cleansing and purifying ourselves before the child in the manger. Once in a while, however, we unwillingly get sidetracked upon encountering a few annoying booboos that leave a particularly ugly smudge on an otherwise unblemished spiritual experience.

Christmas or not, here are the top ten obstacles that will most probably bar you from becoming holier than thou:

10. Masses that are hot. Literally.
And you used to think December weather is always freezing. Now you are distracted from concentrating on the wonderful rites taking place because you have been tragically resigned to furiously fanning yourself, or wiping the giant beads of sweat forming on your nose, or wondering why the brand new electric fan beside you isn’t working, or isn’t on, or both. Trust me – it’s really hard to don a heavenly aura when you feel more like burning in purgatory yourself.

9. Masses that don’t start on time.
6 pm is 6 pm and not 6:30 pm. And no, the fact that the church doesn’t have a clock, or the priest doesn’t have a watch, or the whole city has lost track of time, doesn’t seem such a valid excuse. Parishioners shuttle their way from private affairs just to attend mass, and after mass they’re off again. Punctuality is only a matter of respect and consideration.

8. Masses that prematurely breeze through and those that lovingly linger on. And on. And on.
Masses usually last around an hour on weekends; are a bit shorter on weekdays, are a bit longer on special holidays. Thus said, I really hate it when they are precipitously rushed through like some wanted convict on the loose, and similarly, when they are painfully extended till time immemorial. A short mass makes you feel incomplete; a really long one will drain the hell out of you.

7. Lectors who give your six year-old cousin stiff competition in reading class.
Obviously, we’re not all sleight enough of tongue to deliver the readings like a seasoned newscaster or an orator, but at least we should try to read the passages in a way comprehensible to the competent mind. God’s word is meant to be conveyed to every listening ear with the hopeful intent of informing, enlightening, and if possible, moving others. But when the words are thoughtlessly strung together to become an unlikely lullaby, we have a real problem.

6. People who think mass is one big helluva party.
Therefore, what do you wear to one? In a generation ruled by crazed, self-righteous hedonists, you see a visual stampede of gaudy halters, spaghetti tops and tubes that show more skin and attitude than decency. Sure, mass is a celebration in itself (that’s why we call it the Eucharistic celebration), but do spare your ultra-conservative lola the risk for an inopportune heart attack by quickly stuffing her inside the car trunk when these vainglorious creatures arrive. Please.

5. People who can’t make their children behave in mass.
Children are God’s little angels, but you’ll soon find that they easily morph into their devilish alter-egos replete with tiny horns and wiggling tails when they mercilessly kick your pew, jump on your seat, drool on the floor, and scream like there’s no tomorrow. What’s more, you see their fairly amused parents laughing away like they’ve just seen some of the best games on earth. Which I must aptly call “Revenge of the Imps.”

4. People who think mass is the perfect place to gossip the day away.
Yep, we know you miserably spend five days a week rotting away in your solitary workspace, swamped with just about anything except the latest issue of the local gossip mill. So off you tromp to church to reunite with other wagging tongues and catch up on those juicy rumors. Guess what? You’re better off finishing those succulent stories at the home of an aging relative, cursed to forever become an old maid because she wasted her precious youth feeding away on other forms of communion.

3. People who sing to the highest heavens in their preferred key.
It is anyone’s sacred – and legal – right to sing praises to God, whenever they want, wherever they want, however they want. But as the old saying goes: Your rights stop when you hit the rights of others. Or in this case, the eardrums of others. Believe me, braying like a demented donkey at the top of your lungs with half the church congregation staring at you with dagger looks isn’t sheer admiration at all. On the contrary, it’s murder most foul in the works. Better start running.

2. Priests who deliver homilies in totally alien languages.
By alien language, I’m referring to any other language outside of the intended language for the mass. By Jove, that’s why it’s called an English mass, or a Filipino mass, or an Ilonggo mass, for that matter. Merely assuming that everyone in the audience is a versed linguist is plain inanity. Of course, there’s always the excuse that the faithful can better understand things in the vernacular. What was that again? Hindi ko naiintindihan ang mga sinasabi mo. Indi ko maintindihan ang mga guinahambal mo.

1. Priests who don’t prepare homilies. At all.
This has to be the most tragic story of them all. The homily is undoubtedly an integral part of the mass, even proving to be its heart and soul. That’s why a completely vacuous homily never fails to make me feel robbed out. While good homilies are generally supposed to be spontaneous and free-flowing, it’s an altogether different story when they are distastefully vomited out to your face. It’s like buying a huge box of Oreo cookies and discovering, to your utter dismay and horror, that none of them are cream-filled.

thanking 2008.

Eight (8) is supposed to be the official lucky number for all two billion Chinese out there, and I guess this holds true even when you attach it to the Y2K prefix to form 2008, the eighth year of the new millennium. Now at its tail end, some people may prefer to look back on the year that was with much chagrin, citing the numerous global woes and the massive economic slump. For my part, however, reflecting for some time made me realize that indeed, I had a lot of things to be thankful for in the year 2008.

Here are my top ten reasons:

1. Academic Achievement

Admittedly, Year Level III was a year of “seconds”, “almosts”, and “what ifs”. Armed with newfound lessons, I entered Year Level IV keeping my fingers crossed and praying that I’d survive what many tout as the hardest year in med life, academically speaking. For someone who merely asked for a decent performance, I am immensely grateful to the Lord for bestowing me the great honor of emerging top-ranked and the only University Scholar in our batch, receiving two awards in the process. Furthermore, along came the added tidings that we were finally eligible to receive our BS BMS diplomas. More than divine providence, I call it hitting three blessings with one God.

2. OPD Rotations

I remember telling myself one time that if med school were only a bunch of OPD rotations, being a med student would certainly be ten times more exciting. There’s the fun and learning rolled into one – minus the soporific effect of didactic lectures and the physical toxicity of 24-36 hour hospital duties. As they say, you learn best by actually seeing and doing – with your mind and sanity intact.

 

3. Music and Theater

By now, some people already know I harbor a secret of becoming a Broadway star. But you can’t be one without seeing the real stuff first. This year, I was fortunate enough to have witnessed three fine theatrical performances – “Cinderella”, “Golden Child”, and “West Side Story”. The first was a pretty, grownup adaptation of the well-loved fairy tale, the second an insightful peek into the delicate innards of a Chinese family struggling through the times, the third a courageous attempt at giving justice to one of theater’s most enduring productions. And of course, there’s American Idol. ‘Nuff said.

4. The Last Minute Sembreak

To quote what I had posted before, there was really no sembreak. And it almost took an instant miracle to make one, the auspicious result of will and circumstance. Though I barely had a complete breather during that heavily-packed one week sabbatical, I must say it proved to be my most productive break yet.

5. Writing

In a cover letter I penned months ago, I described myself as one who “considers writing almost second nature.” Sadly, school and stress force me to habitually relegate this activity to the sidelines, only to be picked up with the occasional boon of free time and favorable ideas. Thus said, I happily reached another writing “high” this year when my review was adjudged winner of the Cinderella review-writing contest. I would like to thank Mr. Bill, Ms. Mikaela, Gibbs Cadiz, and everyone behind the competition. Most of all, to “chief judge” Ms. Lea Salonga herself for earnestly believing in what I wrote and ultimately serving as its inspiration. Here’s to more years of making beautiful words and music.

6. Cash

There’s no denying 2008 had been the most lucrative year of my life so far. I cannot remember of any year where I had been so financially-blessed. And it’s all due to four main reasons:

1. ____
2. ____
3. ____
4. ____

 Clue # 1: Three of them I earned out of my own efforts. One of them came out of pure luck.

Clue # 2: Two of them you will find in this blog. Two of them you will have to extract elsewhere.

Go figure.

7. New Experiences

In 2008, I played host to two batches of vacationing classmates – barely a week apart from each other. I stepped on neighboring Boracay and Guimaras soil for the first time and further got to know my own backyard more. In 2008, I hosted and co-organized three consecutive debut parties in the family – all within a month’s time – writing three separate scripts and organizing three separate programmes. I drank my first shot (okay, make that 5 shots) as a cheeky birthday favor for a classmate. I kept awake 24 hours inside a stifling labor and delivery room. Medical-wise, I did my first rectal exam (family medicine), spinal tap (anesthesiology), delivered my first baby, performed my first procedures, and had my first surgical assist (OB-GYN). Also in 2008, I hit my first car and barely grazed my first person – grave experiences that taught me to be more vigilant on the road. 

8. Meridian

It is definitely heartwarming to see an organization grow. Especially when it’s the one you’ve poured your heart and soul into for the past three years (Before, I had plans of joining MSS and Med Choir but found these too toxic.) This school year, I saw the stats jump with a dramatic 77.5% increase in membership. Moreover, many milestones were achieved in 2008 – the org had its first academic review, first mini-sports fest and first TRP performance – although I definitely have no plans of resurrecting my own shabby performance, thank you very much.

9. The Beijing Olympics

“If you saw the opening ceremonies of the Beijing Olympics, you would have been truly proud of being Chinese.” That was what my aunt (actually, two aunts) told me after being almost moved to tears by the stunning spectacle. How much more if you were one of the blessed few seated inside the leviathan Bird’s Nest, speechless at the marvelous sight of history getting rewritten before your eyes. Athletes like Michael Phelps, Usain Bolt and Nastia Liukin were true inspirations, giving us not-so-athletic people enough hopes to pin on.

10. Friends and Family

They have always been there behind my back, and were it not for the people who have continually served as the wind beneath my wings, 2008 would have been stark meaningless. Instead of showering a trivial deluge of verbal ostentations, I am simply going straight to the point: Thank you. You know who you areJ

There’s an extra one, the most important one in fact…

11. Faith

2008 was not all bed of roses. I had my share of depressing lows and troughs, but I’m glad faith helped me get back on track again.

Have a prosperous New Year everyone!!!

the case of the impacted tooth.

Unlike many kids my age, I enjoyed going to the dentist as a child. My parents reveled in the exceptional luxury of bringing along a perfectly obedient youngster – minus bribes and tantrums – to the one great bastion of all childhood nightmares. And why not, I suppose, when all you will ever get is the smug satisfaction gained from the sight of the dentist fawning over your teeth (“So rare to find teeth like yours these days!”) The usual sessions established themselves in an orderly triad: general inspection, cleaning, and perhaps a filling or two of amalgam. I invariably looked forward to the pleasant cycle of friendly hellos, quick checkups, and words of encouragement – after which it was “off you go” in a span of around half-an-hour, at most one hour.

But the scourge of an impacted molar (read: wisdom tooth) is entirely something different.

“You won’t be able to eat like a king for a week,” colleagues told me, those who have successfully become veterans of an ordeal where even the most intrepid brutes cower and back down. Because it won’t be like any other ordinary tooth extraction – call it minor surgery, maybe. The dentist makes an incision, takes out the erring tooth, and seals the wound with a suture. All in two hours. Twice that if you land yourself the unluckier sentence of having two misbehaving teeth. Or three. Or four (the ultimate apocalypse).

It’s actually more the thought of temporarily having to resort to a quasi-hermetic lifestyle that urged me to reconsider my options. Previous victims have meekly shut themselves off from civilization in the confines of their homes awaiting recovery, subsisting on nothing more than clear soup and ice cream (this weeklong diet actually sort of wracked up my digestive system). Seeing the results of my panoramic X-ray, however, it was clear that I had no other choice: Have the tooth extracted in a jiffy or face the unglamorous prospect of resembling a male Ugly Betty in the near future. God forbid.

And so I just found myself nonchalantly going down to the dentist’s one sunny afternoon with thirty minutes’ worth of waiting time before she came barging in the door, cheery and bright-eyed, all set and ready to roll. In no time I was positioned on the reclining chair facing the concrete wall that had a huge rectangular aquarium perched atop it, where thick-lipped goldfishes swam idly by, peering out from behind their crystal enclosure with bulging eyeballs and almost mouthing, “Thank heavens for evolution! Long live us toothless creatures!”

No, I wasn’t having paranoid delusions – just a fickle stretch of wild imagination. For additional self-amusement, I had to conjure up something big and toothy. Quick.

David Archuleta with gopher-sized incisors! (Better yet, molars. Third molars.)

American Idol was fresh off this year’s season, and the choice seemed apropos enough. But before I was able to settle comfortably with a toothy Archie inside my head for entertainment, the anesthetic was drilled into the base of the malpositioned tooth accompanied by a sharp pain that radiated around the area. Slowly, numbness enveloped the vicinity of the tooth, spreading to the adjacent gums, and I felt my sensory faculties start to falter. After a few minutes, I touched the right lower part of my cheek but felt nothing. Sensation at the left, upper and anterior parts were however intact. Could it be? My closest guess is that she had infiltrated a tributary of the right posterior branch of the mandibular (V3) nerve.

My dentist was, of course, completely oblivious to all these riddled thoughts. She was content to hum along with jukebox hits bouncing off the radio, while her hands moved dexterously in a medley of fine incisions and stitches. I, on the other hand, busied myself with other things – shuttling my consciousness back and forth from checking the time on the wall-mounted clock to intentionally staring at (and therefore blinding myself with) the overhead light. At the same time, I was faintly aware of the acrid, salty taste of blood, the feel of loosened oral mucosa, the ubiquitous whir of those complicated dental machines.

And now, the highlight.

Minutes earlier, the smile on my dentist’s face told me she had seen a part of the prodigal tooth hinting at the surface. Now, the same smile told me things were finally ripe for extraction. In preparation for the maneuvers ahead, she tried to work out the optimal position. Twice with her blood-stained gloves she steadied my skull and warned me of an impending crack as she attempted to extract the stubborn tooth. A brief second to gather momentum – then a rough cracking sound – after which a vanquished crown came into view, followed by a root, and the other root soon after. It was over in just a little over an hour. Record time!

Before I was sent home on antibacterial prophylaxis plus tons of good-natured advice, I was let in on a fascinating piece of dental trivia: Patients taking pictures of their extracted tooth! Let’s just say I wasn’t in the mood then to count myself an exception. Which only means…

Another unusual piece of trivia (which served as a warning as well) is the fact that the Chinese are inherently hematoma-formers. In other words, expect a sizeable one up your cheek the next day. I was lucky I didn’t have it in the genes. When I woke up the next day, the most I had was a puffy right cheek and a throat all briny from swallowing blood-tinged spit overnight. I wasn’t spared a Sufi’s lifestyle, however, and the following week saw me losing touch with the outside world, diligently heeding the cold compress-warm compress routine every so often, forgoing planned appointments and missing two dinner parties. I would go on to undergo manual removal of impacted food particles twice, a painful re-suturing of the wound, and the agonizing sensitization of the adjacent second molar.

It’s been more than three months after the operation, and the gap hasn’t fully closed up yet. What with adverse conditions as sleeplessness, stress, and fatigue inadvertently taking their toll, I was told that the healing process could take as long as one whole year! For the meantime, therefore, I have to patiently make do with extra care on the chewing, plus the occasional job of irrigation should any food particles go wayward. All’s well that ends well.

Moral of the story?

If you happen to be around the same age as I am, and have experienced a dull, intermittent pain somewhere at the back of your oral cavity, consult your friendly neighborhood dentist as soon as possible.

Before you give the sandtiger sharks a run for their money.

Before you incidentally end up in the next season of Ugly Betty, without so much as an audition.

And worst of all, before you squish your chances of becoming the next American Idol – all because Simon Cowell thinks you’re better off modeling rabbit dentures.

chronicles of the glass slipper.

(The piece below was chosen as the winner of the “Cinderella: The Musical” online review-writing contest sponsored by the Philippine Daily Inquirer, with the ultimate arbiter being no less than Lea Salonga herself. Thanks, Lea!)

“It was midnight when I saw the pair of shoes, making the fairy tale association easier: the ball gown and the horse-drawn carriages would revert to its origins as cinder rags, squash and rodents but the glass slippers would remain irreversible.”

- Wilfredo Pascual Jr., “Devotion” -

Part I: The Encounter (Almost)

“Look! It’s Lea!”

I almost choked on the ice-cold beverage I was lazily sipping when I heard my mom’s excited voice, which drew my attention to a gritty halt. Heeding warnings that a Sunday night turnout would be ruthlessly massive, we arrived at least two hours early before the scheduled 8 pm run of Cinderella at the CCP, giving us the pleasure of time to dawdle at nearby Harbour Square. There, seated with my back facing the window, I whirled around just in time to see a young woman in shades and stilettos steadily approaching the café we were in. My mind was racing. Almost instinctively, I ran a quick initial profile of the image:

Assessment # 1: Too young.

Assessment # 2: Too short.

Assessment # 3: Too much brown hair.

Final verdict: Not Lea.

“Surely not Lea,” I casually remarked, albeit a tad disappointed. “Only a look-alike.”

Yes, it couldn’t have been Lea. It was only someone walking along with a man named Robert Chien who was carrying an adorable toddler named Nicole and accompanied by what I presume was the nanny in white. Alas that someone – fresh from her matinee show – promptly took a left turn, entered the next restaurant, and disappeared out of sight.

“Did we enter the wrong place?”

Bam.

Part II: Once Upon A Time

The first time Lea brought the house down during her packed gig in Iloilo last January, I was stuck with medical school here in Manila. When she held her two-night “My Life On Stage” concert last May, I was back home in Iloilo for summer vacation. Opposite ends of a pole? Not quite. There’s something about her I find interesting:

She was a former pre-medical student who peerlessly rose to unparalleled stardom on Broadway.

I, on the other hand, am a medical student who had always fancied being on Broadway.

Before Broadway, there were fairy tales. I was a certified Disney baby as a child, and Cinderella was one of those classic tales I got acquainted with early on. One eventually outgrows that phase, however, and I came to realize that even as the plot remained timeless, the film fell short of everything else – despicable villains, memorable scenes, heart-wrenching songs – heck, the heroine only got through in the end because she happened to have a frumpy, overweight, wand-wielding pixie for a godmother!

I reckoned that if it were not for the chance to see Lea live, Cinderella might live up to its silver screen counterpart and bore me to death with its trite, hackneyed once-upon-a-times and happily-ever-afters.

Boy, was I wrong.

Never see a play merely because of an actor.

And never judge a play before you’ve even seen it.

Part III: Music And Magic

The first scene of Cinderella tells you nothing about glass slippers. The curtain rises and the storyline unfolds with Cindy wearily scrubbing floors in a supposedly drab and dingy room, simultaneously breaking into sweat and song. With a wave of the maestro’s enduring baton, luxuriant notes gushed out like concentric ripples across the river-of-an-audience, keeping us gripped to our seats in an element of enthralled, awestruck, whatever you term it. The magic has begun.

As a theater enthusiast, it amazes me how one can trace musicals back to their composers. Andrew Lloyd Webber, for instance, relies on the stark grandiosity of his creations. Sondheim, on the other hand, is heavily thematic. Cinderella easily identifies with Rodgers and Hammerstein through and through – the trademark light and easy type – lush, romantic and almost bordering on pretty (as what Julie Andrews calls it) but never losing verve and vibrancy.

Credit the vitality of this production to the energetic members of the company, who are in a league of their own. Charlie Parker was effectively effervescent as the “frumpy, overweight, wand-wielding pixie”, playfully romping and prancing about the stage like a schoolgirl on extended vacation. Julia Cook was all raspy and stormy as the scheming stepmother, while stepsisters Jen Bechter and Brandy Zarle successfully kept our stomachs sore from guffaws while demonstrating how it is to have an IQ 50 points lower than the normal population. Peter Saide – the tragically happy Prince – may get a bit too slushy at times, but he generally delivered his lines with just the right punch. And of course, there was Lea herself with her constant switching from tragic girl to resplendent royalty, from underdog to celebrity – in perhaps a little more than a twinkle of an eye.

The audience, incidentally, was just as entertaining.

A kid kept on giggling every time Cinderella and the Prince sidled up for a short smooch. A few meters away, some middle-aged woman roared away without brakes every time the stepsisters cracked up an especially comedic stunt. The mother-daughter pair beside me, meanwhile, animatedly discussed the veracity of Lea’s character after witnessing her quick, instant costume changes.

“No way! That’s not Lea! No one can dress up that fast!”

“Yes, dear – that’s her – she’s just really fast!”  

Though I must admit these surreptitious ad hoc scenes provided an amusing distraction, I can’t help agreeing that I, too, am yet to see someone who can expertly don a ‘do-and-gown’ in the span of a few seconds. The question thus arose: Just how believable are fairy tales?

Part IV: Reality Bites

My epiphany arrived in the form of a well-written script.

Now I particularly relish plays and musicals with witty scripts – the types that exude charm and sophistication with a single line, a pun, a repartee. While Cinderella certainly did not compare with the hair-raising terror of Phantom Of The Opera, the curdling patriotism of Les Misérables, or the subtle fragility of Miss Saigon, it was in the dialogue that I derived much insight from – plus a bundle of hearty laughs.

Because that is precisely the challenge posed by Cinderella the musical: to defy the stereotypes and turn a proverbial fairy tale into a story in sync with the times. In this regard, The King (Jefferson Slinkard) in all his miserliness and cynicism stands out as the real hero of the show. Just when you thought things were hopelessly headed in the direction of dreamy-eyed and sickly-sweet, out he comes to save the day – unbuttoned pants and all – throwing in a fair bit of beer, inflation, and the Secret Service. Trust His Majesty to cook up something relevant and true-to-life as a crucial part of the recipe.

Of course, watching Cinderella meant that temporary two-hour escape from the outside world into the nooks and crannies of our erstwhile childhoods – something which we all crave for once in a while, and which can be therapeutic. In psychology, they call it regression: a reversion to an earlier, less “mature” state as an adaptive mechanism.

But the most important reason is also the reason why fairy tales like Cinderella exist in the first place. They’re there to remind us to keep believing. Specifically – to quote something cliché out of the musical – to believe that the impossible can be possible. When I slipped into the shoes of Herr Zeller (the diehard Nazi captain in “The Sound of Music”) way back in high school, I was plain dumbfounded on how to go about portraying a villain, a military dog at that, for the first time. With hard work and a bit of believing, however, impossible became possible, and I somehow pulled it off in the end.

Lea may have also felt the same way filling in the glass slippers of THE Julie Andrews, her idol. While she definitely has no problem navigating the raggedy-lass-cum-regal-princess role, it is a great deal to match (even attempt to surpass) an already recognized standard. Such a challenge must have loomed all the higher with the fact that you have the same piece of material on the palm of your hand for a straight grueling eight months. And you have to make sure it is always genuinely magical every night.

So, can one be a doctor and a Broadway star at the same time?

I’m not counting that one out.

Part V: Happily Ever After

The curtain finally rose for the last time, and the applause was expectedly thunderous. I was clapping hard for everyone onstage, for every single member of the cast who diligently underwent arduous daily rehearsals and unforgiving routines. Theater actors are the epitome of stamina, and confronted with the additional task of having to traverse dimensions and generations, the working pillars behind Cinderella appeared to have done a good job.

Just to be curious, how do they do it?

Lea herself let out the secret in one of her “backstories”. “Pretend it’s the first show,” she quips. An actor must always look for something new at his/her “own little corner” and share it with the rest of the world.

Ironically, the same rule applies to us audience members.

If you don’t like fairy tales to begin with, pretend you’re a child. Pretend it’s the first time. And if you have come to grown tired of them, pretend it’s not just the same old story, but a new one you have come to love again and again. Because at some point in our lives, we are going to need fairy tales.

Not just the dreary and the dreamy, half-wanting to escape the brusque reality.

Not just the wan and the weak, half-wishing to possess the strength of adversity.

On the contrary, it’s for the ordinary, faceless, nameless person out there – simply because fairy tales are for grownups too, simply because it wouldn’t hurt to have a little magic now and then. Keep it real, find your escape, but never stop believing – because who knows – you might just get to live happily every after.