My first time in PGH
“You don’t forget your first time.”
For as long I could, I tried everything to avoid going to PGH. Hospitals freak me out — even to this day. There is something about the place that scares me. If you think about it, hospitals are oxymoronic: it’s teeming with life and reeking of death at the same time.
It was only a matter of time. Eventually, I found myself waiting outside PGH’s main entrance, one Saturday morning in 2013.
Not long enough, my mother was admitted again to PGH. She went initially for her monthly check-up but learned that her blood count was alarmingly low. Her doctor instructed her to stay and get admitted as soon as possible. Luckily a bed was available as a patient got discharged earlier that day.
When I learned of this, I mentally prepared myself to go to PGH after my shift from UP TechnoHub. I asked my step-father how to get there. After my graveyard shift, I found myself seated outside the PGH main entrance. After a while, I went inside the ward where my mother was confined. As I entered the old building I mustered all my strength and courage and walked through halls passing wards with roomfuls of sick people. I tried averting my eyes from the depressing sight and continued walking.
The air smelled of antiseptic and atrophy. A dark cloud hovered somewhere above my head. A heaviness gripped my heart.
When I reached my mother’s room, the first thing I noticed were her smiling eyes. I knew she was happy for me because I achieved the impossible. I hugged her. I asked how she was feeling to which she replied “okay ra ko toy, huwat nalang ta nga mutaas ako platelet para makagawas na ko.” (I’m fine, toy. Let’s just hope my platelet count increases so I can go home.) There were no signs of frailty in her voice. She was beaming with hope that I felt bad bringing the dark clouds with me. I had to chase those rain clouds away because it was spoiling a rather happy visit.
Attached to her wrist was an IV drip, hanging from an IV stand. She asked me to carry stand to the CR, and when she emerged from it, she carried it all by herself.
I went out to buy food for her and her niece.
“Naa kay games sa imo tablet toy?” she asked when I returned. (Do you have games on your tablet, toy?)
“Hala, wala ma.” (I don’t have any. I’m sorry.)
“Aw, okay ra uy.” (It’s fine.)
“Basig ugma ko makauli. Ayaw ug kalimta nga pakauna si Tulip ha?” Tulip was our dog whom my mother loved dearly. (I might get discharged tomorrow. Don’t forget to feed Tulip.)
I stayed for a while and noticed a familiar face inside the room. On her opposite bed was a lady resting. She had balloons on her side table and a big teddy bear on her bed.
“Ako man tali na siya classmate kadtong naa pa ko sa ACLC,” I whispered to my mother. (I think she was my classmate back when I was studying at ACLC.)
“Oh? Kagahapon pa na siya diria. Basig unya makagawas na siya.” (Oh? She has been here yesterday. Maybe she’ll get discharged later.)
After an hour, I was headed home. Confident with my mother’s recovery and how my first visit went, I felt relieved and encouraged.
On my commute home, the image of my mother carrying the IV stand all by herself came to mind. She didn’t know it then, but her display of steadfast strength would help me weather the numerous hospital visits that would soon follow — even the worse ones.
That was the last time she was able to carry an IV stand.
