Hinga malalim...

"Tapos BUGA! Sige pa, sige, konting tiis na lang."

What was this woman telling me to do? How could I possibly exhale when there was no more air in my lungs?

But there was, she insisted, and like a good soldier I grasped onto the handle that supported the plastic mouthpiece. My lips were pressing hard against the plastic, and I had to pull it towards me just I wouldn't fall forward. My chest felt like an empty cavity and my back was beginning to hurt from the strain.

You have to make sure that your lips form a seal around the mouthpiece, she had advised me. Oh, like when you do oral sex? I thought to myself. That's probably what she meant, but I kept my opinion to myself. But really, when was the last time I had my lips around a hard object?

Despite these distracting thoughts I did as she said. Because after years of denial, and several intermittent episodes, I finally had THE asthma attack that caused me to throw in the towel.

So there I was at the hospital doing a spirometry, also called a pulmonary function test. Inside the testing room is a glass booth the size of a telephone booth. Inside it is a wooden seat that's fixed to the floor. And in front of the seat is a metal arm that holds the sterilized plastic mouthpiece.

The mouthpiece itself is connected via a tube to some thingamajig that connects to a computer outside the booth. Other tubes and wires were also hanging from the thingamajigie, but for my test they weren't necessary.

The test was a bit complicated, and the technician had to be very skilled just so patients like me could do it right. Mayette was a short, stocky woman in her fifties. Very friendly and helpful, but not the kind you'd want to cross. She'd be right at home commandeering a class of rowdy high school boys, I imagined. And she was very good at coaching.

How long had she been working here, I asked. Twenty years, she replied. She even knew my dad, one of the best doctors of all. I loved her for saying that. I tried hard to be a good testee.

For the second test, I had to breathe heavily, in and out, as if exercising, for as long as she told me. Deep, panting breaths.

Anong exercise mo, she asked, so as to coach me.

I don't exercise, I replied. Sorry, no point of reference for me.

But then I considered: deep, panting breaths. Isn't that like sex? Why does this whole exercise have to be about sex for me? I put on a poker face and told her that I used to swim. And I really used to - for about 2 weeks, that is.

So I panted and puffed, my chest heaving up and down, my mouth around a hard plastic object, and hoped that it in no way looked sensual. Thankfully I had to focus so hard on my breathing instead.

After that, she made me take some puffs of salbutamol, rest for 15 minutes, then do the whole thing over again. This time around I didn't have a dirty mind.

Sad to say that the preliminary results clearly showed that my lung capacity is compromised. Although I knew it, it was still a real blow. I'd hate to be on steroids and maintenance meds.

And just based on how I felt before and after those puffs of salbutamol, I can tell how much less energy I have when I can't get enough oxygen. Absolutely everything is affected. In a nutshell:

   not enough oxygen = not enough energy

Not a good place to be. I understand now how Bonsai (my former teammate) felt after her bout with pneumonia. She felt weak, like a 30-year-old grandma.

Definitely NOT a good place to be. I have to get out of here.

As the smoke clears

For the first time in my life, I failed to celebrate new year's eve with my family. It's our family tradition, see: Christmas with my uncle's family, then New Year with my dad's family. (They were only 2 siblings.)

Not that I was out of the country. I was actually sick in bed. It started with an allergy, that became a cough, that became a flu, that became asthma, and who knows what else.

So on new year's eve I had to forego decorating the medya noche table - it has always been my role for more than a decade now - and instead I was lying in bed, trying to find comfort and get some sleep.

Just before midnight, at the height of the neighborhood fireworks frenzy, Mom and Miguel came up to invite me downstairs. I just said that I'd go down when the dust had literally settled.

Although I felt sick, I showered and dressed up to join the festivities - just so I wouldn't be such a killjoy. I waited until 1am, hoping that the pollution from the fireworks would be more bearable.

But even before I could leave my room, I felt it. My breathing was compromised, maybe by 10%. Going out would be a disaster. But how could I snub my own family? I should at least show up to say hello, give my regrets, and excuse myself.

The moment I stepped out of my room, I could feel the dirt particles from the air entering my lungs. 30% lung capacity down, I thought. Holding my breath or covering my face made no difference; everywhere the air was thick with dust. It grated against my lungs.

By the tine I made it to the dining room I felt asif I was at 50% capacity. I stayed only long enough for a very short exchange:

"Sorry guys, I can't stay. I can't breathe - asthma."

My sister says, quite naively, "Why don't you puff?"

In my head I'm thinking, "Because you don't just put on a bulletproof vest and then jump in front of a tank."

Instead I just say that I already did, and that I don't want to overdose. I hurry back to my room without taking a bite of the delicious spread. I steal a glance in envy. I don't even dare stay long enough to ask for a plate - that's how bad my asthma was.

Thirty minutes later in my room, after weighing the pros and cons of ovetdosing, I puff again. My heart starts racing, and I develop a dull headache.

But I'm wide awake, and hungry. I can hear everyone enjoying themselves downstairs. I imagine the Spanish-themed buffet, especially the paella that my sister-in-law had cooked.

As I hear the tinkle of cutlery, I am definitely jealous.

I've been forgotten! I tell myself. They probably think I'm asleep. I consider calling via mobile phone to ask for some food to be sent up. But I think it's such a donya move. I content myself with reading 'The Brothers Karamazov'. Dostoevsky will be my new year's fare, I tell myself.

At 2am I hear a rustling in the bathroom. Miguel! I call him. I am relieved as I see him stick his head into my room.

"Could you ask Ate Vicky to bring up some food?" Okay, he says.

Fifteen minutes later there's a knock at my door. Vicky brings up a plate of paella, gambas, baked mussels, and barbecue. Followed by a saucer with cheeses, grapes, and melba toast. No chorizos. But hey, I know how to be thankful.

As I eat the best medya noche ever in the solitude if my room, I tell myself: "Ah, you are a spoiled brat princess."

And with that, I greet you a happy new year.

A Little Perspective

This morning I looked up at my ceiling and saw the little sticker marks that my erstwhile glow-in-the-dark stars had left behind.

The stars are long gone, but the mark stays.

I had stuck the stars onto my ceiling about 10 years ago, when Miguel was a little  boy. He shared my bed  then, and at night we'd point a flashlight at the ceiling so that the stars would glow above us. I remember watching as the fluorescent glow faded, hoping that it could last just a little bit longer.  

Those sticker marks have always been on my ceiling for the past 10 years or more. They've never really caught my attention. But now I'm glad that they did.

Seeing them now during this quiet moment as the morning sun filters into my room brings back happy memories of those innocent years. I'm happy to say that those were moments well spent, exploring the wonders of childhood with my son. No regrets.

Now he is a teenager, and has long since moved out of my  room. I am hardly his priority. But now I must ask myself: years from now, will I look back on these days as time well spent?

There is a redeeming "yes" there, and I must say that it's because I've made it a point to frequently take him out to lunch or dinner, just the two of us. It's very important to me that I invest the time to create these memories. That's the only way I will be able to say to myself that I have no regrets in my life.

A lot of changes will have to happen now, since this is the way that I want to live my life.

A Conversation A Day

What makes a day worth living?  After considering all that I've been through for the past several months, for me, it all boils down to this:

People need at least one meaningful conversation a day.

That's my theory. You can spend the day in frenzied activity, or you may do absolutely nothing. But by day's end, you will look for the one touch point, one connection, that reminded you that, yes, you are human and you are alive. Today.

Even if you have a very busy and productive day, full of accomplishment, you will still seek that face-to-face validation from another person; that, "Hey mom, guess what happened today!" moment.

In most circumstances it is a connection with someone with whom prior connections have been built and nurtured; someone you trust; someone you love. Those lively and/or thought-provoking lunchtime conversations, spontaneous lunches out, late afternoon coffee breaks, and quick merienda trips down the street. Those web-surfing breaks in two floors above, rides home with a trusted friend, late dinners with your mom, and weekend fellowships with my bosom friends.

And even rarer: those dinners with my supermoms, nights out with my BFFs, and the steady, reliable rhythm of our family get-togethers.

But that is not all. I am also challenged to develop new connections. The family member you've been taking for granted. The relative that you hardly talk to. The household staff whose shoes you've never even tried. The child who asks you,"Mommy, can I, can I can?" for the nth time and it finally gets to your head that it wouldn't hurt to say yes.

And what of the hermits of this world? The men and women who live alone, whether or not they are surrounded by others? Honestly, I cannot tell.

What would it be like to live without human contact for long periods of time? Not to be touched. Not to be heard. Not to hear another person's unfettered thoughts.  Whether it's an epiphany about the direction of your life, or a clamor about that leaky faucet.  

I do not know, nor do I wish to know. Right now I am just so very thankful for the people God has given me in this life. I hope that I can take care of these relationships, these people. Hopefully I can expand this circle as well, and recognize who should be in it.

That's all. Social networking is fine, and blogging is fine. But give me a hand to hold, a voice to listen to, and ears to hear what's on my mind.

Hi and Goodbye

Okay, I don't have all the text messages, but the exchange pretty much went like this.  If you wonder why I'm publishing private text messages here, it's because I don't want to forget the circumstances of how I said goodbye to my friend.  As it turns out, it was a "hello" that actually meant "goodbye."

From: CH     2012/01/29 23:30:03

Raul said to say Hi. Thanks again for the fun Saturday night. Have a great week!

From: SS     2012/01/30 09:30:00?

Good morning! Yeah, we were part of a pretty tight group in those days. Have a great day :)

From: CH     2012/01/30 11:39:33

Hi Sandy, just confirmed some bad news, Raul Rodrigo passed away in his sleep last night. I'll send you details of the services when I get them.

From: SS     2012/01/30  11:40:00?

Bad joke?

From: CH     2012/01/30 11:42:01

I wish, confirmed by his teacher and other members of their group this morning.

From: SS     2012/01/30  11:44:00?

Sorry about that. It just seems so incredible. Will get in touch with our friends. Do keep me posted on the details.

From: CH     2012/01/30 11:52:34

Yes, sad and really unexpected. We were practising all day Sat, then yesterday afternoon and evening. He was fine and really enjoying the classes. I'll send you whatever updates I get.

I'm still blown away by the fact that I had this simple opportunity to say hello to an old friend, at just the right time.  It tells me that God is in complete control of my life, and I no longer question what's going on, then or now.  I am exactly where He wants me to be.


And I don't mind mentioning here either that this has been a defining moment for me.  In fact I'm quite amazed at how many changes are happening in the quality of my life.  All for the better I may add.  Rest in peace, my friend.  I will grieve for the dead but still take care of the living.

I Laab You (a.k.a. "Negotiation")

Miguel, with a funny accent: I laab you. Get me milk.
Me: No.
Miguel:  I laab you. Get me milk please.
Me: You already love me.
Miguel: I will laab you more.
Me: Get your own milk.
Miguel: Please please please. I laab you.
Me, sighing: Okay. I'll go down with you.
Miguel, reaching over and handing me a big teddy bear:  Beartolucci will be my ambassador while I watch TV...
Me, laughing: No! You have to go down yourself!
Miguel, losing the accent: Since you're laughing, you're gonna get me the milk, right?
Me: I'm only going to accompany you. 
Miguel:  Aw.
Me: Do you want milk or not?
Miguel:  No....yes.
Me: Let's go.

Pillow Talk

While saying goodnight to my son:

Miguel: "5...4...3...2...1.
Ah, silent but deadly."

Costume for the day

Spider costume for tomorrow's Anansi play.

Language Reviewer

Direction: Write a friendly letter. Use the topic "the time when you went to a very exciting place."

Miguel's letter:

February 33, 2011

Dear Chuck Norris,

Hello! Yesterday I went to Chuck Norris Land. Let me tell you about my experience.

First I went to my hotel to check-in. It was the best hotel ever. Then I went to the Roundhouse Roller Coaster which almost made me barf. So I went to the Beard-fisted Cafe to buy some Chuck Cookies. Then lastly I went to my room and slept hoping that Chuck Norris wouldn't find me.

I hope that you can go there someday.

Your friend,

Miguel

Currency

This hit me while I was researching for music pegs:

True currency is not money, but time.

Think about it: money is but a valuation of what people has invested their time in.

When you pay a worker his wages, you pay foe the time he spends on the labor.

For example, I pay my yaya for the time she spends washing my son's clothes, preparing his meals, inspecting his school bag and nagging him to stop watching TV so he can study.

The advertising company pays me to help form strategies, brainstorm, develop copy and boards, supervise shoots and watch over post production (aside from researching music).

My yaya and I both have 24 hours a day, except that my time is exponentially more valued - in monetary terms - by the skills that I've developed over years of schooling, plus the experience of my previous and present jobs.

Applying the principle on objects, a 10x12 canvas costs just over one hundred pesos. But if I paint on it for 3-5 hours, I can produce an artwork that can be sold for probably eight thousand pesos. If Malang paints on it, he can sell it for more than a hundred thousand pesos. The thing is, Malang has spent a lot of time honing his craft, and the time spent marketing it as well - by himself or others - has added to the value of his artwork.

What about objects which are not works of art?

A diamond is an object of great value. Its value is intrinsically attached to its properties - like hardness, clarity, luster. But you have to consider that it also took a great amount of time (and heat and pressure) to create a diamond, about a billion years or so. (No wonder they say that a diamond is forever.) Not to mention the effort spent in acquiring it through digging, drilling, political wrangling and even cutting and polishing.

I know I'm going somewhere with this thought, so bear with me...

Goodbye, myopia

I want to be farsighted, in more ways than one.

Interactive E-POW

I don't know where he gets his ideas, but I love it!





























*POW stands for Problem of the Week. I forget what the E is for. ("Extra?")

Oh the difference an hour makes

One hour ago I was getting stressed.

Then my friend asked me to go accompany him for merienda, and told me how his fiancé went all wacko on him. Now he's seriously thinking of calling off the wedding, notwithstanding that they have a child and have been living together for several months.

And now I don't feel like my troubles are so bad after all.

They're probably just...common.

To yaya for not to yaya

That is the question.

Because Miguel's nanny of 8 years (on and off), Yaya Reiza, will be leaving us mid-March. She's become like family to us.

In the years that she's been with us, she's left to get married, asked to come back, and gotten pregnant (by her spouse). So now it really is time to say goodbye. Well, Miguel is ten years old, and he has adjusted to middle school. So now I'm wondering if maybe it's time to say goodbye to having a nanny.

Imagine how much I would save! :P

But then, as if to really present the issue to me, Miguel got sick last night. Just a fever, which will hopefully be gone by today. It just so happens that yaya is on leave today, so I had to stay home and take care of him first. Who would watch over him when he's sick and I have to be at work? Luckily my mom volunteered to check on him throughout the day. But that's only for today (if you know what I mean). Sigh.

Inadequacies

Don't let me fool you into thinking I've got it all together. I might act like I do, but I most certainly do not.

Take for example this upcoming Father and Son Night in my son's school. Such a big hullaballo. I've known about it for years, and I always thought that I'd go anyway, be the one of the few women at the campfire (I know a few other single moms in the batch), maybe even knock over a few beers, and show those men how much balls we single moms have got. Or just show up to watch the festivities, then leave with Miguel as soon as it was time for dinner.

But alas, ten days ago we were all advised that moms, other family members, and caregivers will not be allowed to attend the entire affair. So much for my attempt to prove that I am just as good as any man.

I asked Miguel if he would like Ninong to go with him instead - Ninong is, after all, an alumni of the school - but Miguel's reply was swift, as if he'd settled the matter in his mind long ago: "I don't want to go."

What's a woman to do?

Blame the men.

Yes, this is the part where I blame my ex-boyfriend for not being man enough to bond with my son, so that: a) I wouldn't have dumped him; b) we would've been married by now; and c) he'd be going to the Father and Son Night with Miguel.

Well. I've been down this emotional path before. Many times, mind you. And while the impending Father and Son Night merits a visit down memory lane, I won't take long on this stroll.

There was a video that I watched some time ago wherein the speaker mentioned that "blame is a way to discharge pain and discomfort." And that's when I realized why I blamed my ex for so long after I ended the relationship - there was pain, and a lot of it. Basically, me realizing the inadequacies in my life (and subsequently, Miguel's) and wanting to fill a male, testosterone void that I cannot fill. There were many reasons for me to get into a serious relationship at that point, and that, apparently, was a major one.

Well, it's been a few years since I wised up and realized - and accepted - that marriage just isn't for everyone. That there's no point in being unhappy in a relationship when you can be happy without one. (And since I never made any wedding vows to anyone, I'm not defaulting on any deal.)

And as for those inadequacies? Embrace them. You can't have it all, you see. And while I still have my idols and idolesses - married couples who put family first and are pretty cool in my book - I'm not hung over about having their picture-perfect lives. Because looking at my son, I know he's happy and that he's turning out pretty well for a ten-year-old, thanks God. And not surprisingly, I'm happy too.

There, I've said my piece. Enough with that walk down memory lane. As for Father and Son Night, if you read my earlier post, you'll see what we'll be doing instead.

Today's Costume for Choral Recitation

It's about the tieeeeeee!

Filing for a leave

There is always a bit of drama going on with me. When you're a single mom, it's guaranteed!

Dear (boss),

Sorry I didn't ask permission personally first regarding the (date) leave. I do remember that email you sent; I just misunderstood because I thought that you were referring to a leave request that was filed after the leave was taken.

On (date of), the Grade 4 batch will be celebrating Father & Son Night, which is the biggest event of the year for the batch. There's been a lot of preparation and to-do about the whole thing, but being a single mom, I can't take part in the activities. I've asked my son if he's like his ninong to attend with him, but he'd really rather not go. Rather than let him feel bad that he's missing out on the whole thing, I've decided to "make it up" to him by taking him out on that day, "father" and son, right after classes while the other boys are pitching tents with their dads.

It really is a long story, and I felt a bit awkward about explaining the whole thing. But since the the event had already been announced, I didn't want to file at the last minute while I was fighting my discomfort. Perhaps writing about it makes it easier for me, and I'm glad that I can explain myself in this way, even if belatedly.

I hope that you don't mind this lapse, and rest assured I will inform you personally before filing in the system. Thank you also for granting my leave request :)

Yours truly,

Sandy

Chuck Norris Files

Facebook status, February 6, 5:30 PM:

Just now, from Miguel: Did you know that when you misspell "Chuck Norris" in Google, it doesn't correct the spelling? It says, "you have ten seconds to live.

Facebook status, February 7, 8:00 AM:

Last night, at bedtime...

Miguel: Chuck Norris used to work for the FBI.
Me (drowsy): Hnnh.
Miguel: He was their best negotiator.
Me: Yeah?
Miguel: All he had to do was say, "I'm Chuck Norris.

Facebook status, February 7, 8:02 AM:

This morning, over breakfast:

Miguel: One day Chuck Norris was hungry for a banana. He went to an apple tree. There was no banana. He said, "I'm Chuck Norris." And then a banana fell.

(This one was made up by Miguel. Given his track record, I say it's an original.)

This one's going into "Miguelisms"

Finally, at Forty

I'd like to share this article that I wrote for the Silver Book, which was published for our 25th homecoming last January 3. (High school batch '86, St. Paul College Pasig) You could say that it's my thesis statement.

Finally, at Forty

I know that some of you are in denial about being forty, but to be honest it’s one of the most wonderful ages to be – better even than thirty.

Finally, at forty, I gained a degree of financial independence, confidence and poise. Chalk it all up to experience: By forty, I had studied abroad, cared for a sick parent, borne a child (out of wedlock!), lost my dad to diabetes, changed careers, nursed various bruises, tummy aches and fevers, fell in love, fell out of love, saw my son through the rough-and-tumble world of big school, become a supermom, lost my other dad, and accomplished something in my chosen field. My list grows longer by the day, as undoubtedly does yours.

I know that there are several experiences that are not on my resumé – getting married, starting a business, having multiple kids, building a house, or experiencing the support of a spouse. But neither did I have to live through marital infidelity, an acrimonious separation, loss of a home through floods, or grave personal illness or injury. For that I am thankful as well.

Finally, at forty – through all these happy, sad, funny, trying experiences – I realized that, hey, I am a woman – a strong woman at that – and that I no longer had to take any BS from this world. And that although I am quite capable of dishing out the crap as well, I can choose not to, because the world crooked and evil enough as it is. But more than that, I have learned to accept with grace the portion and the task allotted to me in this life. Being a single working mom is no easy task; but I relish the adventure of it all.

I’ve been rich and poor, loved and abandoned, strong and weak, supported and alone. And finally, twenty-five years after I stepped out of high school with great hesitation, I have found my center.

Finally, at forty, I have laid aside the illusion that my worth is measured by the amount of my material possessions. I have learned that life can change or even disappear in the blink of an eye, and that I had better be prepared for eternity. I have learned that my greatest legacy is not my triumphs in the corporate world, but my child who will carry on the love for God in his heart. I’ve learned that in the end what matters most on this earth is the family that I hold dear. And that if I’m wise, I’ll learn to expand my heart and extend that love to the rest of humanity as well.

I share these lessons with you out of humility, knowing that you have your own stories to tell. And having you with me as I walk through the furnace of life, it is no small comfort knowing who my true friends are. Finally, at forty, I can say that we are sisters for life.

I hope that time has been kind to you as well. And if ever you’re going through a rough patch, remember: Sis, here’s a hand that you can hold on to.

God willing, I will write for you again twenty-five years from now.

Science project - with cupholder!

Directions: create a periscope using milk cartons.

Illustration/guide:


















Actual: