published 29 June 2009, Manila Standard Today
The discovery of the swine flu virus, later renamed A(H1N1), in Mexico and its easy crossing over into the United States in April gripped the world that previously viewed politics or ethnic conflicts in other lands as mere spectacle, without any sense of involvement.
This time, the connection was instant, the worry immediate. And why not? The world was smaller and people were more mobile. Given the daily volume of passengers in international flights, a virus carrier could move from North America to Europe or Asia in a matter of hours. Imagine the number of people, in both the origin and the destination, that the carrier would interact with in the course of a busy day. Imagine the mathematical progression as people who interacted with that carrier themselves interact subsequently with others. Ever seen the National Geographic feature on the next global pandemic? That documentary was made after the SARS outbreak of 2003. It shows how a flu virus could be, well, virulent, attacking healthy cells and causing its host’s death in a matter of a few days. It’s scary, just as the new virus was scary and mysterious.
The problem was that the enemy was invisible. The virus could pass undetected from one human to another. The symptoms could manifest as symptoms of other more common diseases like ordinary flu or pneumonia. A confirmation could come too late.
The A(H1N1) virus also came at a really bad time, when nations were reeling from economic woes. Governments were injecting money into collapsed industries just so they could keep on operating and let go of fewer employees. The last thing the world economy needs is a dampener on tourism and general activity. Certainly, consumer spending on face masks, isopropyl alcohol and ascorbic acid would not be enough to tide economies over.
Fortunately, people became more sober in the next few weeks. There were more confirmed cases, more deaths even, and eventually the Word Health Organization declared A(H1N1) a global pandemic. Still, the WHO sad that the highest-level alert was geographical—the virus had spread into numerous countries around the world. In terms of severity, authorities said the virus’ effects on the patients were generally moderate. This means that most of them became infected and then recovered without even the need to seek medical help.
The Philippines remained A(H1N1)-free for a few more weeks before the first case was confirmed here: a ten-year-old girl who had just arrived from the United States and Canada with her parents.
These events coincided with the opening of classes for the new school year and naturally, some fumbling was in order. Nobody perhaps imagined that classroom interaction would present a serious problem in terms of the spread of the disease. Classes were suspended in schools where cases have been confirmed.
In the meantime, officials of the Department of Health conducted a press conference every so often to apprise the public on the latest figures and the circumstances of the latest patients. The numbers kept going up. There are now more than 800 cases, the largest figure in Southeast Asia. At least fifty-four schools have been affected. A low-level community outbreak has been declared in Metro Manila. Health officials have also mentioned a possible second wave of the outbreak.
Recently, however, Health also began talking about the recovery of hundreds previously infected. A middle-aged woman, working at the House of Representatives, was the first A(H1N1) fatality in the country. But Health officials were quick to add that the 49-year-old had pre-existing health conditions, effectively saying that some people are more prone to contracting the virus than others are.
Obviously, the health department is trying to strike a balance between keeping the public aware of what’s been happening, what could be done and what may yet happen while avoiding to cause unnecessary alarm.
The balancing is not an easy task.
***
The thought that the virus is out there and could get you if you are unlucky remains unsettling. It is at the back of your mind among your many concerns but it is there, nonetheless. Some events remind you of the fuzzy yet ever-present danger. When the children say that five or seven classmates are absent because all have fever, do you dismiss that fever as a result of the erratic weather or suspect these children have gotten the virus? And what if you have to take public transportation every day? Imagine the sheer number of people you get in close contact with in these vehicles especially during rush hour. Do you blow your budget on cab fare or fuel every single day? What if a co-worker coughs or sneezes? Do you move your chair just a little further or go around the office wearing a mask? What if you wake up achy or feverish? Do you tell yourself I’m doomed! immediately?
The truth is, it’s easy to get immobilized by fear. It’s instinctive. There is no effort involved in wallowing in what ifs and entertaining worst-case scenarios. The possibility of being downed by A(H1N1) or some other disease that has an even-higher mortality claim is always there. The good news is that we have the choice to work on lessening its probability. We are rational people. We should not let fear dictate what we do and don’t do in our lives.
At least we know more today than we did in those first few weeks. Classes have resumed and children have quite gotten used to the habit of lining up for the routine temperature check at their school gates every morning. Even travel and recreation have not been affected much. Becoming hermits is not really an option for most of us. Life does go on.
There is no fancy formula on being flu-proof. One does not even have to know how to go to the Web sites of the WHO or the Health Department. All it takes is common sense. Boost your immune system by eating healthy and taking vitamins. Wash your hands often, and thoroughly. Keep a bottle of alcohol or hand sanitizer handy at all times if you wish. Don’t miss out on rest and sleep.
Come to think of it, these are the things we really should be doing even without the threat of A(H1N1), or after the danger has passed. These are sound habits we may as well start now.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Quiet but not alone
Monday morning and am up at 530 ironing my children's uniforms. Wake them up at 615 and oversee the younger set's bathing and dressing routine. Breakfast is chiz whiz on toast loaf bread, and warm Milo plus a banana if they want, ho-hum, really, and one wishes one has more energy to whip up something more creative. Maybe tomorrow.
Sign all four diaries (three unsigned days earn a demerit)even when there's nothing written on the page. See the three older ones off, even as school is just across the street. Elmo goes to the same school but at a campus one street further. Bring him there. Kisses, kisses, reminders to finish his lunch and participate in discussions. Seven o'clock I am back at home, alone. Realize that I forgot to give the small kids their teaspoons of Ceelin. The older ones bring their ascorbic acid chewables in their bags. The house is topsy turvy, but I feel like I am on top of the world. It's going to be a good week.
I putter about the kitchen while tuned to CNN and just a little miffed that Michael Jackson is still getting a lot more coverage than Iranians, Afghans, Sri Lankans, Somalians...
My sister and niece rouse. Little Chloie goes to pre-school and is picked up by her "service" (a tricyle) at 830. Sister hurries to dress for a job interview. Her other kid is still asleep. I will mind him and get him ready for his 12pm class while she is gone.
I continue with my chores and do not notice nephew (and inaanak) is already there. He is watching the news as though he understands. Breakfast? I ask. He shakes his head. Oh well. This one does not like talking much.
I finish housekeeping. Time to worry about the next meal. Can I leave you here while I go to the market, I ask. Boy shakes head again. Wanna go with me? Nods. We walk hand in hand on the uphill road for ten minutes. It feels weird to be clutching at the wrist of a kid not your own. When we return, you take your early lunch and you get dressed for school, okay? Only then can you watch TV again, I tell him. Nods again. Wow. My talkative children have not prepared me for this. I am used to being out-talked.
A kilo of fish. I fry all eight pieces and then work on the sarciado. I hand a towel to the boy and his soap and shampoo. You know how to do this, of course, I say. Another nod. In less than five minutes he re-emerges and is ready to get dressed. I am nearly finished with my cooking.
The boy goes to school. Sister arrives. My own older children arrive home for lunch. Chloie is delivered home. It is noisy again. But I don't feel as lost. My kitchen is clean. The cubbyholes are orderly. I've had my quiet time -- even though I was not alone. I had with me a quiet person. I am tired but I look forward to the rest of the day.
Sign all four diaries (three unsigned days earn a demerit)even when there's nothing written on the page. See the three older ones off, even as school is just across the street. Elmo goes to the same school but at a campus one street further. Bring him there. Kisses, kisses, reminders to finish his lunch and participate in discussions. Seven o'clock I am back at home, alone. Realize that I forgot to give the small kids their teaspoons of Ceelin. The older ones bring their ascorbic acid chewables in their bags. The house is topsy turvy, but I feel like I am on top of the world. It's going to be a good week.
I putter about the kitchen while tuned to CNN and just a little miffed that Michael Jackson is still getting a lot more coverage than Iranians, Afghans, Sri Lankans, Somalians...
My sister and niece rouse. Little Chloie goes to pre-school and is picked up by her "service" (a tricyle) at 830. Sister hurries to dress for a job interview. Her other kid is still asleep. I will mind him and get him ready for his 12pm class while she is gone.
I continue with my chores and do not notice nephew (and inaanak) is already there. He is watching the news as though he understands. Breakfast? I ask. He shakes his head. Oh well. This one does not like talking much.
I finish housekeeping. Time to worry about the next meal. Can I leave you here while I go to the market, I ask. Boy shakes head again. Wanna go with me? Nods. We walk hand in hand on the uphill road for ten minutes. It feels weird to be clutching at the wrist of a kid not your own. When we return, you take your early lunch and you get dressed for school, okay? Only then can you watch TV again, I tell him. Nods again. Wow. My talkative children have not prepared me for this. I am used to being out-talked.
A kilo of fish. I fry all eight pieces and then work on the sarciado. I hand a towel to the boy and his soap and shampoo. You know how to do this, of course, I say. Another nod. In less than five minutes he re-emerges and is ready to get dressed. I am nearly finished with my cooking.
The boy goes to school. Sister arrives. My own older children arrive home for lunch. Chloie is delivered home. It is noisy again. But I don't feel as lost. My kitchen is clean. The cubbyholes are orderly. I've had my quiet time -- even though I was not alone. I had with me a quiet person. I am tired but I look forward to the rest of the day.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Onward bound
Bea is filling out forms when I arrive from work Sunday night. She is impatient with the boxes but she struggles. It's her application for the UPCAT, one of the two or three college entrance tests she has decided to take. My daughter is now a high school senior -- I feel like a dinosaur.
Her first and second choices are philosophy and political science, respectively, in the Diliman campus. I have been egging her to take the ACET, too, and of course she will sometime soon. Still, if it comes to a choice between UP and Ateneo, she will choose the former. "No offense, mom," she tells me. Of course. Not that I can afford to send her to Ateneo without a scholarship.
At the back portion of the form, there is a section on the applicant's parents' civil status. "What do I write here?" she asks. I struggle, too. I know it's only a form but telling her to put only "M" would make me feel disloyal to my cause. "Write 'married' and then put 'nullity proceedings pending' in parentheses," I tell her. She laughs and lifts the paper to show me there is a single box for a single letter. Buti pa ang friendster, may catch-all na "it's complicated," I muse.
Later on, and grudgingly, I tell her to write M anyway, because it is the legally and technically correct answer. She staples her picture onto the form and lovingly places it in a manila envelope. I don't show it but I might as well have applauded.
It's comforting to see my daughter taking control of the rest of her life. I hope I have given her enough tools to make it on her own. There is no room for inconsistencies. The real world is just around the corner.
Her first and second choices are philosophy and political science, respectively, in the Diliman campus. I have been egging her to take the ACET, too, and of course she will sometime soon. Still, if it comes to a choice between UP and Ateneo, she will choose the former. "No offense, mom," she tells me. Of course. Not that I can afford to send her to Ateneo without a scholarship.
At the back portion of the form, there is a section on the applicant's parents' civil status. "What do I write here?" she asks. I struggle, too. I know it's only a form but telling her to put only "M" would make me feel disloyal to my cause. "Write 'married' and then put 'nullity proceedings pending' in parentheses," I tell her. She laughs and lifts the paper to show me there is a single box for a single letter. Buti pa ang friendster, may catch-all na "it's complicated," I muse.
Later on, and grudgingly, I tell her to write M anyway, because it is the legally and technically correct answer. She staples her picture onto the form and lovingly places it in a manila envelope. I don't show it but I might as well have applauded.
It's comforting to see my daughter taking control of the rest of her life. I hope I have given her enough tools to make it on her own. There is no room for inconsistencies. The real world is just around the corner.
A queer father figure
published 22 June 2009, Manila Standard Today
(an edited version of a previous blog post)
Fatherhood comes in different hues.
Edwin would have turned 50 this month. I can imagine him flinching. “Majonders!” (matanda, or old), he would have shrieked. He was my mother’s youngest brother and he died eleven-and-a-half years ago, in August 1997, at the age of 38.
My memories of my uncle are so rich because it was he, together with my grandmother, who raised me. I did not grow up living with my parents. Thus, Edwin became a father figure of sorts to me—I say “of sorts” because the relationship had a pinkish hue.
In those days, my grandmother’s acceptance of her son’s gayness was a tacit recognition, not an outright acknowledgment. That Edwin looked, dressed and acted like a true-blue macho, mustache and all, probably made it easier for Lola. It did not really make a difference to me. Over the years, and especially as an adolescent and then a young adult, I respected and loved my uncle all the same. In fact, in one of the days he was bringing me to and from my grade school, he asked me to call him “Papa.” I jumped at the chance.
Papa Edwin liked playing records in our huge box of a stereo set. In the 1980s, he fancied himself a disk jockey. He had a good speaking voice and he was comfortable speaking in English. When there was a birthday celebration in our extended family, there would be a program. Gold foil lined the walls of the garage and a ball with small square mirrors hung in the middle. Papa Edwin would be in charge of the playlist and the choreography of lip-sung numbers. They were usually love duets performed by a fellow who was dressed as a man on one side and as a woman on the other half. There would also be fashion shows, with the better-looking teenage boys and girls in the neighborhood “presenting” themselves to the audience as DJ Edwin described what they were wearing. There were dance numbers, too. I remember dancing to Madonna’s “Material Girl”, with three boys in the background, during my 10th birthday, while the rest of the country was riveted to the revolution taking place on Edsa. It was 1986.
After a few years, Edwin outgrew being a show master. He became immersed in the spiritual world. His room and the rest of our house became populated with various images of Jesus and Mary—in all sizes. Simultaneously, he became a member of the Philippine Benevolent Missionaries Association. He developed a habit of reciting a Latin “oracion” at 2:30 in the afternoon and 6:00 in the evening. He had a libreto that contained magic Latin words for every illness imaginable. If somebody went to him complaining of a headache, for instance, he would copy the appropriate word on a small piece of paper, burn the paper while murmuring an indistinct prayer, gather the ashes and put them into a bottle of water. The patient was supposed to down the concoction and everything would be fine.
The DJ was now a faith healer. The garage of our rented place was not anymore the site of parties but a makeshift clinic. People from within the barangay came to our house complaining of aches, lumps, recurring nightmares, wayward children or philandering husbands. Aside from supposedly healing those people with magic water, Edwin also acted as counselor to those who sought his advice. He was a friend to many. Too many, my Lola complained. At one point I had to help Papa Edwin make numbered cards so he could see these believers in an orderly fashion. In those days, I did not question what he did. I took everything I saw at face value. No harm done—and he was not even earning from this “hobby.”
Inside the house, however, my uncle’s only vice was his odd sleeping hours. In those pre-call center days, he was used to turning in at two in the morning and then waking up at 11, just in time for lunch. No, he did not have a job (not until the mid-90s when I was already in college.) Our little family subsisted on the allowance my grandmother got from her late husband’s company and her social security pension. We were simple folk who did not want much.
Papa Edwin was busy just the same. He did not mind doing some of the house work. I was made to understand that my studies should be my priority. This side of my family was counting on me to bring home the first college diploma to our name, so I got off easily, chores-wise, even if we did not have a maid. Papa Edwin cleaned the house, did the dishes, washed clothes and went to the grocery.
In the years that followed, my uncle stopped his faith-healing activities but kept his Catholic statues and started a block rosary practice. He had a distinct style of praying, with his trademark disc jockey’s voice, that endeared him to most housewives in our area. At the end of the rosary, Papa Edwin would ask that all the lights be put out and candles be lit. Then he would utter a long, spontaneous Tagalog prayer, a direct conversation with God admitting human frailties and pleading for strength to overcome these. He paused at the right places as though to keep himself from sobbing. It never failed: all the other people, men and women both, in attendance would be wiping their tears and sniffing self-consciously after the prayer. And then, the lights would be turned on, and we would enjoy the pansit or the sopas and the previously-cold orange juice that had gone lukewarm from the length of the prayer.
Meanwhile, I grew up. When I entered the Ateneo at age 17, Papa Edwin always stood by me when Lola scolded me for coming home late. Then he would talk to me in private, reminding me not to lose my head over some guy because I had a bright future waiting for me.
He, too, grew up. He managed to get a job at a doctor-friend’s clinic as a medical assistant, He always said that his frustrations were being a doctor and being a priest. At that time, I was a young mother already while still in college. Papa Edwin forked out much-needed money for projects and books, expenses that were not covered by my scholarship. I was always touched by his generous nature.
I told myself that once I started working I would pay back my Lola and Papa Edwin for all that they have done for and taught me while I was in their care. But my first job as a PR assistant for a bank did not pay much. On Papa Edwin’s 38th birthday—it would turn out to be his last—I was already earning so I was able to bring him three pieces of asado siopao, his favorite. I said I could probably afford a dinner at a restaurant for his next birthday. Of course, it didn’t happen.
My uncle’s death—he fell into a coma for reasons we could not fully grasp—took us all by surprise. He had spent all his life taking care of other people: his mother, his niece, his “patients” and friends. He hardly had time to look after himself. During his wake, held at the small barangay chapel which he maintained faithfully, people never stopped telling us how much of a difference Edwin made in their lives. Indeed, my uncle gave willingly even though he did not have much.
Fatherhood comes in different hues. Some fathers and father figures are more mainstream than the rest. Celebrating them means shedding the external trappings, appreciating their core and letting their examples guide us even when they are no longer around.
**
Reader's reaction:
Dear ms. Chua
I thought I would let you know that I enjoyed reading about your Uncle Edwin. It is a down-to-earth story of another 'man for others' and I am sure he made many sacrifices to help others, including you. It was a good read and a refreshing change of pace, for me.
peteampil@in.com
(an edited version of a previous blog post)
Fatherhood comes in different hues.
Edwin would have turned 50 this month. I can imagine him flinching. “Majonders!” (matanda, or old), he would have shrieked. He was my mother’s youngest brother and he died eleven-and-a-half years ago, in August 1997, at the age of 38.
My memories of my uncle are so rich because it was he, together with my grandmother, who raised me. I did not grow up living with my parents. Thus, Edwin became a father figure of sorts to me—I say “of sorts” because the relationship had a pinkish hue.
In those days, my grandmother’s acceptance of her son’s gayness was a tacit recognition, not an outright acknowledgment. That Edwin looked, dressed and acted like a true-blue macho, mustache and all, probably made it easier for Lola. It did not really make a difference to me. Over the years, and especially as an adolescent and then a young adult, I respected and loved my uncle all the same. In fact, in one of the days he was bringing me to and from my grade school, he asked me to call him “Papa.” I jumped at the chance.
Papa Edwin liked playing records in our huge box of a stereo set. In the 1980s, he fancied himself a disk jockey. He had a good speaking voice and he was comfortable speaking in English. When there was a birthday celebration in our extended family, there would be a program. Gold foil lined the walls of the garage and a ball with small square mirrors hung in the middle. Papa Edwin would be in charge of the playlist and the choreography of lip-sung numbers. They were usually love duets performed by a fellow who was dressed as a man on one side and as a woman on the other half. There would also be fashion shows, with the better-looking teenage boys and girls in the neighborhood “presenting” themselves to the audience as DJ Edwin described what they were wearing. There were dance numbers, too. I remember dancing to Madonna’s “Material Girl”, with three boys in the background, during my 10th birthday, while the rest of the country was riveted to the revolution taking place on Edsa. It was 1986.
After a few years, Edwin outgrew being a show master. He became immersed in the spiritual world. His room and the rest of our house became populated with various images of Jesus and Mary—in all sizes. Simultaneously, he became a member of the Philippine Benevolent Missionaries Association. He developed a habit of reciting a Latin “oracion” at 2:30 in the afternoon and 6:00 in the evening. He had a libreto that contained magic Latin words for every illness imaginable. If somebody went to him complaining of a headache, for instance, he would copy the appropriate word on a small piece of paper, burn the paper while murmuring an indistinct prayer, gather the ashes and put them into a bottle of water. The patient was supposed to down the concoction and everything would be fine.
The DJ was now a faith healer. The garage of our rented place was not anymore the site of parties but a makeshift clinic. People from within the barangay came to our house complaining of aches, lumps, recurring nightmares, wayward children or philandering husbands. Aside from supposedly healing those people with magic water, Edwin also acted as counselor to those who sought his advice. He was a friend to many. Too many, my Lola complained. At one point I had to help Papa Edwin make numbered cards so he could see these believers in an orderly fashion. In those days, I did not question what he did. I took everything I saw at face value. No harm done—and he was not even earning from this “hobby.”
Inside the house, however, my uncle’s only vice was his odd sleeping hours. In those pre-call center days, he was used to turning in at two in the morning and then waking up at 11, just in time for lunch. No, he did not have a job (not until the mid-90s when I was already in college.) Our little family subsisted on the allowance my grandmother got from her late husband’s company and her social security pension. We were simple folk who did not want much.
Papa Edwin was busy just the same. He did not mind doing some of the house work. I was made to understand that my studies should be my priority. This side of my family was counting on me to bring home the first college diploma to our name, so I got off easily, chores-wise, even if we did not have a maid. Papa Edwin cleaned the house, did the dishes, washed clothes and went to the grocery.
In the years that followed, my uncle stopped his faith-healing activities but kept his Catholic statues and started a block rosary practice. He had a distinct style of praying, with his trademark disc jockey’s voice, that endeared him to most housewives in our area. At the end of the rosary, Papa Edwin would ask that all the lights be put out and candles be lit. Then he would utter a long, spontaneous Tagalog prayer, a direct conversation with God admitting human frailties and pleading for strength to overcome these. He paused at the right places as though to keep himself from sobbing. It never failed: all the other people, men and women both, in attendance would be wiping their tears and sniffing self-consciously after the prayer. And then, the lights would be turned on, and we would enjoy the pansit or the sopas and the previously-cold orange juice that had gone lukewarm from the length of the prayer.
Meanwhile, I grew up. When I entered the Ateneo at age 17, Papa Edwin always stood by me when Lola scolded me for coming home late. Then he would talk to me in private, reminding me not to lose my head over some guy because I had a bright future waiting for me.
He, too, grew up. He managed to get a job at a doctor-friend’s clinic as a medical assistant, He always said that his frustrations were being a doctor and being a priest. At that time, I was a young mother already while still in college. Papa Edwin forked out much-needed money for projects and books, expenses that were not covered by my scholarship. I was always touched by his generous nature.
I told myself that once I started working I would pay back my Lola and Papa Edwin for all that they have done for and taught me while I was in their care. But my first job as a PR assistant for a bank did not pay much. On Papa Edwin’s 38th birthday—it would turn out to be his last—I was already earning so I was able to bring him three pieces of asado siopao, his favorite. I said I could probably afford a dinner at a restaurant for his next birthday. Of course, it didn’t happen.
My uncle’s death—he fell into a coma for reasons we could not fully grasp—took us all by surprise. He had spent all his life taking care of other people: his mother, his niece, his “patients” and friends. He hardly had time to look after himself. During his wake, held at the small barangay chapel which he maintained faithfully, people never stopped telling us how much of a difference Edwin made in their lives. Indeed, my uncle gave willingly even though he did not have much.
Fatherhood comes in different hues. Some fathers and father figures are more mainstream than the rest. Celebrating them means shedding the external trappings, appreciating their core and letting their examples guide us even when they are no longer around.
**
Reader's reaction:
Dear ms. Chua
I thought I would let you know that I enjoyed reading about your Uncle Edwin. It is a down-to-earth story of another 'man for others' and I am sure he made many sacrifices to help others, including you. It was a good read and a refreshing change of pace, for me.
peteampil@in.com
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Intrepid Anita - a prelude
My long jeepney rides nowadays are made more bearable by the book I am reading, Island of Blood by Indian journalist Anita Pratap. Ms. Pratap is described as one of the finest journalists her country has ever produced. I suppose it is because she gives a face and a story to every person traditional reports would otherwise dismiss as mere answers to the 5Ws (who-what-when-where-why).
In the book, Pratap describes her experiences in Sri Lanka, Afghanistan and India, battle fronts all. She flirts with captivity, even death. She tells it equally well. Her style is engaging; I cannot seem to stop even when the ride gets bumpy and my eyes begin to hurt.
More on this in a subsequent entry.
In the book, Pratap describes her experiences in Sri Lanka, Afghanistan and India, battle fronts all. She flirts with captivity, even death. She tells it equally well. Her style is engaging; I cannot seem to stop even when the ride gets bumpy and my eyes begin to hurt.
More on this in a subsequent entry.
First Day Low
It is a quarter to eight in the morning It is the first regular school day of the year. All four children have been in school since seven. I am gloriously alone
Not for long, though. Soon the others will be stirring.
I had so looked forward to this schedule. I figured I would be so productive in the full half day, every day, that I would be spending on my own. I could write, watch the news, watch CSI or Numbers or a feature in National Geographic, a film, a concert. Clean the house, do the laundry, cook lunch and all that. Or lie down doing nothing.
But now all I have is a pathetic hour.
Admittedly I'm still too human. Two weeks and I am still struggling to deal with the trade-off that is now upon me.
My consolation? This precious hour. The thought that this arrangement may only be for a few months. The reminder that happiness is never external. I do have a choice -- to change my attitude and view these developments positively.
It's not automatic, though. I don't fancy myself a saint. I'm seeking my level first. It may take a few more weeks before I finally adjust. Or it may be a daily struggle.
I look forward to being fine, either way.
Not for long, though. Soon the others will be stirring.
I had so looked forward to this schedule. I figured I would be so productive in the full half day, every day, that I would be spending on my own. I could write, watch the news, watch CSI or Numbers or a feature in National Geographic, a film, a concert. Clean the house, do the laundry, cook lunch and all that. Or lie down doing nothing.
But now all I have is a pathetic hour.
Admittedly I'm still too human. Two weeks and I am still struggling to deal with the trade-off that is now upon me.
My consolation? This precious hour. The thought that this arrangement may only be for a few months. The reminder that happiness is never external. I do have a choice -- to change my attitude and view these developments positively.
It's not automatic, though. I don't fancy myself a saint. I'm seeking my level first. It may take a few more weeks before I finally adjust. Or it may be a daily struggle.
I look forward to being fine, either way.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Against the odds
published 15 June 2009, Manila Standard Today
Advocates of the reproductive health bill are not giving up just yet.
Monday, June 8. Three days after Congress went on its mid-year recess. Over lunch, Ernesto Almocera Jr., program manager for the Center for Advocacy and Policy Development of the Philippine Legislators' Committee on Population and Development Foundation Inc., and Roda Avila, Secretary General of the Democratic Socialist Women of the Philippines, make no secret of their frustration at what happened – actually, how nothing happened -- to Republic Act 5043, otherwise known as the Reproductive Health and Population Development Act, which would make family planning tools available to poor families and mandate age-appropriate sex education in schools, during the remaining working days of Congress.
In the House of Representatives, for instance, the bill is on second reading and is up for plenary debates. But 22 lawmakers have been lined up for interpellation and only two have spoken so far. Of course these are thinly veiled efforts to delay the voting on the matter – until it is perhaps impossible for Congress to get any real work done aside from boosting their chances in next year's elections. As a result, Speaker Prospero Nograles and Majority Floor Leader Arthur Defensor have said that a panel of 10 representatives, composed of 5 pro and 5 anti congressmen, would be formed to deliberate on the matter. Nonetheless, Almocera and Avila do not sound convinced that anything substantial would be done.
After all, Almocera says, this is not anymore a question of convincing lawmakers on the merits of the bill. The moral and practical issues have all been taken up and the people in Congress have long ago formed their personal positions on the proposal. Now it is just plain politics. And that's what makes the battle tougher.
At least this is the first time such a measure has gone this far in the legislative mill. A bill filed in the 9thCongress was focused on family planning in relation to the management of the population. A more integrated approach, rights-based and in the context of national development, was introduced in 2001. Still, the unprecedented progress is hardly any consolation. Almocera and Avila are aware they are up against formidable odds, and neither time is on their side. They see their window between July after the President's State-of-the-Nation Address and September. They must have the approved bill on the President's table by October. (They don't expect her to sign it, but at least she could do nothing and let it lapse into law anyway.) Why October? Congress will take another break then, and upon resumption will be focused on the national budget. Lawmakers will also then be rushing to beat the deadline for the filing of the certificates of candidacy. By the turn of the year, everybody would be busy with the elections. The bill's advocates may just as well begin from scratch and hope that they would get even farther next time around.
**
But if voting at the House were done today, and everybody voted according to his or her commitment, the reproductive health bill would just sail through. So far, there are 130-132 authors plus 12 supporters, bringing the total number to a little short of 142-144. The advocacy has even benefited from the increase in number of party-list representatives from that Supreme Court decision a few months ago. Out of the 32 newcomers, 18 have signed the bill.
So what's the problem, one asks, when only fifty percent plus one of the standing quorum on any given day – usually between 190 and 200 -- is needed to push the proposal forward?
The problem is that even some of those who have expressed support for the bill could not – would not – go to town with their preference, Almocera says. These lawmakers have a very real fear of backlash from the Church. It does not help that elections are practically around the corner. The same is true for those publicly against the bill but are in reality inclined to support it, or at least allow themselves to be convinced.
Those against the measure, which Almocera estimates at 78, are of different levels. Roughly 28 of this number are genuinely opposed to the bill. These are the ones whose stand is a product of religious and moral conviction. These hard-core oppositionists take active steps such as speaking out against the bill and recruiting other congressmen to their side. Then there are about six are who are known as “low opposition”. The rest are deemed neutral – about ten of which are “workable”.
The numbers, if the estimates are close, tell us the coast seems clear for the bill. In truth, the next few months are murky for the advocates, primarily because the House leadership could not even have the willpower to say “let's get this matter over with and vote on it now.”
And it's not as though occasioning a vote were impossible; our honorable representatives have shown us, just two weeks ago in passing the resolution that would convene them into a constituent assembly, that they would gladly move heaven and earth if they deemed an issue important enough.
Apparently, lawmakers' priority lies elsewhere.
**
Avila laments that the essence of representation has been conveniently set aside in favor of political expediency. She should know; her job takes her to various communities all over the country. She has talked to countless families, women and mothers especially, about the bill. These people have expressed bewilderment why lawmakers would block such a sound and practical measure. Surveys have shown more Filipinos favoring the passage of the reproductive health bill – so why aren't their representatives acting on their behalf?
The bill,if passed, would only give a more structured approach to pockets of reproductive health initiatives ALREADY BEING DONE in local governments through various agencies of the executive department: Health, Education, Social Welfare and Development, Science and Technology, Interior and Local Government, even Trade and Industry. These initiatives are also endorsed by international organizations such as USAID and the European Commission.
Avila wonders whether the long-held view that the Church could make or unmake a politician is still true. Most lawmakers, paralyzed by this belief, think they cannot afford to alienate the almighty Church hierarchy (not really the Church, because the faithful are included here) if they are serious about getting themselves re-elected, or their wives, brothers or children elected in their place.
This is where the problem lies, Almocera says. Religious leaders have all the right to speak out against any matter, be it moral or political. They can use the pulpit. They can preach to the young and old alike. They can slam the government's measures all they want. But they should do so only in the confines of the church. The state and politicians are at at fault for allowing the Church (not just the Catholic Church) to throw its weight around by dangling support, or threatening its absence, during elections. The electorate, too, must be enlightened.
Between now and the resumption of Congress late next month, Almocera's and Avila's respective organizations have lined up activities designed to sway lawmakers into supporting the bill. The program is called “The Big Push for the RH Bill”.
They face great odds and do not have much time. But advocates of the reproductive health bill are not giving up just yet.
adellechua@gmail.com
Reaction:
Thank you Ms. Adelle for this wonderful piece.
Cheers...
Ramon San Pascual, MPH
Executive Director, PLCPD Foundation
Advocates of the reproductive health bill are not giving up just yet.
Monday, June 8. Three days after Congress went on its mid-year recess. Over lunch, Ernesto Almocera Jr., program manager for the Center for Advocacy and Policy Development of the Philippine Legislators' Committee on Population and Development Foundation Inc., and Roda Avila, Secretary General of the Democratic Socialist Women of the Philippines, make no secret of their frustration at what happened – actually, how nothing happened -- to Republic Act 5043, otherwise known as the Reproductive Health and Population Development Act, which would make family planning tools available to poor families and mandate age-appropriate sex education in schools, during the remaining working days of Congress.
In the House of Representatives, for instance, the bill is on second reading and is up for plenary debates. But 22 lawmakers have been lined up for interpellation and only two have spoken so far. Of course these are thinly veiled efforts to delay the voting on the matter – until it is perhaps impossible for Congress to get any real work done aside from boosting their chances in next year's elections. As a result, Speaker Prospero Nograles and Majority Floor Leader Arthur Defensor have said that a panel of 10 representatives, composed of 5 pro and 5 anti congressmen, would be formed to deliberate on the matter. Nonetheless, Almocera and Avila do not sound convinced that anything substantial would be done.
After all, Almocera says, this is not anymore a question of convincing lawmakers on the merits of the bill. The moral and practical issues have all been taken up and the people in Congress have long ago formed their personal positions on the proposal. Now it is just plain politics. And that's what makes the battle tougher.
At least this is the first time such a measure has gone this far in the legislative mill. A bill filed in the 9thCongress was focused on family planning in relation to the management of the population. A more integrated approach, rights-based and in the context of national development, was introduced in 2001. Still, the unprecedented progress is hardly any consolation. Almocera and Avila are aware they are up against formidable odds, and neither time is on their side. They see their window between July after the President's State-of-the-Nation Address and September. They must have the approved bill on the President's table by October. (They don't expect her to sign it, but at least she could do nothing and let it lapse into law anyway.) Why October? Congress will take another break then, and upon resumption will be focused on the national budget. Lawmakers will also then be rushing to beat the deadline for the filing of the certificates of candidacy. By the turn of the year, everybody would be busy with the elections. The bill's advocates may just as well begin from scratch and hope that they would get even farther next time around.
**
But if voting at the House were done today, and everybody voted according to his or her commitment, the reproductive health bill would just sail through. So far, there are 130-132 authors plus 12 supporters, bringing the total number to a little short of 142-144. The advocacy has even benefited from the increase in number of party-list representatives from that Supreme Court decision a few months ago. Out of the 32 newcomers, 18 have signed the bill.
So what's the problem, one asks, when only fifty percent plus one of the standing quorum on any given day – usually between 190 and 200 -- is needed to push the proposal forward?
The problem is that even some of those who have expressed support for the bill could not – would not – go to town with their preference, Almocera says. These lawmakers have a very real fear of backlash from the Church. It does not help that elections are practically around the corner. The same is true for those publicly against the bill but are in reality inclined to support it, or at least allow themselves to be convinced.
Those against the measure, which Almocera estimates at 78, are of different levels. Roughly 28 of this number are genuinely opposed to the bill. These are the ones whose stand is a product of religious and moral conviction. These hard-core oppositionists take active steps such as speaking out against the bill and recruiting other congressmen to their side. Then there are about six are who are known as “low opposition”. The rest are deemed neutral – about ten of which are “workable”.
The numbers, if the estimates are close, tell us the coast seems clear for the bill. In truth, the next few months are murky for the advocates, primarily because the House leadership could not even have the willpower to say “let's get this matter over with and vote on it now.”
And it's not as though occasioning a vote were impossible; our honorable representatives have shown us, just two weeks ago in passing the resolution that would convene them into a constituent assembly, that they would gladly move heaven and earth if they deemed an issue important enough.
Apparently, lawmakers' priority lies elsewhere.
**
Avila laments that the essence of representation has been conveniently set aside in favor of political expediency. She should know; her job takes her to various communities all over the country. She has talked to countless families, women and mothers especially, about the bill. These people have expressed bewilderment why lawmakers would block such a sound and practical measure. Surveys have shown more Filipinos favoring the passage of the reproductive health bill – so why aren't their representatives acting on their behalf?
The bill,if passed, would only give a more structured approach to pockets of reproductive health initiatives ALREADY BEING DONE in local governments through various agencies of the executive department: Health, Education, Social Welfare and Development, Science and Technology, Interior and Local Government, even Trade and Industry. These initiatives are also endorsed by international organizations such as USAID and the European Commission.
Avila wonders whether the long-held view that the Church could make or unmake a politician is still true. Most lawmakers, paralyzed by this belief, think they cannot afford to alienate the almighty Church hierarchy (not really the Church, because the faithful are included here) if they are serious about getting themselves re-elected, or their wives, brothers or children elected in their place.
This is where the problem lies, Almocera says. Religious leaders have all the right to speak out against any matter, be it moral or political. They can use the pulpit. They can preach to the young and old alike. They can slam the government's measures all they want. But they should do so only in the confines of the church. The state and politicians are at at fault for allowing the Church (not just the Catholic Church) to throw its weight around by dangling support, or threatening its absence, during elections. The electorate, too, must be enlightened.
Between now and the resumption of Congress late next month, Almocera's and Avila's respective organizations have lined up activities designed to sway lawmakers into supporting the bill. The program is called “The Big Push for the RH Bill”.
They face great odds and do not have much time. But advocates of the reproductive health bill are not giving up just yet.
adellechua@gmail.com
Reaction:
Thank you Ms. Adelle for this wonderful piece.
Cheers...
Ramon San Pascual, MPH
Executive Director, PLCPD Foundation
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Visionary
Last week, one of my best friends, J, told me she had some news to share. She is a single mom with daughters aged 17 and 10. I had a milestone to tell her about, as well,so we agreed to meet up over the weekend to celebrate.
J was aglow that evening. She had lost some weight and looked great, yet that was not just it. She was just plain different! I suspected she had met somebody...it turned out that she had reconciled with somebody from her past. A twentysomething-year-old past, actually, and after both of them had gone “full circle,” as she put it. Some circle, my friend's life was. And in a few days she is flying to be with him, maybe plan how to spend the rest of their lives. Together.
“He's all I ever dreamed of,” she gushed. Later, over coffee, she showed me some hastily scribbled notes on her Moleskin, WRITTEN TWO MONTHS BEFORE THEY RECONNECTED, on how exactly she wanted her man. The notes were mostly adjectives describing her ideal man and outlining his “qualifications” in terms of age and status. There were no strict rules on the visualization exercise other than not including any word with a negative connotation. For example, you cannot write “I will have a stress-free day” because the words stress itself is there, even of it was followed by “free”. You get the drift.
J swears by the exercise an so do her other friends who told her about it in the first place. She said she did not even expect it would happen so fast. “You should do the exercise yourself,” she told me, winking.
Actually I had been doing something of the sort at the end of every year,during my personal planning session. Then again, I draft my plan – which includes a summary of core values, an ideal image of myself, long-term goals (for 3 years and beyond), short-term goals (for within the year) as well as specific action points for each “life category” – knowing the role I have to play in it. It's a guide for me to do the right things. But if I don't do the action points, it is a given i would not get to the goal, much less realize the vision.
J's suggestion was different. She is in effect saying that I could sit around and just think of what I had written, and then the forces of nature would conspire to make that vision real. Shall I dare tempt these forces?
The idea is seductive. Actually, I thought about it so much that I could not sleep. Upon arriving home after the dinner, I got my notebook and began to do the exercise. I did it wholesale: Finances, Career,Motherhood, Domestic Management and Health. I easily filled up three pages. I slept soundly. Upon waking up the following morning, I reviewed my list. There were gaps as to how exactly I would achieve the visions I had jotted down, but that's the whole point, I guess. J did not plan on the how of her vision. It – he -- just was there. (And now my friend says he has been her soulmate all along...sigh :))
I am truly happy for my friend. She deserves so much, having been through hell herself. I hope everything will work out between her and him and they can successfully merge their families. Indeed her years of being the ill-treated one, the hidden one, the second priority – are over. It is her time.
As for me...I've chickened out in the other aspects of the exercise. There is one category I have deliberately not written anything on. The truth is, i am downright scared. I cannot afford to have somebody turn my world upside down. I'm still chasing order. I'm still rebuilding -- no rush, no worries. After all, a pen and a piece of paper are just always within reach.
I hope the forces of nature don't beat me to it.
J was aglow that evening. She had lost some weight and looked great, yet that was not just it. She was just plain different! I suspected she had met somebody...it turned out that she had reconciled with somebody from her past. A twentysomething-year-old past, actually, and after both of them had gone “full circle,” as she put it. Some circle, my friend's life was. And in a few days she is flying to be with him, maybe plan how to spend the rest of their lives. Together.
“He's all I ever dreamed of,” she gushed. Later, over coffee, she showed me some hastily scribbled notes on her Moleskin, WRITTEN TWO MONTHS BEFORE THEY RECONNECTED, on how exactly she wanted her man. The notes were mostly adjectives describing her ideal man and outlining his “qualifications” in terms of age and status. There were no strict rules on the visualization exercise other than not including any word with a negative connotation. For example, you cannot write “I will have a stress-free day” because the words stress itself is there, even of it was followed by “free”. You get the drift.
J swears by the exercise an so do her other friends who told her about it in the first place. She said she did not even expect it would happen so fast. “You should do the exercise yourself,” she told me, winking.
Actually I had been doing something of the sort at the end of every year,during my personal planning session. Then again, I draft my plan – which includes a summary of core values, an ideal image of myself, long-term goals (for 3 years and beyond), short-term goals (for within the year) as well as specific action points for each “life category” – knowing the role I have to play in it. It's a guide for me to do the right things. But if I don't do the action points, it is a given i would not get to the goal, much less realize the vision.
J's suggestion was different. She is in effect saying that I could sit around and just think of what I had written, and then the forces of nature would conspire to make that vision real. Shall I dare tempt these forces?
The idea is seductive. Actually, I thought about it so much that I could not sleep. Upon arriving home after the dinner, I got my notebook and began to do the exercise. I did it wholesale: Finances, Career,Motherhood, Domestic Management and Health. I easily filled up three pages. I slept soundly. Upon waking up the following morning, I reviewed my list. There were gaps as to how exactly I would achieve the visions I had jotted down, but that's the whole point, I guess. J did not plan on the how of her vision. It – he -- just was there. (And now my friend says he has been her soulmate all along...sigh :))
I am truly happy for my friend. She deserves so much, having been through hell herself. I hope everything will work out between her and him and they can successfully merge their families. Indeed her years of being the ill-treated one, the hidden one, the second priority – are over. It is her time.
As for me...I've chickened out in the other aspects of the exercise. There is one category I have deliberately not written anything on. The truth is, i am downright scared. I cannot afford to have somebody turn my world upside down. I'm still chasing order. I'm still rebuilding -- no rush, no worries. After all, a pen and a piece of paper are just always within reach.
I hope the forces of nature don't beat me to it.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
My evasive equilibrium
I am less inspired nowadays.
I am still getting used to the new arrangements at home. I'm having a hard time. I am used to dictating when I would be alone and when I would be sociable. Now, talking and laughing are imposed on me. My kids' chatter I don't mind. Even their clutter. Gone is my alone-time after arriving home from work, watching my favorite programs, catching up on films. Gone is my much-anticipated entire morning to myself soon as school starts. I do like being alone, although other people can't seem to comprehend that. I've known people who were PETRIFIED at the thought of being by themselves.
The worst part is that I feel guilty for resenting this invasion of my -- and my kids' -- privacy. Good Lord,have I become a selfish, stuck-up bitch?
There are advantages, of course. And it's really the right thing to do under the circumstances. I'm still trying to convince myself that these advantages outweigh the encroachment I so strongly feel.
While I look forward to some me-time, big-time, in a different place, in a different time.
I am still getting used to the new arrangements at home. I'm having a hard time. I am used to dictating when I would be alone and when I would be sociable. Now, talking and laughing are imposed on me. My kids' chatter I don't mind. Even their clutter. Gone is my alone-time after arriving home from work, watching my favorite programs, catching up on films. Gone is my much-anticipated entire morning to myself soon as school starts. I do like being alone, although other people can't seem to comprehend that. I've known people who were PETRIFIED at the thought of being by themselves.
The worst part is that I feel guilty for resenting this invasion of my -- and my kids' -- privacy. Good Lord,have I become a selfish, stuck-up bitch?
There are advantages, of course. And it's really the right thing to do under the circumstances. I'm still trying to convince myself that these advantages outweigh the encroachment I so strongly feel.
While I look forward to some me-time, big-time, in a different place, in a different time.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
A chemist's formula
published 08 June 2009, Manila Standard Today
This cancer-stricken scientist lets good faith get her from one day to the next.
My dear friend Evelyn Marie Baetiong (now Del Socorro), whom I have known since kindergarten, sent me a text message on Mothers' Day. Bates is godmother to my eldest daughter Bea; I was one of two matrons of honor at her wedding. My kumare greeted me but she also relayed the news that her mom had been diagnosed with cancer of the lungs. Terminal. The family received the news that day. Some Mothers' Day, indeed.
Tita Litz – Leonita Diano Baetiong, Leony to some and Lita to others, has been a government chemist in the last 37 years, starting with the National Pollution Control Commission. She then moved on to the Environmental Management Bureau, under the Department of Environment and Natural Resources. She is now Laboratory Chief of the Research and Development Division of the bureau. Her office space has been the laboratory, practically, since July 1972. She is also active in the church and in the local community. She is looked up to by her extended family (she has 19 other brothers and sisters) as a selfless and compassionate figure, ever-ready to help.
And so it came as a surprise when the indefatigable, seemingly invincible Tita Litz complained of breathing difficulties sometime in February. Initial consultations said her condition was bronchial asthma, and after taking some medication, the chemist resumed her busy life. She even took charge (characteristically) of her husband's own hospitalization for prostate problems. But in April,while hosting the traditional pabasa in her Quezon City home, Ate Lita appeared much too pale to a cousin, who insisted she let herself be examined by a doctor-nephew in a hospital in Calamba, Laguna.
X-rays revealed water in the lungs; immediately, four to five liters of it the fluid was taken out of her system. After more tests,the water was back and the tests more worrisome. The nephew then endorsed Tita Litz to the Lung Center of the Philippines.
It was during the Lung Center confinement that the family was stunned with the findings that the cancer had spread and was in its advanced stage. Strange, Bates, her older sister and their dad never heard Tita Litz complaining of anything prior to this; her last hospitalization was in 1986, a good 23 years ago.
It was also during their 16-day stay in this hospital that the family saw just how well-loved Tita Litz was both at work and in the community. Room 3114 became notorious for having no let-up of visitors and well wishers. It was also standing room only status most of the time. Bates and her sister, Ate Cecil, noted an stream of text messages from concerned friends and collegaues all over the country – even those from the agency's provincial offices. They did not realize how many lives their mother had touched until then.
The weeks of confinement also brought the family closer together, and brought forth each member's inherent capacity to find something positive in the whole experience. That Bates was jolly, talkative and was at her best when laughing without a care in the world was something I knew the whole time we were growing up. But not even her mom's sickness suppressed this bubbly nature. A string of bloopers during their stay in the hospital enabled them to laugh together; indeed this made their predicament lighter, more predictable.
But Bates says what stand out are her mother's acts of considerateness even when she was at the height of her precarious situation. For example, at the surgical ICU of the hospital that Mothers' Day, she told her daughter to acknowledge each greeting she received on her cell phone. She worried about the food to be served to the visitors and about provisions for her brothers and sisters who visited her. She was anxious about her hospital bills and hated to think her family would be inconvenienced caring for her. Truly, Tita Litz is not used to being at the receiving end of kindness.
She is perhaps best known for her compassion to just about everybody who asked for her help. She did not have a lot but she gave willingly. She gave a new meaning to the phrase "give until it hurts." "Be merciful and compassionate" was her mantra, always telling her girls, now both married and in their 30s, that what she wanted was for people to utter a "thank you" to God for both big and little things. By helping them, she becomes a tool; she gives people reason to be grateful. She was also fortunate to have a husband supportive of her ways.
Of course, this disposition has opened up Tita Litz to unscrupulous souls who took advantage of or were plain ungrateful for her kindness. She does not dwell on them. For example, in 2003, the family got swindled by a smooth-talking 24-year-old who promised them what looked to be viable business opportunities, only to run away with their money. Tita LItz decided against joining the class suit filed by rest of the community and said the punishment would be up to God.
Indeed there are numerous miracles to be thankful for -- if one chooses to recognize them. Even her condition has brought forth the love and support of the people around her, especially her two granddaughters, eight-year-old Rheniella and four-year-old Rhea.
Bates and her sister, Ate Cecil, grew up seeing their mother's faith in God and the encouragement and support she gave others who were sick and sought her help. They had the best mentor in accepting the test and caring for a loved one.
For her part, Bates dreamed of making her parents financially secure so they could enjoy their retirement years. But since this project remains a work in progress, Bates figures she could, for now, tell the world about her mother's secret formula -- an attitude that has made her emerge, in all this, complete, loving, and loved.
The family's prayer is for the will of God to be done. They are not searching for miracles anymore. They have plenty of miracles, foremost of which is the life of Tita Litz.
**
Scholarship slots. Punlaan School in San Juan CIty has good news for underprivileged young women who want to pursue a course in Food and Beverage Services. Twenty scholarship slots are still open; registration is until Wednesday, June 10.
Also, the school's "helpers program" (for members of household staff) remains open -- it is a ten-month curriculum, with certification by the TESDA -- until June 30. The fee is P1,500/ month inclusive of all cooking ingredients.
Please visit www.punlaan.com or call 727-0581/82 or 722-5671 for more details.
This cancer-stricken scientist lets good faith get her from one day to the next.
My dear friend Evelyn Marie Baetiong (now Del Socorro), whom I have known since kindergarten, sent me a text message on Mothers' Day. Bates is godmother to my eldest daughter Bea; I was one of two matrons of honor at her wedding. My kumare greeted me but she also relayed the news that her mom had been diagnosed with cancer of the lungs. Terminal. The family received the news that day. Some Mothers' Day, indeed.
Tita Litz – Leonita Diano Baetiong, Leony to some and Lita to others, has been a government chemist in the last 37 years, starting with the National Pollution Control Commission. She then moved on to the Environmental Management Bureau, under the Department of Environment and Natural Resources. She is now Laboratory Chief of the Research and Development Division of the bureau. Her office space has been the laboratory, practically, since July 1972. She is also active in the church and in the local community. She is looked up to by her extended family (she has 19 other brothers and sisters) as a selfless and compassionate figure, ever-ready to help.
And so it came as a surprise when the indefatigable, seemingly invincible Tita Litz complained of breathing difficulties sometime in February. Initial consultations said her condition was bronchial asthma, and after taking some medication, the chemist resumed her busy life. She even took charge (characteristically) of her husband's own hospitalization for prostate problems. But in April,while hosting the traditional pabasa in her Quezon City home, Ate Lita appeared much too pale to a cousin, who insisted she let herself be examined by a doctor-nephew in a hospital in Calamba, Laguna.
X-rays revealed water in the lungs; immediately, four to five liters of it the fluid was taken out of her system. After more tests,the water was back and the tests more worrisome. The nephew then endorsed Tita Litz to the Lung Center of the Philippines.
It was during the Lung Center confinement that the family was stunned with the findings that the cancer had spread and was in its advanced stage. Strange, Bates, her older sister and their dad never heard Tita Litz complaining of anything prior to this; her last hospitalization was in 1986, a good 23 years ago.
It was also during their 16-day stay in this hospital that the family saw just how well-loved Tita Litz was both at work and in the community. Room 3114 became notorious for having no let-up of visitors and well wishers. It was also standing room only status most of the time. Bates and her sister, Ate Cecil, noted an stream of text messages from concerned friends and collegaues all over the country – even those from the agency's provincial offices. They did not realize how many lives their mother had touched until then.
The weeks of confinement also brought the family closer together, and brought forth each member's inherent capacity to find something positive in the whole experience. That Bates was jolly, talkative and was at her best when laughing without a care in the world was something I knew the whole time we were growing up. But not even her mom's sickness suppressed this bubbly nature. A string of bloopers during their stay in the hospital enabled them to laugh together; indeed this made their predicament lighter, more predictable.
But Bates says what stand out are her mother's acts of considerateness even when she was at the height of her precarious situation. For example, at the surgical ICU of the hospital that Mothers' Day, she told her daughter to acknowledge each greeting she received on her cell phone. She worried about the food to be served to the visitors and about provisions for her brothers and sisters who visited her. She was anxious about her hospital bills and hated to think her family would be inconvenienced caring for her. Truly, Tita Litz is not used to being at the receiving end of kindness.
She is perhaps best known for her compassion to just about everybody who asked for her help. She did not have a lot but she gave willingly. She gave a new meaning to the phrase "give until it hurts." "Be merciful and compassionate" was her mantra, always telling her girls, now both married and in their 30s, that what she wanted was for people to utter a "thank you" to God for both big and little things. By helping them, she becomes a tool; she gives people reason to be grateful. She was also fortunate to have a husband supportive of her ways.
Of course, this disposition has opened up Tita Litz to unscrupulous souls who took advantage of or were plain ungrateful for her kindness. She does not dwell on them. For example, in 2003, the family got swindled by a smooth-talking 24-year-old who promised them what looked to be viable business opportunities, only to run away with their money. Tita LItz decided against joining the class suit filed by rest of the community and said the punishment would be up to God.
Indeed there are numerous miracles to be thankful for -- if one chooses to recognize them. Even her condition has brought forth the love and support of the people around her, especially her two granddaughters, eight-year-old Rheniella and four-year-old Rhea.
Bates and her sister, Ate Cecil, grew up seeing their mother's faith in God and the encouragement and support she gave others who were sick and sought her help. They had the best mentor in accepting the test and caring for a loved one.
For her part, Bates dreamed of making her parents financially secure so they could enjoy their retirement years. But since this project remains a work in progress, Bates figures she could, for now, tell the world about her mother's secret formula -- an attitude that has made her emerge, in all this, complete, loving, and loved.
The family's prayer is for the will of God to be done. They are not searching for miracles anymore. They have plenty of miracles, foremost of which is the life of Tita Litz.
**
Scholarship slots. Punlaan School in San Juan CIty has good news for underprivileged young women who want to pursue a course in Food and Beverage Services. Twenty scholarship slots are still open; registration is until Wednesday, June 10.
Also, the school's "helpers program" (for members of household staff) remains open -- it is a ten-month curriculum, with certification by the TESDA -- until June 30. The fee is P1,500/ month inclusive of all cooking ingredients.
Please visit www.punlaan.com or call 727-0581/82 or 722-5671 for more details.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Insomnia
We are standing in line for a cab just outside the Landmark Supermarket at the South exit of Trinoma. It is ten o'clock Sunday evening, and except for the fact that we have been waiting awhile, the drizzle and the lights of the city are just lovely. I get inspired.
Me: Knock knock
Josh: Who's there?
Me: Divisoria
Josh: Divisoria who?
Me: (to the tune of Craig David's “Insomnia”) Divisoria, oooh....Divisoria,oooh
Josh: (rolls his eyes and then chuckles) Ang corny..
Me: Eh bakit ka tumatawa? (Bea and her friend Tsini continue yakking, oblivious to it all)
Josh: Sobrang corny nakakatawa na...Mommy magsulat ka na lang..
And so I write.
It's eleven o'clock Wednesday night and Bea's cellphone just rang. She is on conference call with the rest of the Gang of Four, which includes her friend Jenny (another senior), Karlo (a sophomore) and Josh, who is in the hospital keeping his friend Eman company. (Three of Emman's family members are down in different hospital rooms from food poisoning; it's a small family and they have a shortage of bantay).
I'm no stranger to these four-way conversations, via cell phone, mind you. These last few days of the sumer vacation,my kids have taken “telebabad” to a whole new level. See Globe has this Unlinyt Calls promo, where a pre-paid subscriber can make endless phone calls for just a minimum amount ,I think twenty pesos. The window is from 11pm to 6am the following day. They use up the entire window. Sometimes they turn the loudspeaker on, and since we are all bunched up in the same room, I hear everything that transpires. Yes, way beyond the “Hi, Tita!” that Jenny or Karlo occasionally chirp – or their requests for more “corny” knock-knock jokes.
But whether the loudspeaker is on or the kids are using headsets while talking to their friends (in other days, Bea and Joshua are lying on side-by-side beds while talking to each other on the phone),it is difficult to sleep, naturally. Not that I hang on to every word being said – one gets tired of eavesdropping, after all. And one must get some sleep after a long day of being mom/homemaker/editor/writer/commuter all in one.
I mind, but not too much. It's high school, and I think our strongest bonds get formed then. Mine have sure stuck. Luckily I do not belong to that generation that dismisses “barkada” as a group of junkies who bum around. In fact I encourage the children to be good friends – hear their buddies out when they are down, or warn them against the consequences of their actions, or alert them if they are being talked about behind their backs. Of course, the parameters are there. As everything, nurturing friendships must be done in moderation.
In the meantime, I guess I should expect a few more shallow-sleep nights until this rainy summer vacation ends. I suppose I should invent a few more knock knock jokes to keep myself entertained.
Me: Knock knock
Josh: Who's there?
Me: Divisoria
Josh: Divisoria who?
Me: (to the tune of Craig David's “Insomnia”) Divisoria, oooh....Divisoria,oooh
Josh: (rolls his eyes and then chuckles) Ang corny..
Me: Eh bakit ka tumatawa? (Bea and her friend Tsini continue yakking, oblivious to it all)
Josh: Sobrang corny nakakatawa na...Mommy magsulat ka na lang..
And so I write.
It's eleven o'clock Wednesday night and Bea's cellphone just rang. She is on conference call with the rest of the Gang of Four, which includes her friend Jenny (another senior), Karlo (a sophomore) and Josh, who is in the hospital keeping his friend Eman company. (Three of Emman's family members are down in different hospital rooms from food poisoning; it's a small family and they have a shortage of bantay).
I'm no stranger to these four-way conversations, via cell phone, mind you. These last few days of the sumer vacation,my kids have taken “telebabad” to a whole new level. See Globe has this Unlinyt Calls promo, where a pre-paid subscriber can make endless phone calls for just a minimum amount ,I think twenty pesos. The window is from 11pm to 6am the following day. They use up the entire window. Sometimes they turn the loudspeaker on, and since we are all bunched up in the same room, I hear everything that transpires. Yes, way beyond the “Hi, Tita!” that Jenny or Karlo occasionally chirp – or their requests for more “corny” knock-knock jokes.
But whether the loudspeaker is on or the kids are using headsets while talking to their friends (in other days, Bea and Joshua are lying on side-by-side beds while talking to each other on the phone),it is difficult to sleep, naturally. Not that I hang on to every word being said – one gets tired of eavesdropping, after all. And one must get some sleep after a long day of being mom/homemaker/editor/writer/commuter all in one.
I mind, but not too much. It's high school, and I think our strongest bonds get formed then. Mine have sure stuck. Luckily I do not belong to that generation that dismisses “barkada” as a group of junkies who bum around. In fact I encourage the children to be good friends – hear their buddies out when they are down, or warn them against the consequences of their actions, or alert them if they are being talked about behind their backs. Of course, the parameters are there. As everything, nurturing friendships must be done in moderation.
In the meantime, I guess I should expect a few more shallow-sleep nights until this rainy summer vacation ends. I suppose I should invent a few more knock knock jokes to keep myself entertained.
Living with more entropy
Barely a day after writing about my resolution to be more patient and persevering in enforcing physical order in my home, a new mountain is suddenly in front of me.
I had been looking forward to the start of the school year. The children would all be out in the morning, and I would have the glorious opportunity to be by myself. Solitude perks me up; I get thrilled by the limitless possibility of things I can do, at my own pace and at my own scale.
In the last few weeks I had been toiling to organize things in the house and, more importantly, share with the children the value of looking after their own stuff. I had several boxes, several sako bags, and my precious drawers all duly labeled on the things they should ideally contain. it wasn't a perfect state yet, there were some more crucial things to do, but I felt i was getting there.
And last night i was trying to write a blog entry about my children's gregariousness, and it was raining and there were no cockroaches and the babies were with me...it was close to heaven. So close that I dozed off.
I awoke to the sound of dogs barking: Somebody was at the door.
It was my sister, Unica, with her two children in tow. And bags. “Dito muna kami, Ate,” she asked. I let her in and asked her what was wrong.
Unik is 25 and her boyfriend, Neal, was working at a hotel in Saudi. She and their kids Jap,8 and Chloie, 5, live with his parents and his brothers and sister (and their spouses) in a bungalow just 20 minutes from where we lived. Unik said she had had enough of Neal's brother who hollered at her children and who called her “El Presidente,” apparently referring to her arrogance. They were probably defensive because Neal supports the entire extended family and remits an allowance to Unik, besides.
My stress level shot up. I was already trying to manage a household on my own, without a helper, with four children. And i was going crazy. Now here is my distraught sister and her kids about to burst my bubble. Indeed on that first night, they slept at our room, the bigger room. The nightly picnic just drew a larger crowd. The bags were dumped into the floor of my home office. Neal texted me from Saudi to entrust his family to me in the meantime, until they saved enough for their own place (at least HE has the balls to support her quest for independence,unlike some people I knew in my previous life), and tell me they would help with the expenses. But it's really not the issue.
Attitude spells the difference, I know. Now, 22 hours later since the dog barks jolted me from sleep, Im still trying to decide on an attitude that would reconcile my support for my sister,my quest for quiet and my obsession with order.
Now we are back to having so many people in the house we have to have batches when eating meals. Sinigang will be a constant feature on the dinner table. The small kids will have a ball every time; Jap and Chloie are their favorite cousins. There will be more noise when I arrive tired from work and travel at night. Decidedly more clutter and more telenovelas. But more stories, more laughter,too.
Maybe it's a matter of seeing a glass half full or half empty. It's a trade off. There is entropy, yes. But there is also something else that quite nearly evens it out.
I had been looking forward to the start of the school year. The children would all be out in the morning, and I would have the glorious opportunity to be by myself. Solitude perks me up; I get thrilled by the limitless possibility of things I can do, at my own pace and at my own scale.
In the last few weeks I had been toiling to organize things in the house and, more importantly, share with the children the value of looking after their own stuff. I had several boxes, several sako bags, and my precious drawers all duly labeled on the things they should ideally contain. it wasn't a perfect state yet, there were some more crucial things to do, but I felt i was getting there.
And last night i was trying to write a blog entry about my children's gregariousness, and it was raining and there were no cockroaches and the babies were with me...it was close to heaven. So close that I dozed off.
I awoke to the sound of dogs barking: Somebody was at the door.
It was my sister, Unica, with her two children in tow. And bags. “Dito muna kami, Ate,” she asked. I let her in and asked her what was wrong.
Unik is 25 and her boyfriend, Neal, was working at a hotel in Saudi. She and their kids Jap,8 and Chloie, 5, live with his parents and his brothers and sister (and their spouses) in a bungalow just 20 minutes from where we lived. Unik said she had had enough of Neal's brother who hollered at her children and who called her “El Presidente,” apparently referring to her arrogance. They were probably defensive because Neal supports the entire extended family and remits an allowance to Unik, besides.
My stress level shot up. I was already trying to manage a household on my own, without a helper, with four children. And i was going crazy. Now here is my distraught sister and her kids about to burst my bubble. Indeed on that first night, they slept at our room, the bigger room. The nightly picnic just drew a larger crowd. The bags were dumped into the floor of my home office. Neal texted me from Saudi to entrust his family to me in the meantime, until they saved enough for their own place (at least HE has the balls to support her quest for independence,unlike some people I knew in my previous life), and tell me they would help with the expenses. But it's really not the issue.
Attitude spells the difference, I know. Now, 22 hours later since the dog barks jolted me from sleep, Im still trying to decide on an attitude that would reconcile my support for my sister,my quest for quiet and my obsession with order.
Now we are back to having so many people in the house we have to have batches when eating meals. Sinigang will be a constant feature on the dinner table. The small kids will have a ball every time; Jap and Chloie are their favorite cousins. There will be more noise when I arrive tired from work and travel at night. Decidedly more clutter and more telenovelas. But more stories, more laughter,too.
Maybe it's a matter of seeing a glass half full or half empty. It's a trade off. There is entropy, yes. But there is also something else that quite nearly evens it out.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Living with entropy
If I were a piece of furniture, I would prefer to be...a stack of wooden drawers. Deep brown with a smooth, dust-resistant surface. Sturdy with each piece firmly in place -- no awnings for insects to crawl through. Thin, no-frill silver handles that tolerate the strain from frequent opening and closing. Not quite floor-to-ceiling, for that would be difficult to maintain, but close. Uniform drawers, side by side, leaving the rest of the room clutter-free and pleasing to the eye.
I've made some more improvements upstairs, especially now that 1. a 0.5-horsepower air conditioner is in place; 2. Ate Helen, who sleeps in the smaller room,is now in Bulacan on maternity leave; and 3. A new school year begins in two weeks. I used to occupy the bigger room, sharing it with my daughter Bea. But since it's immensely more comfortable there with the aircon, everybody (meaning me and the kids, sometimes a permutation of them) is there, on a nightly family picnic. So I took out all the closets, yielded my new study table to Josh (he had vowed to do better in school in his bid to be Renaissance Dude) and made the bedroom a family sleep-and-study area. I've resumed holding my home-office area downstairs, by the living room window.
Meanwhile, the closets, the dresser,old books and notebooks and toys and bags and every other item now belongs to the smaller room which the kids have started calling the Dressing Room.
The containers of our clothes were purchased at various times over the last few years; it is hardly surprising that none of them match. There is a light brown one, two dark ones, a cloth zip-up closet, one blue-and-beige plastic drawer, two black-and-white ones. Keeping their closets neat has never been my kids' virtue(wish it were though) and the fact that our maid is now again on a part-time basis -- it's better and less intrusive, we decided -- guarantees that some form of a mess, sometimes mountains, may be in that room from time to time. I put labels using masking tape and pentel pen, but helper Jo, still a child in many ways, has never quite comprehended that the labels were there to guide her. Even if I had told her to be guided.
Actually, I believe that if everybody only looked after his or her things, there would be no more need for a helper. I'm at home for the most part of the day, not to pick up after the kids' clutter but to nag them nicely,if there were such a thing, to keep their backyards clean. Remember that the flow of clothes and clutter never does end.
My approach has had varied success. The smaller ones are easier to instruct, but that's when i'm looking, of course. When I'm not looking, Elmo tends to "forget" to put things back in order. Sophie orders him to do so, and he resists her bossing him around, and they sometimes end up fighting. My teenagers are worse. I suppose anybody who has ever had active 13- and 15-year-olds in their households will understand. Today you tell them, they comply. Tomorrow they slip and then try again. The next day they are in a hurry. You get tired at the sound of your own voice mouthing the same things in different tones. It could drive a mom crazy. They kid me I'm Oc-Oc. Actually, the psychological evaluation for my nullity case says I am, but how it spills over to the matter of closets escapes me (obsessive-compulsive behavior is supposed to be relational).
I now try to remember if I was as this passionate about order,or whether order had seemed so attractive, when I was their age. I can't recall. Horrors...I'm old.
So how do I live with the perennial challenge? I manage to. Sometimes I am in the mood to sort out even clutter that is not mine. When you have mild rain tapping on the roof and nice music, this could be a good way to spend alone-time. It clears the mind and I become more in control. A piece of paper and a pen beside me does wonders, for writing down all the ideas, mundane or literary, that crop up.
But most times I am not because there is too much clutter, it's warm in the room, there is a cockroach, I am tired, pissed at somebody or just PMS-ing. In this case I just make sure my own closet is neat, the blouses are hung in a spectrum, an everything is in its ideal place, hoping that if I cannot command the children to keep their turfs in order at all times, I can at least be a good example.
I've made some more improvements upstairs, especially now that 1. a 0.5-horsepower air conditioner is in place; 2. Ate Helen, who sleeps in the smaller room,is now in Bulacan on maternity leave; and 3. A new school year begins in two weeks. I used to occupy the bigger room, sharing it with my daughter Bea. But since it's immensely more comfortable there with the aircon, everybody (meaning me and the kids, sometimes a permutation of them) is there, on a nightly family picnic. So I took out all the closets, yielded my new study table to Josh (he had vowed to do better in school in his bid to be Renaissance Dude) and made the bedroom a family sleep-and-study area. I've resumed holding my home-office area downstairs, by the living room window.
Meanwhile, the closets, the dresser,old books and notebooks and toys and bags and every other item now belongs to the smaller room which the kids have started calling the Dressing Room.
The containers of our clothes were purchased at various times over the last few years; it is hardly surprising that none of them match. There is a light brown one, two dark ones, a cloth zip-up closet, one blue-and-beige plastic drawer, two black-and-white ones. Keeping their closets neat has never been my kids' virtue(wish it were though) and the fact that our maid is now again on a part-time basis -- it's better and less intrusive, we decided -- guarantees that some form of a mess, sometimes mountains, may be in that room from time to time. I put labels using masking tape and pentel pen, but helper Jo, still a child in many ways, has never quite comprehended that the labels were there to guide her. Even if I had told her to be guided.
Actually, I believe that if everybody only looked after his or her things, there would be no more need for a helper. I'm at home for the most part of the day, not to pick up after the kids' clutter but to nag them nicely,if there were such a thing, to keep their backyards clean. Remember that the flow of clothes and clutter never does end.
My approach has had varied success. The smaller ones are easier to instruct, but that's when i'm looking, of course. When I'm not looking, Elmo tends to "forget" to put things back in order. Sophie orders him to do so, and he resists her bossing him around, and they sometimes end up fighting. My teenagers are worse. I suppose anybody who has ever had active 13- and 15-year-olds in their households will understand. Today you tell them, they comply. Tomorrow they slip and then try again. The next day they are in a hurry. You get tired at the sound of your own voice mouthing the same things in different tones. It could drive a mom crazy. They kid me I'm Oc-Oc. Actually, the psychological evaluation for my nullity case says I am, but how it spills over to the matter of closets escapes me (obsessive-compulsive behavior is supposed to be relational).
I now try to remember if I was as this passionate about order,or whether order had seemed so attractive, when I was their age. I can't recall. Horrors...I'm old.
So how do I live with the perennial challenge? I manage to. Sometimes I am in the mood to sort out even clutter that is not mine. When you have mild rain tapping on the roof and nice music, this could be a good way to spend alone-time. It clears the mind and I become more in control. A piece of paper and a pen beside me does wonders, for writing down all the ideas, mundane or literary, that crop up.
But most times I am not because there is too much clutter, it's warm in the room, there is a cockroach, I am tired, pissed at somebody or just PMS-ing. In this case I just make sure my own closet is neat, the blouses are hung in a spectrum, an everything is in its ideal place, hoping that if I cannot command the children to keep their turfs in order at all times, I can at least be a good example.
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