The homily of the priest reminded me of the boyfriend.
It's been more than half a year since H.S. and I got together. I've known him from three years back since the day I admitted to him that I like him (What gall have I, no? Lol.) and I never thought that the second time is sweeter.
He knows I am HIV positive. I disclosed my status. He needed no less than transparency and I owe him full disclosure of the events past. He accepted me and my 206-pound baggage, and until now I never thought that someone so amazing like him could see past through me and share this magnetic relationship so resplendent and beauteous.
I usually don't write about my happiness (hence the long hiatus) because you know how sometimes diabolical and diabetical love could be and I want to spare you from all that. But I come to write about it now because there's this one "mysterious" thoughtfulness that he always do to me.
I've been in and out of PGH-Sagip for the last I'm-too-lazy-to-count years to the point that I have already had three medical fellows graduated and a bunch of nurses known. Short to speak, I can go to Sagip alone because it has become a routine. Even if that means only getting my refills, updating Philhealth documents, which takes no longer than 20 minutes. I can even manage a routine check-up on my own.
That changed since we became a couple. He would always make it a point that he will join me in Sagip regardless of my agenda and regardless of how much time we will spend there.
So it came that the former solo wait became a pair. Though we would talk under whispers or him going over his phone and I with my book while waiting, the scene has changed: I am not alone anymore.
For the many times he was with me in PGH, he could have just stayed at home, gone home to rest after a day's work or minded his own affairs, but the pigheaded in him wants to join me in PGH.
"I want to be always there because the hospital is a scary place and I don't want you to be alone." That he would always tell me whenever I'd ask him why the needed company.
Believe me, it is heartwarming, but I too would not want to be the demanding partner. H knows that I will understand him and find it okay if he will just stay at home.
I left his answer like that for the longest time until a while ago. Thursday. The novena of St. Jude was on and the priest gave a moving homily.
Linguistically-speaking, the priest tells that the Pangasinenses (the priest being one) say "help" as a noun just like the Tagalogs do, which is "tulong." But the verb form is different. Pardon me but I forgot the exact word. I think it's imaanan ta ka or imanaan ta ka? I cannot recall anymore.
The point being is, the dialect provides a more fraternal meaning in the verb "to help" to the Pangasinenses. He said that in their dialect, the verb "to help" also means "to accompany." So if one would say "I will help you," it's pretty much like saying that "I will accompany you." Hence, the dialect reflects that to help (tulungan) means to accompany (samahan) the one who needed help.
The homily reminded me of the boyfriend and his vague (at least for me) answer to my question. I never knew that the answer lies in a different tongue. That he is helping and accompanying me at the same time.
I left the the district of San Miguel, Manila in a reflective state, smiling bashfully knowing that my question has been answered twice: by the boyfriend and by the heavens. And in that drop of a subtle answer from the heavens, my case is closed. The hospital buddy is here to stay for too long a time.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Monday, February 24, 2014
HIV and employment
To anyone here in the Philippines, I just want to know what's out there.
Have you heard of or witnessed any incident of employment regarding HIV condition? Among others, but not limited to:
a.) denial of work promotion due to his/her condition
b.) enforced work demotion due to his/her condition
c.) denial of medical procedure and/or hospital admission by an insurance company in line with HIV-related medication
d.) mandatory HIV testing for pre-employment
e.) continuous non-remittance of the employer of Philhealth contributions (this is pretty much a perennial problem)
Or perhaps, your experience not necessarily listed above that concerned your condition with your present employment.
Names are not needed to be divulged.
Have you heard of or witnessed any incident of employment regarding HIV condition? Among others, but not limited to:
a.) denial of work promotion due to his/her condition
b.) enforced work demotion due to his/her condition
c.) denial of medical procedure and/or hospital admission by an insurance company in line with HIV-related medication
d.) mandatory HIV testing for pre-employment
e.) continuous non-remittance of the employer of Philhealth contributions (this is pretty much a perennial problem)
Or perhaps, your experience not necessarily listed above that concerned your condition with your present employment.
Names are not needed to be divulged.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
after three quarters
Salut!
Not that I don't want to update this, but I am resolved to post entries here sporadically. And during the intermission, I forgot what email I use to log in Blogger. Hence, the seemingly interminable silence.
I really don't know why I still bothered to have this blog kept alive. Perhaps because I want to make a quick detour when an HIV-related thought pops out of my head (yes, I mean to keep the topic that way) or to comment on other blogs here and there (which I don't believe myself since I'm not privy to other people's rundowns anymore). Eitherway, it's not necessarily to document my life as often as possible. I've learned to keep my thoughts tucked under the folds of my diaphragm or to purposefully select ears who will afford me undivided attention. I'm not pay-moose for the whole of unknown names and faces to know every bit of my drab of a life.
So to you, my still-interested readers, may you find a reason to go back here despite my next post may be already in eons to come.
Adieu.
Not that I don't want to update this, but I am resolved to post entries here sporadically. And during the intermission, I forgot what email I use to log in Blogger. Hence, the seemingly interminable silence.
I really don't know why I still bothered to have this blog kept alive. Perhaps because I want to make a quick detour when an HIV-related thought pops out of my head (yes, I mean to keep the topic that way) or to comment on other blogs here and there (which I don't believe myself since I'm not privy to other people's rundowns anymore). Eitherway, it's not necessarily to document my life as often as possible. I've learned to keep my thoughts tucked under the folds of my diaphragm or to purposefully select ears who will afford me undivided attention. I'm not pay-moose for the whole of unknown names and faces to know every bit of my drab of a life.
So to you, my still-interested readers, may you find a reason to go back here despite my next post may be already in eons to come.
Adieu.
Friday, May 17, 2013
messages from the deep
Weeks back, I woke to a strange dream. Well, not necessarily. I roused from sleep since my bladder commanded me to flush out its content. All that I had transported to the real world was the dream.
It’s debatable. Anyone drinking efavirenz will surely recognize that vivid dreams run rampant as it is a side effect. But does efavirenz direct the dreams we manufacture in the dead of the night? I beg to differ. This dream isn't that vivid as well. It carries though metaphysical symbols that I know I have to unravel to take the meaning out of its sugarcoated layer.
I’m lying in bed in a dark, bluish room. (As in the nature of dreams, scenes could be very outlandish.) The room isn't painted blue. We've all experienced those fiery red sunsets once in a while, right? Right. It’s like that. But, the rays of the sun falling on the room are blue and a heavy curtain seems to block off much of the sunlight, that it’s both dark and bluish.
I’m in the bed but I’m wide awake. To my right, I see my hand maneuvering and arranging old, worn-out, dilapidated toys, whose paint has already peeled off due to age. I'm sitting them beside each other as one would do when he’s done playing his toys. The scene kept on repeating: the same toys, the same set, but the toys become more and more brand new as one repetition rewinds and plays again.
Then, the john called. I wanted to write down on a sheet of paper “toys” to remind myself about it but I was still groggy. Then again, the scene is so striking I knew I could recall it again even if the Sandman is still dragging me back to his lair.
I took to Google what it could be and it returned a result, and I quote:
What luck! I never thought that my subconscious could point me to definitive point of my life. For starters, living with HIV isn't something that's all fancy. But I guess, with the droppings of heaven, divine interventions, and untiring prayers lifted to Padre Pio, I guess I'm being told to push on and turn the tables in my favor in spite of this—let’s give it to them as they won't understand us—damned life.
Moons back, I dreamt of someone cutting my hair. Again, I relied on Google (what authority!) to shed light on the otherwise metaphorical message. I quote once more:
I'll be stingy with details. For now, the waiting is yet to be over, but the light is coming in no matter how heavy the curtain is.
It’s debatable. Anyone drinking efavirenz will surely recognize that vivid dreams run rampant as it is a side effect. But does efavirenz direct the dreams we manufacture in the dead of the night? I beg to differ. This dream isn't that vivid as well. It carries though metaphysical symbols that I know I have to unravel to take the meaning out of its sugarcoated layer.
I’m lying in bed in a dark, bluish room. (As in the nature of dreams, scenes could be very outlandish.) The room isn't painted blue. We've all experienced those fiery red sunsets once in a while, right? Right. It’s like that. But, the rays of the sun falling on the room are blue and a heavy curtain seems to block off much of the sunlight, that it’s both dark and bluish.
I’m in the bed but I’m wide awake. To my right, I see my hand maneuvering and arranging old, worn-out, dilapidated toys, whose paint has already peeled off due to age. I'm sitting them beside each other as one would do when he’s done playing his toys. The scene kept on repeating: the same toys, the same set, but the toys become more and more brand new as one repetition rewinds and plays again.
Then, the john called. I wanted to write down on a sheet of paper “toys” to remind myself about it but I was still groggy. Then again, the scene is so striking I knew I could recall it again even if the Sandman is still dragging me back to his lair.
I took to Google what it could be and it returned a result, and I quote:
To see or play with broken toys in your dream suggest that you are trying to make the best out of a negative situation. (Source: www.dreammoods.com)
What luck! I never thought that my subconscious could point me to definitive point of my life. For starters, living with HIV isn't something that's all fancy. But I guess, with the droppings of heaven, divine interventions, and untiring prayers lifted to Padre Pio, I guess I'm being told to push on and turn the tables in my favor in spite of this—let’s give it to them as they won't understand us—damned life.
Moons back, I dreamt of someone cutting my hair. Again, I relied on Google (what authority!) to shed light on the otherwise metaphorical message. I quote once more:
If you dream your hair is being cut by someone else it is likely you are only now formulating what it is you need to do, what actions need to be taken, and you are still in the process of coming to terms with the change that needs to be made. (Source: www.allvoices.com)
I'll be stingy with details. For now, the waiting is yet to be over, but the light is coming in no matter how heavy the curtain is.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
joseon's son
Sweat trickles across
your forehead
and the map at your back
reached the borders
of your sinewy column.
One step, two paces,
gray shirt, Sir.
Your powdery scent wafts.
Your eyeglasses—
Inebriating stranger.
To the Korean guy inside the gym who is physically alluring in 5-3-6-4-7 metered lines. I've had this on draft since January, I think, a month before I stopped gym. There is a bigger, more purposeful road ahead. Poetry will not be abandoned though; he's my lifelong inamorato, the third of the ménage à trois.
your forehead
and the map at your back
reached the borders
of your sinewy column.
One step, two paces,
gray shirt, Sir.
Your powdery scent wafts.
Your eyeglasses—
Inebriating stranger.
To the Korean guy inside the gym who is physically alluring in 5-3-6-4-7 metered lines. I've had this on draft since January, I think, a month before I stopped gym. There is a bigger, more purposeful road ahead. Poetry will not be abandoned though; he's my lifelong inamorato, the third of the ménage à trois.
untitled #0505
This is a new feat. Deep in the middle of the night, during the ticking of wee hours, I wrote a decent poetry even if efavirenz is raping my nervous system. I feel drunk. I feel woozy. I feel high; but the words flow like tap.
No, not like tap. I still have to search for them. But searching for the words does not take long as I can feel them rough on my fingertips. With eyes closed, the words palpitate and jump into syllabicated thoughts. Syllabicated thoughts stacked into one verse. A verse rested on another. Until the thought came full circle, interwoven.
Efavirenz is screwing my head better than alcohol does. Well, I don't drink too much alcohol in the first place. I've never thought that that chrome-colored pill would commandeer Lady Muse and order her to sit in front of me as I write. I have to stop. I am talking gibberish. This is midnight madness.
P.S. Kids, don't try this at home.
Thinking about it the morning after, I think if you should try it, kids, do it in the comforts of your home.
No, not like tap. I still have to search for them. But searching for the words does not take long as I can feel them rough on my fingertips. With eyes closed, the words palpitate and jump into syllabicated thoughts. Syllabicated thoughts stacked into one verse. A verse rested on another. Until the thought came full circle, interwoven.
Efavirenz is screwing my head better than alcohol does. Well, I don't drink too much alcohol in the first place. I've never thought that that chrome-colored pill would commandeer Lady Muse and order her to sit in front of me as I write. I have to stop. I am talking gibberish. This is midnight madness.
P.S. Kids, don't try this at home.
Thinking about it the morning after, I think if you should try it, kids, do it in the comforts of your home.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
only old age
The only acceptable way for her to die is due to old age.
Thursday night. I’m feeling a bit restless and so was she. I called her out, opened both of my hands palms up and looked at her with wide eyes, shaking my head a bit; she knew the signal. Like an automaton, she pranced around the floor and searched for her Yamashita’s treasure.
She had a new ball; a toy, which was long deprived of her, that she could still vividly recall when someone asks her where it is despite it already disposed of.
“Ball!” I ordered her. She paced half-running, with her ball on her mouth, knowing next what will happen. She dropped the ball at my feet. Next thing, she was already jumping up and down.
One, two, and with a flick of my hand, I threw it across the room. She ran for it and came back triumphantly with her toy in her snout. To and fro, we repeated thrice the only exercise she got for the day.
In those fleeting moments of canine love, never did I mind the sharp claws of her front paws. Scratches and deep impressions were her souvenirs on my knees when we were playing catch; but I didn’t mind. Until she showed her bestial side and nearly snapped at my mom’s hand once when her nails were being clipped, her nails on our legs don’t hurt. The clipper was inutile from then on.
By the fourth time that I shook the ball, she didn’t respond. She just heaved and panted. A second later, she lowered down and simply stared at me with her head resting on her furry paws.
Six years of age. Time is fast. I let the ball rolled off my hand. She just followed the piece of rubber with her uninterested stare. “Ang tanda mo na,” I said.
Just when I was about to stand from my seat, I noticed a puncture on my knee. A blood was in sight.
I got up, headed for the cupboard, took out the bag of cotton balls and alcohol, and proceeded to sit on the kitchen tiles.
“Hold it for three seconds.” Then I checked the wound once more. Pat. Pat. Pat. Two more.
My sister entered by my right from the backyard. I flashed at her the cotton ball with my cleansed blood on it. As if to scare her, I slowly inched the cotton towards her shoulder, while with a gravelly voice, saying: “H-I-V-eeeeeeeeee!” Yes. I could be that gago and tarantado. Haha!
As expected, my sister brushed it aside. People around the house have long accepted what happened. Her question: “What happened?” So, I answered. Then the unexpected.
She grabbed the bag of cotton ball, took out two then squeezed out a generous amount of the disinfectant. She then motioned at my younger brother to raise our pooch by cupping his hands into the darling canine’s limbs and lift her. My sister then proceeded to wipe the dog’s front paws.
Our dog has an idiosyncrasy though. She doesn’t like anyone touching her paws. Overbearing primadonna. So my mom stood by my brother’s side and sweet-talked the little brown overweight pooch by coyly calling her name. The trick worked.
After a few wipes here and there, she was finally let down. My blood was disinfected from her paw.
What if my sister came a second late and she decided to lick her paws? Did she ever know the danger she was about to face?
And the virus I carried is scientifically called “Human.” Will it affect her canine constitution should she acquire it, anyway?
If Fate had it that I unintentionally passed onto her this invisible pirates in my blood, would she die? A slow, mortifying death? A quick one? What will it make of my conscience?
Fate decided otherwise. And as if the goddess of Bitches suddenly got wind of the ruckus, she instructed our dog to go unashamedly ungrateful over the life-saving favor done to her as she walked towards the back of the rice dispenser.
Her half disappeared. The brown thing then started to scratch the floor in her usual doggy way. She was mining a treasure no human vision can see. She dug deeper, nosier, faster. When she was done, she got out, looked at me in a manner that’s awkwardly compassionate. Her eyes spoke of an assurance that she understood that the mortal method of alcohol-wiping wasn’t enough for their genus, that she had to do her part to lessen the risk; and ultimately, that it was all right if she had to put on the extra labor of stripping away whatever bits of virus that might have had clung on her claws.
“That was some good reinforcement,” I told myself.
My failure to act as quick-wittedly as my sister hit me in a way. But I do love her. Really. I love her to incredible pieces such that I pray that the only thing that can come between her and the doggies’ version of Heaviside Layer is old age.
Thursday night. I’m feeling a bit restless and so was she. I called her out, opened both of my hands palms up and looked at her with wide eyes, shaking my head a bit; she knew the signal. Like an automaton, she pranced around the floor and searched for her Yamashita’s treasure.
She had a new ball; a toy, which was long deprived of her, that she could still vividly recall when someone asks her where it is despite it already disposed of.
“Ball!” I ordered her. She paced half-running, with her ball on her mouth, knowing next what will happen. She dropped the ball at my feet. Next thing, she was already jumping up and down.
One, two, and with a flick of my hand, I threw it across the room. She ran for it and came back triumphantly with her toy in her snout. To and fro, we repeated thrice the only exercise she got for the day.
In those fleeting moments of canine love, never did I mind the sharp claws of her front paws. Scratches and deep impressions were her souvenirs on my knees when we were playing catch; but I didn’t mind. Until she showed her bestial side and nearly snapped at my mom’s hand once when her nails were being clipped, her nails on our legs don’t hurt. The clipper was inutile from then on.
By the fourth time that I shook the ball, she didn’t respond. She just heaved and panted. A second later, she lowered down and simply stared at me with her head resting on her furry paws.
Six years of age. Time is fast. I let the ball rolled off my hand. She just followed the piece of rubber with her uninterested stare. “Ang tanda mo na,” I said.
Just when I was about to stand from my seat, I noticed a puncture on my knee. A blood was in sight.
I got up, headed for the cupboard, took out the bag of cotton balls and alcohol, and proceeded to sit on the kitchen tiles.
“Hold it for three seconds.” Then I checked the wound once more. Pat. Pat. Pat. Two more.
My sister entered by my right from the backyard. I flashed at her the cotton ball with my cleansed blood on it. As if to scare her, I slowly inched the cotton towards her shoulder, while with a gravelly voice, saying: “H-I-V-eeeeeeeeee!” Yes. I could be that gago and tarantado. Haha!
As expected, my sister brushed it aside. People around the house have long accepted what happened. Her question: “What happened?” So, I answered. Then the unexpected.
She grabbed the bag of cotton ball, took out two then squeezed out a generous amount of the disinfectant. She then motioned at my younger brother to raise our pooch by cupping his hands into the darling canine’s limbs and lift her. My sister then proceeded to wipe the dog’s front paws.
Our dog has an idiosyncrasy though. She doesn’t like anyone touching her paws. Overbearing primadonna. So my mom stood by my brother’s side and sweet-talked the little brown overweight pooch by coyly calling her name. The trick worked.
After a few wipes here and there, she was finally let down. My blood was disinfected from her paw.
What if my sister came a second late and she decided to lick her paws? Did she ever know the danger she was about to face?
And the virus I carried is scientifically called “Human.” Will it affect her canine constitution should she acquire it, anyway?
If Fate had it that I unintentionally passed onto her this invisible pirates in my blood, would she die? A slow, mortifying death? A quick one? What will it make of my conscience?
Fate decided otherwise. And as if the goddess of Bitches suddenly got wind of the ruckus, she instructed our dog to go unashamedly ungrateful over the life-saving favor done to her as she walked towards the back of the rice dispenser.
Her half disappeared. The brown thing then started to scratch the floor in her usual doggy way. She was mining a treasure no human vision can see. She dug deeper, nosier, faster. When she was done, she got out, looked at me in a manner that’s awkwardly compassionate. Her eyes spoke of an assurance that she understood that the mortal method of alcohol-wiping wasn’t enough for their genus, that she had to do her part to lessen the risk; and ultimately, that it was all right if she had to put on the extra labor of stripping away whatever bits of virus that might have had clung on her claws.
“That was some good reinforcement,” I told myself.
My failure to act as quick-wittedly as my sister hit me in a way. But I do love her. Really. I love her to incredible pieces such that I pray that the only thing that can come between her and the doggies’ version of Heaviside Layer is old age.
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