It has been years since I posted
in this blog, and to be perfectly honest, I never thought I would go back to
writing for myself because I’ve been so busy writing for others (it’s the job,
after all). Things have changed so much since I last made a blogpost and the
biggest change of all is that it’s 2021 and we’re in the midst of a global
pandemic that turned everyone’s life upside down.
It’s been about a year since
COVID-19 hit the Philippines, and as of March 2021, Manila and a bunch of other
places including Bulacan, Cavite, and Laguna, now called NCR+, are back on
lockdown. Enhanced Community Quarantine, they call it, one of the many CQ
qualification we’re placed under depending on how bad the numbers are. It got
really bad this month. The worst. Recently, we hit about 10,000 new cases a
day, the highest so far. On Facebook posts by news agencies which reported
these numbers, it’s a combination of fear, frustration, and fucking COVID
denialists. In real life, I see people flopping around like fish out of water,
not knowing what to do, even if we have all the available models and studies and resources that tell us
what we should be doing. I suppose some people think that this this global
health crisis that already claimed hundreds and thousands of lives will resolve
itself eventually. It’s a stupid strategy, but what do I know. It would be
funny if it isn’t so terrifying.
I guess I am writing this in the
hopes that one day, I’ll get back to it, laugh and say how fucked up the 2020
and 2021 were, then proceed to shoot down with the zombies moaning for brains
outside my fortified house. Sorry guys, I only got despair to share. If I ever
had readers, most of them will know that I often write articles peppered with
facts and figures. Admittedly, I was less skilled at citations when I was a younger
blogger, but I like well-constructed content. I don’t think I have the energy
or emotional stability to go into such level of academic writing. Maybe later,
if there is a later. I am just here for the comfort that writing has always
given me.
You see, this week, I found out
that my great uncle, my Amah’s brother, was having flu-like symptoms and difficulty
breathing. He was around 80 years old and living with his wife in Cavite. His
daughter and her daughters live next door. Mom showed me pictures of him using
an oxygen tank and a pulse oximeter. They were able to get in touch with a doctor
but they could only manage his illness at home. For days, they searched for
hospitals to admit my uncle but failed. They did a swab test but as of this
writing the results haven’t come out yet. It may be just an ordinary flu, I
said, but given his age, he should still be monitored closely especially
because he was having trouble breathing.
Last night, after talking with my
friend whose uncle is at a very similar situation, mom called from her room.
She had been chatting with another of my great uncle’s daughter. They called an
ambulance for him and practically hospital hopped, looking for somewhere that
will accept him. I heard the words “40% oxygen” and “revive” and I knew, as a
nurse, that it was over. The part of me that could not be protected by my
clinical training and rationality felt like it was stabbed with something cold
and poisonous. I stuttered as I explained to mom what those words meant. I told
her he could probably be revived, but that the efforts could also fail. My mom,
who only allowed herself to cry a handful of tears when my Amah, my Tita Jean
(her sister), and my Papa died, was quick to snap back after my explanation.
She knew her place in the family. She knew that her strength was needed. We
were met with the worst news within the hour. My great uncle was gone. I am writing this on April Fools and I wish I can say this is all just a bad joke.
My family and I are no strangers
to death. We’ve lost loved ones, with my Papa being my most devastating loss.
But it’s much more different now. We can’t even comfort each other physically
or say good bye to our great uncle properly. In the face of a global health
crisis, we need to put physical health as a priority over the process of grieving
and healing as a family.
I do not blame the hospitals and
the healthcare workers. I’ve been working on a paper on frontliners amidst the
pandemic and even if I no longer serve in the clinical area, at a shallow,
academic level, I understand their struggles. An overwhelmed healthcare system
and an exhausted health human resource cannot render the same level of care
consistently, for almost a year, without reprieve. I was talking a doctor friend
and her words, “isang taon ng pagod” (exhausted for one year) summarize the
situation. I know hospitals are in full capacity. I know healthcare workers are
tired. I wrote the very same lines just a couple of days ago with flourish, the final addition to my paper. I know that both COVID and non-COVID patients are struggling to access medical care. But it’s
different when it hits closer to home. It's raw and it bleeds, and you can taste the bile in your mouth. Your voice cracks when you speak. Your eyes sting with tears. The desperation is real and your chest feels like like it's being crushed.
At this point, I really don’t
have anything smart to say. I haven’t got the data to share or citations to make. I
may do so, once I’m in a better state of mind. Once I am no longer holding back
the tears. I will just repeat what I’ve also told my family, while wearing my façade
of clinical coldness and rationality: The best thing we can do is to keep
ourselves and our families safe and healthy. Let us make it our personal
responsibility. Let us take it upon ourselves to help end this pandemic, not even for grand aspirations like patriotism (although that is great too), but for the protection of the people we love.
See you on the other side.
