My Life's Most Difficult Trimester Part 1

It's been years since I last wrote for P&P. My first posts were from 2007, during my 17th birthday. I still could remember that night, although most of the posts no longer remain. I was sitting on a comfortable couch at a newly-opened Internet Cafe near the University of San Carlos, around midnight, celebrating my 17th birthday outside home. Today, 7 years after that night, I'm sitting in front of my laptop, at 5:09 in the morning of my 24th birthday.


My last posts were mostly about my struggles as a budding Jane of all trades, which is now justified with the route that I'm taking and the new set of restrictions of having a family. Although some would think that having restrictions can be bad, it serves me otherwise. I've been a nomad even before I've graduated high school and to settle down was just one of the wisest decisions I've ever made. I made sure that my restrictions won't affect my freedom though, especially the dreams that I have long nurtured.


My journey these days are more colorful, although they cost me less money. I'm currently the breadwinner in the family, although that's not the problem. Working is not hard, but looking for the right space to allocate the "work time" can be a pain. Many times I find myself swerving when in the middle of a big project, feeding my son or running errands. Everything pays off when you see the mini version of yourself happy, so it seems like it's all worth it.


My mother died early this year, but prior to that I've been through a lot of struggles. My pregnancy, although expected and planned, didn't enjoy a perfect timing.

Let me share the story of my life's most difficult trimester.

Doing extra gigs as a ghost writer during my first few years online, I've written several non-fictional self-help books. I am not an expert on a specific field, but I do learn a lot from extensive research (imagine I've written a whole blog around productivity but never really have mastered it!). 

One thing I've learned while writing a book about Social Anxiety was a basic yet eye-opening principle, that our behavior and reaction come from a resource that we store in our minds: experience. The part of the brain that’s responsible in activating this fight or flight response is the Amygdala. Its main purpose is to keep you safe from threats and works on a conscious level.

We unconsciously shape ourselves according to our experiences, good or bad. I believe that most of my fears regarding financial security came from this point of my life, when my eyes were opened to the reality of how hard things really are, whether you think positively towards a specific situation or not.

I once had this naive thought that most people live with, that if you just think positive, everything will be alright. I realized though, that what we really need in order to survive is not a positive mind but a strong and faithful heart. Optimism will keep us sane but through time's constant bashing, it is bound to fail. However, a strong and faithful heart will keep us standing and each time you reach a certain milestone, optimism will just come.

I'm writing this not to preach, because I am but a very weak soul. I'm writing this because someday, life will bash you as well... and I want to remind you that being strong is the only way.


Expecting a baby at 23 might not sound positive for most people but it was good news to me. I was happy to have finally created a new soul and served my earthly purpose. Aside from that, I knew that I had in me another legend, a new person to continue my legacy. Who knows? This human may have in his genes my adventurous spirit-- hungry for knowledge and passionate for something larger than life. It was not until my mother had stroke on the first month of my pregnancy that things went bitter.


Things happened very fast. Her first attack was her last. We've lost everything we had: the business... everything. My initiative to help was to volunteer on taking care of her while in the hospital with Joseph, and of course borrow money (or ask for solicitations) from almost everyone I knew. I don't always borrow money and if you knew me by heart, you know how much it hurts my pride to "beg" from friends and relatives. I didn't a really have a choice.


For most of my life I never thought of money as a huge problem. I thought of it as a resource that can't deplete, because I had the thinking that if you work hard, you can generate it.


Some days were lucky, most days weren't. There were times when we skip meals because we no longer have money. I was jobless since we started staying at the hospital. We've stayed in the hospital for 3 months, 2 months of which we dedicated our time and efforts exclusively. On the 3rd month we realized that we can't live on the extra food we get from mommy's daily ration (she was on NGT so she wasn't able to eat them) and the money that we get from my brother's little efforts while handling the family business, so I pursued on going back to work.

In the hospital lobby there was a coin slot computer machine open for 12 hours near the front desk. I would log in there to check out new projects, save the details to my thumb drive and work on my laptop when I get back to the private room. It went like this for weeks and we were somehow earning just enough money to buy food and preg vitamins.



The neurologist stopped prescribing one medicine when he found out that we're in huge debt. It was an expensive pill, responsible in increasing the acetylcholine levels in her brain. Stopping it was perhaps one of the factors that slowed down her recovery. When we left months later, Belonguel didn't charge us for his professional fee which was around 40,000 pesos. Until now I can't thank him enough.



Her recovery was painstakingly slow. For someone who has already lost both her sense of speech and reasoning, recovery was almost impossible. Physical therapy sessions cost 1,500 per day and every time we sent her to the PT center she didn't seem to show any sign of cooperation. The nurses and therapists were nice, giving her foot massages to ease her up, she liked it that way. However, she wasn't able to reciprocate the kindness. She didn't cooperate on walking sessions and exercises. She shouts for no reason. Nevertheless, we still pay for these sessions. In the hospital, kindness and patience were worth 1,500 per hour. Imagine how much we've paid for 20 days.



Physical therapy sessions were supposed to go on until the patient has fully recovered. In mom's case, we were running out of money to burn. Relatives who tried to help were starting to gain back their senses as well, asking themselves reasonable questions like "how will I know if the money I sent were really spent for the hospital bills?". If I were in their place I'd doubt the same thing as well. Knowing that my siblings weren't reliable people to lend money to, how should I know if they're not keeping the money or even a portion of it to themselves?



I worry about the same question every day while at the hospital. At the top of the counter in our private room you will see 18 cups of Diabetasol (a chocolate or vanilla-flavored milk supplement for regulating blood sugar). Mommy didn't like it and intentionally spilled a cup of it once when we tried to force her to drink it. A couple of months later the 18 cups were consumed. When we ran out of money to buy our own meals, Joseph and I were left with no other choice but to drink them all in order to survive. I didn't know if it posed any risk to my pregnancy, but it was all we had. It didn't taste good but then again, it's all we had.



My brothers were the crosses I had to carry during those times. I entrusted my brother the check worth 16,000, which was supposed to be spent on the meds and our security guards' salary, but he ran away with it. I know this is personal family stuff, but knowing my brothers, they wouldn't mind this post. If they do, their pride doesn't matter to me now more than it mattered during those rough times. It left me devastated. At the state that I'm in plus my pregnancy, it was hard for me to manage all the emotional stress. Guards were cursing me through text while we were losing sleep at the hospital. I thought of the business as a risk to my current condition so that's when the other brother took over. To be honest, it didn't help.



My memories of the hospital are mostly associated with days of starvation. This time I could say that I've hit rock bottom, but more on this later. My mom was constantly shouting at around 1:00 - 3:00AM, when nurses take their rounds to check mom's vital signs, which then wakes her up and the patients on the other rooms as well. We're down to 20 NGTs. She would remove her stomach tube every day. When I saw blood in her tube (due to a small wound caused by frequently taking it off/re-attaching it), I started to beg the doctors to let me spoon feed her.



It was tough for most doctors to give a conclusion. They would visit the room unexpected, asking me to "perform" by feeding her. Three times she didn't cooperate. She'll either yell at the doctors or pretend to be asleep. They worried that not feeding her through the tube might starve her or cause choking, which is more dangerous. I persisted, although they have turned me down thrice. On the last day I told them to visit me one last time, they'll see. When they did, she opened her mouth and was in the mood to eat when I fed her. A small thing, really. But for me, it was a miracle. Seeing her eat for the first time in months made me teary-eyed. It was a sign of cooperation, a sign of hope that she somewhat "understands" me and maybe someday she'll recover.

Graciosa

I realized I've finally hit the rock bottom when I started to beg for food... from a stranger. This was when we had no dinner and I was so hungry I couldn't think straight. If it wasn't for Joseph, taking care of mom could've been a lot harder. I had to survive and feed the child I'm bearing, so we had to do something. Relatives often blame Joseph for the hardships, being unemployed as a soon-to-be father. But I dragged him to this situation. He was a fresh graduate and opportunities were at tpeak. He could've just continued with his life, but instead he chose to stay here to take care of my mother. He was playing the role that my brothers were supposed to play...

Coin-operated Water Machines

That night we went outside and checked out water machines for broken coin slots. Occasionally we would find coins stuck in the machine. It was as if we're doing it for fun, although half of us hoped that some crazy guy dropped a 20-peso bill on one of these machines. Imagine what you can buy with 20 pesos-- loaves of bread and milk.



When Joseph wasn't looking I went inside a Julie's Bakeshop near the hospital. It was closing and there was a tray of small Graciosa bread left at the side to be disposed. I asked the attendant if I it's okay if I ask for one bread... just one. She refused and said it was already added to the inventory. I tried to convince her again, but Joseph saw this and stopped me. I smiled and said "okay" and went back to the private room.



It was a rough day for us. We were searching the table for something to eat and could'nt find any. We started to look around the room and below the bed and counters looking for coins. We've decided to call it a day and slept hungry. A week later my salary came. The first thought that came to my mind was to go to Julie's and buy plenty of bread. :)

One of those moments shared with my mom at the hospital. Never thought of posting this while she was alive to keep people from thinking that we're starting a fundraiser out of it. This is one of those late night simple moments that are worth keeping.

...to be continued.