I had planned to write about the grim stuff I’ve gone through at PGH during my operation exactly a week ago, but no matter how drab my room got to be, a ray of sunshine always came through for me in this bubbly girl I only know of now as “Rain.” (not sure if I heard her say her name right but Max refers to her as “Rain” and so “Rain” she shall be from now on).
Her mother occupies bed number 2 in our ward. I’ve never seen her get up from her bed but she has countless visitors everyday (usually towards noon time). Her legs are paralyzed from thigh down but she can flex her foot from time to time. She has this ritual of getting “prettified” in the morning before lunch and Rain would do the final touches of putting on color to her cheeks and lips. She is suffering from a sever kind of tumor in the torso, which has now spread to her spine. The bright side is, that it’s not eating into her bones…yet.
She is an average government employee (some bureau that I don’t recall now). And her husband is a policeman. They’re both on “indefinite leave,” brags Rain one time that she was in my area.
Rain, herself, has resigned from the call center she has spent over a year after school in to take care of her mom personally. The oldest of three siblings, Rain has a machine gun for a mouth. In the short span of time we knew her, I was entertained by stories of her present BF, whom her Mom does not like, and her ex-suitor who died silently of another brain defect; and her controversial exit from the call center she worked for.
The AE in me got worried about where funds for hospitalization will come. But like a free little bird, Rain brushed this thought aside, saying, “pera lang yan. May pagkukunan nyan. Pero kita mo, Mommy, ang daming nagmamahal sa yo, wala kang karapatang sumuko!”
I see her Mom silently cringing sometimes – perhaps when the pain is too much to bear. She was supposed to be on a program by the hospital (or government) that would pay all their medication expenses, but a recent call for chemotherapy disqualified them from it. I gathered they’re also doing cobalt treatment for her (I had meant to google it as soon as I came home but guess my brain was still in shutdown mode and could not grasp the isotopes description that was flashed on my screen; I reckon its some radioactive thingi they give her, for my peace of mind).
I see her Mom crying every now and then – even with visitors around. But in spite of her tears, she still looked beautiful for her age and her condition. It was this pretty face smiling encouragement at me that I brought to the operation room the day I went under the knife. She had so much spirit in her. She remembered perhaps from Rain’s stories that I was to be wheeled out very early on Thursday morning and so it was she alone I saw that was up from among 7 beds.
Now, nine days after, I am in the comforts of my own home, under the covers. The sky is overcast this Saturday morning. Looks like it’ll rain, but for sure, Rain and her Mom is still in bed number 2 of Room 407.