Life in the Hospital

There's much to be desired when living in a hospital. You yearn for home-cooked food, your own bed, your loved one to be home well and safe. Thankfully, though, the human body and spirit adapt well to change. And so we begin our routine in the hospital.

Dad now has his own adjustments, and we all have to keep up. New relatives flying in or watching over him for the first time are alarmed at all the tubes, alarms, beeps and sounds that go on around him. The nurses' faces become more and more familiar; you basically know when the attending physicians will be doing their rounds. (However, my aunts, cousins and I have yet to find our own version of McDreamy/ McSteamy). As dad progresses, the routine constantly changes. For now, it consists of joking around, massaging his hands, his legs, his nape, his back. we talk to him, make him write; we read magazines when he sleeps. We sleep during the day, we have our favorite dishes at Floating Island restaurant.

However, during the quiet moments, you become more aware of how great the little things that you used to think were mundane. For instance, I tried the Filipino Rice at Floating Island (a yummy concoction of rice, tinapa, salted egg and tomatoes) and thought about how my dad would LOVE it and how I couldn't wait for him to get really really well so he could have just a little bite of it. I thought about my old routine--getting up, seeing him at the breakfast table reading the newspapers, and talking to him. Granted, I still talk to him a lot now. It's just that things are a little different. A little more quiet, perhaps. Maybe a little more poignant, even.

My brother and I are deeply touched at the prayers and visitors. And for those that commend us on how vigilant and dutiful we are--please don't. You all have experienced the joy of being Manolo's friend. Now imagine him as a father--wouldn't you do the same thing?

Once again, let's continue the prayers. The journey's not over!