WE ARE ALL BLESSED
Dear friends and classmates, for some days now I spent my time in an internet café here in my home town in Meycauayan for my pc is down. I have no laptop. It is 5:30 PM here. Now, I am beside a mother with 2 very young girls, 4 and 6 years old girls who are talking with their father where the 4 yr. old girl is talking so loud that conversations with her father reverberates inside the café for the girl thinks her father couldn’t hear her well if she didn’t speak loud. The father is an OFW (Overseas Filipino Worker). Beside a young lady who is talking on cam with a foreigner finding love and hoping for a good future. Young girls and boys all in friendster venues looking for that magic that will come into their lives and whisk them all off to a land where promise lives and hoping to sleep in a bed of roses. A staff of dirty politician who is making tons of posters saying “ Mayor blank.. blank..blank ay taos pusong nagpapasalamat sa inyong suporta blah..blah” Students doing assignments for they have no computer and printing is expensive. If you could hear the conversations of the young lady talking with a foreigner and trying to speak with the “twang”, she will look laughable. I only feel sadness, for this café is a symbolism of pinoy socio-cultural status. Compared to the present social status of these about 30 pinoys; daughters of nightingale, class 1978 are in better social rank and status, definitely. Our problems are minute compared to what all these people faces and must resolve. Finding future. Searching for a little convenience. That is much to ask in this country but not overthere. All these people are searching for good luck. Wishing and praying for good fortune. Whatever our lot is, definitely we have more and what is left for us to do is count our blessings. Forgive me to use our blog as my angst, social commentary basket . Ang mga pinoy na ito ay umaamot ng kapiyangot na pag-asa sa internet, nakikipag-usap sa pamilya , and the voice of this little girl besides me who screams aloud “ papa, nakikita mo ba ako?” She has to scream loud for she thinks her father couldn’t hear her and hurry for she has only an hour to spend in the computer , and that hour costs Php 20.00 , the current dollar exchange now is Php 46.00 to a dollar. I am sharing this with you for we have more than many here in the country. We have so much, so very much. What is left for us to do is count our blessings. I am very thankful to be part of class 1978. Perhaps, this is God’s message to me this thanksgiving day, count my blessings, for I am blessed. We are all blessed. Happy Thanksgiving Day to all of you, with gratitude in my hearts. Julie
Friday, November 21, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
moymoy palaboy
Hi there good old friends! Logged in to give you laughter at kasi hindi ko madownload or mailagay sa site natin, if you can drop by youtube.com site and check out moymoy palaboy for some laughs. Madami kami dito na natatawa kina moymoy they are brothers who posted their gags at you tube and then "bubble gang" contracted them and now sikat na sila and part of the gag show sa bubble gang. Our friday night laffs. Kapag nagawa ko I will share with you the gigs of moymoy palaboys. They just shoot their kalokohan sa pc at downloaded lang sa you tube ala, sumikat na sila and we all await what will be their next gigs every friday. Sana madownload ko for I like to share it with all of you. Mga pinoy gags. Ang pinoy talaga! And since 911 date is coming, that 910 is a special day for us for it is a day we gather as a Castro family as memorial cum family outing to commemorate the days of our grandparents, parents of my mother, and all the Castro clan who have left us to live in eternal peace. And to celebrate my ditse's birthday Sept. 10, yap it is Vicky's birthday..siya ang nagtiyagang samahan ako sa America trip ko for her gigs as well. California is mine, the others are hers.... I am working on it on how to put youtube on our site..check out moymoy palaboy at you tube...nakakatawa sila... love and prayers to all....always
Monday, August 11, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Friday, August 1, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
.JPG)
Friday, July 25, 2008
Mid-Atlantic St. Luke's Daughters Of Nightingale Get-Together
Hello Everyone! I would like to let everybody know that we have been trying to set-up another get-together on Aug. 9, 2008 at our small and humble home in Abingdon, MD. Anyone who would like to join us is more than welcome. Pls. let us know in advance. For more details you can either call or e-mail Ruth, Mildred, or myself, whoever you're more comfortable to talk to or faster to reach. Just check our updated roster for our tel#, home or e-mail address. Thank you. We're all very excited to see you.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
hello evryone...It has really been my deep pleasure and Fed's na dito sa bahay ginawa ang class 78 reunion. I'm really very thankful because we can't deny that everyone had fun. Melle, talagang malakas ang persuasive power mo, kaya heto I'm submitting my significant dates...I'll turn 51 this August 25, and will have my 25th wedding anniversary on November 25. Happy bday pala sa mga July celebrants in our class, and also my hubby Fed last July18. I enjoyed looking at the pictures/videos. Oddie, pinag uusapan na namin ni Cynthia and Marilyn about our stay in San Diego for the coming reunion in 2010.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Class 1978 Roster Update
Please send your birthday/wedding anniversary details to my e-mail address if you don't want to post it in the blog. So far 27 have replied. If I do not hear from you in the next 24 hours I will call you from Sydney, Australia but will have to reverse the charges!
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
The Princess of Wounded Hearts
Patti has shared this beautiful poem and I shall quote from the lyrics. May I ask all for your indulgence dear friends, ladies and nightingales. You have all open your hands, hearts and minds to me and I cannot ask for more.
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive. .. “THE INVITATION” by Oriah Mountain Dreamer
Please indulge me a little farther. May I share with you an article written and published at PDI (Philippine Daily Inquirer) in Nov. 30, 1999. Matagal na pero nilalakasan ko na ang loob ko though this will eat up a space in the blog. Particularly, Oddie, with your permission, I like to share this with Yasmin or in direct lingo please let Yasmin read this. Thanks a lot.
JC Parian
PDI, Lifestyle Section, November 30 1999
It is unthinkable that one’s heart should be cut open. All other organs are vital but they are vital only to life. The heart is more. Nobody writes a poem about a bladder. There is no music sang with words about the esophagus. No love spoken with my entire pancreas. The heart is the one unthinkable cut. (Itals by PD!)
No one grows up to be 24 just to be sick. You walk through life, listen to parents, enjoy family, go to school, try your best to get an education, enter the work force, have your own family, and then plan later what else you could do. This is the linear projection of life where you move from one plateau to the next, from one state of existence to another. That’s the normal arrangement. But my so called life stayed a medical odyssey. I wish it were something you just read in medical journals or some grotesque medical mix-up where, instead of taking out the left kidney, the right was removed. Now, I have a life that is too real to even fictionalize.
First Failure
I had my first failure at the age of 24. My heart was two-fisted more than the normal size. I could right away say, at least for consolation, I go a big-heart or I am big hearted. I did not know which sounded better; all I knew was that I was too frighteningly weak to move. I couldn’t raise myself out of bed without being pulled up, couldn’t turn to sides without help. If I didn’t hold tightly on the rails of the ladder going upstairs and gave myself the hardest push to move my body upward, I wouldn’t reach my bedroom. Stairs began to frighten me. My legs were bloated. Fingers, knees and toes were painfully inflamed. I couldn’t turn my head to sides because of rheumatic stiff neck. My pulse was growing weaker and faster. And worse than the physical sensation was the feeling of losing all power as if all the energy inside was beginning to leave me. My thoughts were centered on the physical symptoms I hardly cared about neither choosing a doctor or choosing life; and this proved nearly fatal.
Ditse (second eldest sister) accompanied me to the Philippine Heart Center for Asia to look for the referred cardiologist. Alas, he wasn’t around. In my condition matched with my volcanic temperament, I told my ditse to look for a doctor who was available at that exact time. Whoever he was didn’t matter. This thinking proved to be a big, big mistake.
I was hospitalized, ordered to be on bed rest, took heart medications and the diuretic pill called Lasix which removed excess fluid and retained body fluids. I had congestive heart failure. My heart could no anymore cope with its normal workload as a consequence of undiagnosed rheumatic heart disease for years.
As the years went by, the disease left its wrought and damaged my heart valves. Unlike other body organs, the heart has not capacity to bring itself back to its natural anatomical structures. The pathophysiology is irreversible, unfortunately. Once damaged, forever damaged. My heart was doomed. Nothing could bring it back to normalcy except, perhaps, a heart transplant. I went home reed-thin, bathing in heart drugs, drowning in sorrows and taking only a silent death wish.
Death Wish
After some months of recuperation, I went back to work and school. I tried to assemble my life back to somewhat a semblance of normalcy. Work and school were ways of keeping busy and pushing away the sadness, anger and that lacerating, finger-pointing kind of questions: Why me? Why does it have to be me? Why now? What for is life if you know you wouldn’t be able to travel its road map of adult life? I was inconsolable.
Sometimes, it was easier to flee from the task of incorporating our own destructiveness and major crisis rather than accept the unacceptable. Instead, I tried driving them away by resorting to coping techniques that have worked before. The first was denial; it couldn’t happen to me. I was good. I was a Sunday school teacher from age 12 to 21. I followed the rules. A second technique was to go on: keeping busy, pretending to carry on as if nothing was happening and changing m biological system. A third method was to call for help. I deliberately avoided good medical evaluation. I guessed it was easier to die than linger in physical sufferings. I whispered carelessly to the wind, hoping she would do the job of sending the message to God, that I would will myself to live for only two years; then it could be over. This was the inner psychic drama I was living. And the thought of death was not too terrifying to confront, and so it kept on dancing with me.
After two years, I resigned from work and went alone to Baguio to climb its highest hills to talk to God, had that dialogue that’s been playing on my mind, and tried to get some answers. I believed Baguio was my rabbit hole, my spiritual inn where I poured out all my feelings. Mother understood the hurting. Much to her fears and worries, she let me go, almost saying I should go look for something that would ease my pains and come back whole again. I rented an apartment and did nothing except mope, walk and cry drumful of tears. I stole a seat for reflection in one of the convents in the city, without the nuns’ knowledge nor permission. It was soothing and comforting just to sit on a bench placed near the edge. There, I let loose all the hurts, the disembodied anger, the unknockable pains. I tried to climb the Lourdes Grotto but realized its steps, 200 and more, were daunting, and found out later that a jeepney ride could help me reach the top. My heart was pounding so hard (I was afraid) it might pound its way out of the chest wall so I took the jeepney ride to reach the top of Dominican Hill. It was fabulous on the hill. A hotel was surrounded and guarded by countless, graceful, mature pine trees. So, this was where the old pine trees were hiding. Unexpectedly, the sight and smell of them doused the anger that was slowly eating like acid into my heart. And I forgot to have conversations with God. While sitting and praying on an open chapel outside the hotel, thick fog embraced and scared me away. I ran as fast as I could forgetting about my bad heart. This slight incident made me laugh but I still held on to my goal. I took long, tepid walks around Burnham, Legarda, Wagner, Leonard Wood, Maryhurst and Session roads.
Survival Instinct
I ranted , raved, and screamed. Anger was my name then. I walked in the rain, hoping that the rain would dissolve me. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me. During these dramatic walks, there were four or five instances when I felt like someone was nudging and tapping my shoulder to turn around and look back. I heeded the call; turned around and saw four or five perfectly beautiful rainbows which presence gave color to my grim outlook. I took this to mean that God was telling me to go home and everything would be all right. After April and May in Baguio, I went home carrying uncertainties but fully marching head on ready for anything and anyone.
I had another congestive heart failure in July. It was worse than before. The same bloated legs, dyspnea, rapid pulse, difficult movements, loss of appetite and this abnormality called cardiac arrhythmia. My heart was beating confusedly, abnormally and irregularly. Another cardiac aberration has surfaced bringing me additional discomforts, You cannot heart the lub-dub normal cardiac sounds anymore. The heartbeats were anguished and garbled. From this time on, my heart was totally out of sync.
Whenever I was in the hospital, much to chagrin of the nurses, I always demanded for the results of my blood and mechanical laboratories. This was not easy as it usually resorted to verbal tussles but I always argued with the nurses and doctors that “this is my body, I have a right to know what’s happening, you cannot keep me away from myself!” I was the kind of patient whom everyone grew to hate. I asked this quibble of a doctor how come the Doppler echocardiogram had shown my heart valves performing within normal limits yet I was having heart failures. He said, “maybe” I have thrombosis, that’s why I needed surgery. The “maybe”, that “everything was on my mind”, that I was overly depress and too fulminant to see reality filled me with gigantic rage and saw this doctor shrunk to the size of a thumb, fired brimstone on him an swatted him off my bedside. My thought balloon saw him crashing on the mirrored room of the Heart Center where I was confined. This doctor’s dubious knowledge and incompetence to relate, somehow, awakened my whatever’s left survival instinct. In my self-prescribed rituals, say hello and goodbye with a little style, I saw this doctor in finale with a mango cake in tow as a way of bidding him adieu. That’s all he deserved, a mango cake. Of course, he had no inkling about my tiny ritual. As I walked from his clinic, I knew it was high time to call for help. Not just any but honest to goodness help, if I could find it. And I did.
Good Doctor
Lesson. Do not choose doctors at random. Do not stand before the hospital’s hard-plated directory of doctors and pick one whose name sounds sweet. Do not get mango-cake doctors. Get the one that works best with you. Health cannot be arbitrary. Patients have no way of knowing doctor’s medical performances as there are no lists where we can choose based on our assessment of their competence, experience, expertise and humanity. Criteria for selecting are loosely based on referrals and affinities. It helps to listen to your instinct. Heed what it says. It is safer to see two, three, even four doctors and choose the one who can help the most.
If I were giving up on me, my family wouldn’t. By November, this embattled dysfunctional, broken heart was failing again. “Tell me about yourself”, asked Dr. Roberto A. Anastacio, the cardiologist my family looked for me. “It would take us all afternoon to tell you about myself. I doubt if you have the time.” The doctor was piqued with my answer but he didn’t give up on me, too. He retorted that he didn’t care how long it would take as long as I tell him about myself. My thought balloon came to fore, “was he for real or was he trying to be cute?”No popular expert cardiologist in his clinical kingdom would do such parochial, time-consuming task. They normally put the stethoscope on your chest, close their eyes afterward, write the prescription, of course, with some little talk on the side. Then you pay the bill. And it’s over. Rarely do you get the opportunity to talk about your ailments to your attending physician, more so allow you to make them the repository of your emotions. Not all medical doctors are equipped with relational, psychotherapeutic skills.
“Where do you want me to start? Childhood? High school? College?”
‘Wherever’, he said. The just stared and waited. He won I began talking about myself. And somewhere I broke down, finally, I cried unashamedly, unabashedly. I was such a spectacle. The doctor let me be. He knew I needed surgery but he wouldn’t tell me until all the laboratories were done and substantive data were sufficient. I agreed with the approach. Upon examination, while lying on that acerbic clinical table, he told me I had severe valve regurgitation. So that’s it, the source of my chronic heart failures. Instinctively, I knew from that moment on that there would be no turning back.
Open-heart surgery
I was good news and bad news. The good news was, something could be done about my heart condition. The bad news was, there were 13 things organically wrong with my heart. The heart has four valves, the mitral, aortic, tricuspid and pulmonary valves. Three of my heart valves were damaged and obstructed. I needed open-heart surgery where the heart valves would be repaired, two valves had to go and be replaced by mechanical, plastic valves. The surgery would be an act of faith. It would be a gamble. My life was o n a slot machine.
Dr. Avenilo Aventura, my cardiac surgeon, told me the procedure, “That means I couldn’t wear a bikini anymore,” an attempt to be witty. The good doctor softly smiled and assuaged my battered soul by saying, “What do you need a bikini for when you have an interesting personality.” Nice. But my Polyanna attitude had almost left me. What stayed was the picture of my heart being cut, chest sawed, ribs ripped apart, heart-lung bypassed by a machine, heart momentarily stopped to be able to excise, repair and replace the valves.
I was 27 years old. It was going to be Christmas. I was a pathological case. A malignant, dead-end affliction. And the process was such a bitch.
I believe no other surgery can affect people the way an open-heart surgery does. For it is unthinkable that one’s heart should be cut open. All other organs are vital but they are vital only to life. The heart is more. Nobody writes a poem about a bladder. There is no music sang with words about the esophagus. No love spoken with my entire pancreas. The heart is the one unthinkable cut.
I checked in at the Heart Center on November 10, 1984. Every day was a day of endurance and the hospital the perfect setting for tests on the human spirit. And I would not have made it without my family. It was my luck to be born and raised in a good family. Papa, Mama, Kuya, Ate, Ditse and Bimbo (youngest) helped me tide the difficult days. They nursed, fed, bathed, dressed, recorded fluid intake and output, flushed my waste, financed medical care, and tried to make me laugh. These they did without minding the cost and without complaints. I wanted to set them free from me but only death could make that. (Postcript: My father Pablo Parian passed away on December 10, 1985, one year after my surgery, you could just imagine the pains my illness caused me but my mother has a way of easing pains and taught me to look at it as my father’s way of breathing life into me. A life for a life.)
Choosing Life
I wanted the surgery to be done at once. The discomforts, physical aches and suffering were just too much. Times like these make you wish for instant death, the ultimate reliever. But nobody quit lest they be tagged a loser. The dictum was, you go on, you slug it out until the end. But where was the end? You didn’t know just what to do. Yes, you call on God, sing all the hymns, recite all the memory verses and learn to live out of your body. Projection or day dreaming has helped me transcend the pains. I have learned to fly to the mountains, to the beaches. Somehow, this eased my pains. “Sagada” on my mind made me remember how to reach the moon and the stars. The mind was a reliable ally during these completely bed-ridden and functionless days. Why could medicine not look at death as a solution, too?
The surgery finally took place nearly a month later, on December 10, a day declared internationally as Human Rights Day. That was my day. Everything seemed to be okay until 11 hours later, when I still didn’t wake up, causing the nurses and my family to panic. Later, it was explained that it was my super-enlarged liver, almost reaching my thigh, which delayed expected waking time. It was the nurse’s voice shouting, ‘Juliet, Juliet gising. Isa lang valve!” That woke me up. I could not fathom what that was all about. What happened to me? I could not see. I was motionless. But I could sense. Slowly, it dawned on me. A voice was telling me, I was given back my life. Whether I wanted it or not solely rested on me. I felt I was in the bottomless sea so I treaded up the surface. Then, I began to breathe. Yes, I wanted to live.
I could not stop crying. The nurses kept on telling me to stop but couldn’t. I just had heart surgery and emotions were risks. I could not understand what state of consciousness I was into at that time. My body grew tensed the moment I heard the whirring sounds of the suction machine. A kind male nurse whom I could hear but could not see begged to be understood why he needed to suction the secretions on my nose, mouth and throat. Every time he put that trans parent, tiny, slither of a tube into my mouth, I felt my body jerked up on air. I felt assaulted. Tears welled down on my face from the horrific pain induced by suctioning. Stop it! Please, stop it. So painful. Voiceless shouts which the nurses couldn’t hear. “Juliet, kailangan mo ito!” They answered screaming into my ears, thinking I was hard of hearing, If only they knew I could hear their caresses, even their thoughtlessness. I demanded for a pen and paper. They gave me. I tried to tell them to stop the suctioning and let my mother inside. Only doctors and nurses were allowed in side the recovery room. Family and kin were forbidden. Better that way for them not to witness the horrors of intensive coronary surgical recovery.
“Somebody hold my hand. I feel so cold. Please, somebody hold my hand,” I repeatedly uttered to anybody who watched or stood near me. When I heard the familiar voice of Dr. Anastacio, I cried. “Thank you. One valve only. Thank you.” I knew he didn’t understand. But when he said, “You’re doing fine, Juliet. You’re doing fine”, his faltering voice betrayed him. I told him I didn’t want his assurances, I wanted him to hold my hand for it felt so cold. He was my only connection to familiarity, to closeness, to family. But he couldn’t understand me.
Next Stopover
Surgical Intensive Coronary Unit was my next stopover. The room was glass walled. There were doors for the medical personnel and another that led to a waiting room cum solarium area, the door for the family. My family had camped outside. And I, the princess of wounded hearts, was a precious specimen under microscopic observation in a room complete with all the razzmatazz.
I was awake but not in synchronicity with the flow activities. Images flickered on and off. The “French Lieutenant’s Woman” was the movie on my mind. I wondered why it kept rolling on my mind. In some odd, quirky way, I was uninterested in me and in what they were doing to me. I could just not flow with the routine activities. There was this sense of standing apart from myself, watching them watching me. I could see the nurses working on me, checking me up but not feel them. What was the matter with me? Nurses and doctors continually hovered at me but there was no inch of a response. Nada
The surgery was done on a Monday but I became fully aware and awake on a Friday morning. A simple sponge bath could wake one up to consciousness. When a nurse gave me one, I felt little chills. “Nurse, what time is it?” She said it was 4:30 A.M. Something inside me snapped. “That early? But why are you giving me a bath?” She had to as her shift was about to end. Then she wrapped me like a native suman sa ibos as I was cold. I just had surgery and the last thing I need was a bath, but thanks to her, she lead me back to reality. There I was, grouchy and testy, meaning I was back.
The first thing I asked for was the coldest Coke available. Naturally, it was against the doctor’s orders and postoperative regimen, but my sisters were delighted to see me come back to life so they obliged with my tweet of a request. But as soon as I drank the Coke, I spitted it out as it burned my poor, achy, throat. Mother kept me awake by continually making me drink hot milk and cookies. She was positive it would stave off any possibilities of slipping back to limbo. Milk and cookies worked. It made me long for some better food. They were hurrying me to get out of bed and walk around the room, But all I ever wanted was to sleep. When I told this to Dr. Anastacio, he told me to sleep. Immediately after, he saw me close my eyes. It surprised my family to learn that I never felt any postoperative pains. I was half more than astonished that I never felt any twitch of pain at all. So, I lay there, grateful to be alive but still could not shake off the horror and sadness, nor escape the sense of awe. What had they done to me? I stroked the hanging wire that went into and out of my abdomen. There was this horrible sadness that flowed like blood inside me. I was filled with this sense that my body had been grotesquely mutilated. I couldn’t bring myself to open my chest and be proud. What had they done to me? I had been anatomically raped.
I slept most of the days. I just flowed with my body’s tempo to heal itself. Later, I would think of everything. But for now I would revel in this glory of being freed from those terrible body ill feelings, no more nausea, loss of appetite, throwing up, difficult breathing, inability to move. The angels of mercy weaned me from staying only in bed, from dangling legs on bed to standing, walking within the room, nurse’s station, neighbors’ room to the wash room. I never thought that simple activities like eating, moving urine and bowels, taking a bath, brushing the teeth would be these tremendously crucial. Nurses would ask me to put a pillow on my chest as a safeguard when they tapped my back to induce coughing and remove phlegm. And because of this, also from the instinctive desire to protect my chest from all corners, all violations, all possible accident of contacts, that I had become attached to the pillow as Linus to a security blanket.
New Heart
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. These were the sounds made by the prosthetic valve they put inside my heart which was made of silastic material, a kind of soft, inert silicone rubber. My mitral valve was excised and implanted with the Bjork-Shiley mechanical valve. The tricuspid and aortic valves were repaired. They were planning to replace tricuspid with a prosthetic valve, as well, but my critical condition prevented the surgical team to do so. I was told that I would be on coumadin the rest of my life. (as if I would never be on drugs the rest) It was disconcerting but I would deal with this later when I had already recuperated. Meantime, I would pour out all my energies on healing.
Sleep and hunger drives have always been considered telltale measures of recovery, of healing. Indications were strong that I would make it sans the complication. The doctors were happy and proud to save another human. My family rejoiced in my sterling recovery that they continually gave what I longed for. No matter how tired with pressures from work and taking care of my, my sisters and brothers always saw to it that they fulfilled all their obligations.
Embraced By The Sun
Wrapping gifts for big and little cousins was my first serious activity after surgery. I spent Christmas at the hospital. Family came, heard Mass in the hospital, celebrated in the waiting area. So, this was what Christmas really meant. Birth. Life. Salvation. Hope, A second chance.
December 26 was my coming home day. My sisters brought me to the hairdresser before I went home. My hair was the butt of my emotions. When I felt bad, I cut it. I was so skinny. I looked like a skinless longganisa but no mistaking, I was very delighted to be back home after 45 days stay in the hospital. There was that glowing feeling inside as if a fine emotion has touched me. Nothing could elude me this time. Everything, as in everything, including ants, would hold me captive. What fears could possess me now when I had met the Cyclopes and carried the fierce Poseidon in my heart?
I woke up at dawn, walked to the terrace and sat facing east, waiting for the sun. I saw Mother came home from marketing. She wore kimona to the market, a rare moment because Mother usually went to the market dressed almost like a rag, as she opined, what for were the good dresses when you just haggled for fishes, fresh goods in mud-laden stalls and walked in the gutters. Beside, dressing up separated you from the simple folks. But this time, she wore her fines, as it was her youngest daughter’s rebirthing. The sun was beginning to show its face and strength to the world. Daylight has begun. And I, the princess of wounded recycled hearts, stood up in her direction, opened my arms and wallowed in her sunbeam. I would not begin thinking about the mechanical valve, the ticking sound, and all that included in my healing. I would not wrangle with thought questions about how life operated, how death was just sitting beside it, how the twin sisters of fate and karma work, how divinity was matched with miracles, what was destiny’s master plan and how science fit in all of these. As for now, I would catch the sun.
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive. .. “THE INVITATION” by Oriah Mountain Dreamer
Please indulge me a little farther. May I share with you an article written and published at PDI (Philippine Daily Inquirer) in Nov. 30, 1999. Matagal na pero nilalakasan ko na ang loob ko though this will eat up a space in the blog. Particularly, Oddie, with your permission, I like to share this with Yasmin or in direct lingo please let Yasmin read this. Thanks a lot.
JC Parian
PDI, Lifestyle Section, November 30 1999
It is unthinkable that one’s heart should be cut open. All other organs are vital but they are vital only to life. The heart is more. Nobody writes a poem about a bladder. There is no music sang with words about the esophagus. No love spoken with my entire pancreas. The heart is the one unthinkable cut. (Itals by PD!)
No one grows up to be 24 just to be sick. You walk through life, listen to parents, enjoy family, go to school, try your best to get an education, enter the work force, have your own family, and then plan later what else you could do. This is the linear projection of life where you move from one plateau to the next, from one state of existence to another. That’s the normal arrangement. But my so called life stayed a medical odyssey. I wish it were something you just read in medical journals or some grotesque medical mix-up where, instead of taking out the left kidney, the right was removed. Now, I have a life that is too real to even fictionalize.
First Failure
I had my first failure at the age of 24. My heart was two-fisted more than the normal size. I could right away say, at least for consolation, I go a big-heart or I am big hearted. I did not know which sounded better; all I knew was that I was too frighteningly weak to move. I couldn’t raise myself out of bed without being pulled up, couldn’t turn to sides without help. If I didn’t hold tightly on the rails of the ladder going upstairs and gave myself the hardest push to move my body upward, I wouldn’t reach my bedroom. Stairs began to frighten me. My legs were bloated. Fingers, knees and toes were painfully inflamed. I couldn’t turn my head to sides because of rheumatic stiff neck. My pulse was growing weaker and faster. And worse than the physical sensation was the feeling of losing all power as if all the energy inside was beginning to leave me. My thoughts were centered on the physical symptoms I hardly cared about neither choosing a doctor or choosing life; and this proved nearly fatal.
Ditse (second eldest sister) accompanied me to the Philippine Heart Center for Asia to look for the referred cardiologist. Alas, he wasn’t around. In my condition matched with my volcanic temperament, I told my ditse to look for a doctor who was available at that exact time. Whoever he was didn’t matter. This thinking proved to be a big, big mistake.
I was hospitalized, ordered to be on bed rest, took heart medications and the diuretic pill called Lasix which removed excess fluid and retained body fluids. I had congestive heart failure. My heart could no anymore cope with its normal workload as a consequence of undiagnosed rheumatic heart disease for years.
As the years went by, the disease left its wrought and damaged my heart valves. Unlike other body organs, the heart has not capacity to bring itself back to its natural anatomical structures. The pathophysiology is irreversible, unfortunately. Once damaged, forever damaged. My heart was doomed. Nothing could bring it back to normalcy except, perhaps, a heart transplant. I went home reed-thin, bathing in heart drugs, drowning in sorrows and taking only a silent death wish.
Death Wish
After some months of recuperation, I went back to work and school. I tried to assemble my life back to somewhat a semblance of normalcy. Work and school were ways of keeping busy and pushing away the sadness, anger and that lacerating, finger-pointing kind of questions: Why me? Why does it have to be me? Why now? What for is life if you know you wouldn’t be able to travel its road map of adult life? I was inconsolable.
Sometimes, it was easier to flee from the task of incorporating our own destructiveness and major crisis rather than accept the unacceptable. Instead, I tried driving them away by resorting to coping techniques that have worked before. The first was denial; it couldn’t happen to me. I was good. I was a Sunday school teacher from age 12 to 21. I followed the rules. A second technique was to go on: keeping busy, pretending to carry on as if nothing was happening and changing m biological system. A third method was to call for help. I deliberately avoided good medical evaluation. I guessed it was easier to die than linger in physical sufferings. I whispered carelessly to the wind, hoping she would do the job of sending the message to God, that I would will myself to live for only two years; then it could be over. This was the inner psychic drama I was living. And the thought of death was not too terrifying to confront, and so it kept on dancing with me.
After two years, I resigned from work and went alone to Baguio to climb its highest hills to talk to God, had that dialogue that’s been playing on my mind, and tried to get some answers. I believed Baguio was my rabbit hole, my spiritual inn where I poured out all my feelings. Mother understood the hurting. Much to her fears and worries, she let me go, almost saying I should go look for something that would ease my pains and come back whole again. I rented an apartment and did nothing except mope, walk and cry drumful of tears. I stole a seat for reflection in one of the convents in the city, without the nuns’ knowledge nor permission. It was soothing and comforting just to sit on a bench placed near the edge. There, I let loose all the hurts, the disembodied anger, the unknockable pains. I tried to climb the Lourdes Grotto but realized its steps, 200 and more, were daunting, and found out later that a jeepney ride could help me reach the top. My heart was pounding so hard (I was afraid) it might pound its way out of the chest wall so I took the jeepney ride to reach the top of Dominican Hill. It was fabulous on the hill. A hotel was surrounded and guarded by countless, graceful, mature pine trees. So, this was where the old pine trees were hiding. Unexpectedly, the sight and smell of them doused the anger that was slowly eating like acid into my heart. And I forgot to have conversations with God. While sitting and praying on an open chapel outside the hotel, thick fog embraced and scared me away. I ran as fast as I could forgetting about my bad heart. This slight incident made me laugh but I still held on to my goal. I took long, tepid walks around Burnham, Legarda, Wagner, Leonard Wood, Maryhurst and Session roads.
Survival Instinct
I ranted , raved, and screamed. Anger was my name then. I walked in the rain, hoping that the rain would dissolve me. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me. During these dramatic walks, there were four or five instances when I felt like someone was nudging and tapping my shoulder to turn around and look back. I heeded the call; turned around and saw four or five perfectly beautiful rainbows which presence gave color to my grim outlook. I took this to mean that God was telling me to go home and everything would be all right. After April and May in Baguio, I went home carrying uncertainties but fully marching head on ready for anything and anyone.
I had another congestive heart failure in July. It was worse than before. The same bloated legs, dyspnea, rapid pulse, difficult movements, loss of appetite and this abnormality called cardiac arrhythmia. My heart was beating confusedly, abnormally and irregularly. Another cardiac aberration has surfaced bringing me additional discomforts, You cannot heart the lub-dub normal cardiac sounds anymore. The heartbeats were anguished and garbled. From this time on, my heart was totally out of sync.
Whenever I was in the hospital, much to chagrin of the nurses, I always demanded for the results of my blood and mechanical laboratories. This was not easy as it usually resorted to verbal tussles but I always argued with the nurses and doctors that “this is my body, I have a right to know what’s happening, you cannot keep me away from myself!” I was the kind of patient whom everyone grew to hate. I asked this quibble of a doctor how come the Doppler echocardiogram had shown my heart valves performing within normal limits yet I was having heart failures. He said, “maybe” I have thrombosis, that’s why I needed surgery. The “maybe”, that “everything was on my mind”, that I was overly depress and too fulminant to see reality filled me with gigantic rage and saw this doctor shrunk to the size of a thumb, fired brimstone on him an swatted him off my bedside. My thought balloon saw him crashing on the mirrored room of the Heart Center where I was confined. This doctor’s dubious knowledge and incompetence to relate, somehow, awakened my whatever’s left survival instinct. In my self-prescribed rituals, say hello and goodbye with a little style, I saw this doctor in finale with a mango cake in tow as a way of bidding him adieu. That’s all he deserved, a mango cake. Of course, he had no inkling about my tiny ritual. As I walked from his clinic, I knew it was high time to call for help. Not just any but honest to goodness help, if I could find it. And I did.
Good Doctor
Lesson. Do not choose doctors at random. Do not stand before the hospital’s hard-plated directory of doctors and pick one whose name sounds sweet. Do not get mango-cake doctors. Get the one that works best with you. Health cannot be arbitrary. Patients have no way of knowing doctor’s medical performances as there are no lists where we can choose based on our assessment of their competence, experience, expertise and humanity. Criteria for selecting are loosely based on referrals and affinities. It helps to listen to your instinct. Heed what it says. It is safer to see two, three, even four doctors and choose the one who can help the most.
If I were giving up on me, my family wouldn’t. By November, this embattled dysfunctional, broken heart was failing again. “Tell me about yourself”, asked Dr. Roberto A. Anastacio, the cardiologist my family looked for me. “It would take us all afternoon to tell you about myself. I doubt if you have the time.” The doctor was piqued with my answer but he didn’t give up on me, too. He retorted that he didn’t care how long it would take as long as I tell him about myself. My thought balloon came to fore, “was he for real or was he trying to be cute?”No popular expert cardiologist in his clinical kingdom would do such parochial, time-consuming task. They normally put the stethoscope on your chest, close their eyes afterward, write the prescription, of course, with some little talk on the side. Then you pay the bill. And it’s over. Rarely do you get the opportunity to talk about your ailments to your attending physician, more so allow you to make them the repository of your emotions. Not all medical doctors are equipped with relational, psychotherapeutic skills.
“Where do you want me to start? Childhood? High school? College?”
‘Wherever’, he said. The just stared and waited. He won I began talking about myself. And somewhere I broke down, finally, I cried unashamedly, unabashedly. I was such a spectacle. The doctor let me be. He knew I needed surgery but he wouldn’t tell me until all the laboratories were done and substantive data were sufficient. I agreed with the approach. Upon examination, while lying on that acerbic clinical table, he told me I had severe valve regurgitation. So that’s it, the source of my chronic heart failures. Instinctively, I knew from that moment on that there would be no turning back.
Open-heart surgery
I was good news and bad news. The good news was, something could be done about my heart condition. The bad news was, there were 13 things organically wrong with my heart. The heart has four valves, the mitral, aortic, tricuspid and pulmonary valves. Three of my heart valves were damaged and obstructed. I needed open-heart surgery where the heart valves would be repaired, two valves had to go and be replaced by mechanical, plastic valves. The surgery would be an act of faith. It would be a gamble. My life was o n a slot machine.
Dr. Avenilo Aventura, my cardiac surgeon, told me the procedure, “That means I couldn’t wear a bikini anymore,” an attempt to be witty. The good doctor softly smiled and assuaged my battered soul by saying, “What do you need a bikini for when you have an interesting personality.” Nice. But my Polyanna attitude had almost left me. What stayed was the picture of my heart being cut, chest sawed, ribs ripped apart, heart-lung bypassed by a machine, heart momentarily stopped to be able to excise, repair and replace the valves.
I was 27 years old. It was going to be Christmas. I was a pathological case. A malignant, dead-end affliction. And the process was such a bitch.
I believe no other surgery can affect people the way an open-heart surgery does. For it is unthinkable that one’s heart should be cut open. All other organs are vital but they are vital only to life. The heart is more. Nobody writes a poem about a bladder. There is no music sang with words about the esophagus. No love spoken with my entire pancreas. The heart is the one unthinkable cut.
I checked in at the Heart Center on November 10, 1984. Every day was a day of endurance and the hospital the perfect setting for tests on the human spirit. And I would not have made it without my family. It was my luck to be born and raised in a good family. Papa, Mama, Kuya, Ate, Ditse and Bimbo (youngest) helped me tide the difficult days. They nursed, fed, bathed, dressed, recorded fluid intake and output, flushed my waste, financed medical care, and tried to make me laugh. These they did without minding the cost and without complaints. I wanted to set them free from me but only death could make that. (Postcript: My father Pablo Parian passed away on December 10, 1985, one year after my surgery, you could just imagine the pains my illness caused me but my mother has a way of easing pains and taught me to look at it as my father’s way of breathing life into me. A life for a life.)
Choosing Life
I wanted the surgery to be done at once. The discomforts, physical aches and suffering were just too much. Times like these make you wish for instant death, the ultimate reliever. But nobody quit lest they be tagged a loser. The dictum was, you go on, you slug it out until the end. But where was the end? You didn’t know just what to do. Yes, you call on God, sing all the hymns, recite all the memory verses and learn to live out of your body. Projection or day dreaming has helped me transcend the pains. I have learned to fly to the mountains, to the beaches. Somehow, this eased my pains. “Sagada” on my mind made me remember how to reach the moon and the stars. The mind was a reliable ally during these completely bed-ridden and functionless days. Why could medicine not look at death as a solution, too?
The surgery finally took place nearly a month later, on December 10, a day declared internationally as Human Rights Day. That was my day. Everything seemed to be okay until 11 hours later, when I still didn’t wake up, causing the nurses and my family to panic. Later, it was explained that it was my super-enlarged liver, almost reaching my thigh, which delayed expected waking time. It was the nurse’s voice shouting, ‘Juliet, Juliet gising. Isa lang valve!” That woke me up. I could not fathom what that was all about. What happened to me? I could not see. I was motionless. But I could sense. Slowly, it dawned on me. A voice was telling me, I was given back my life. Whether I wanted it or not solely rested on me. I felt I was in the bottomless sea so I treaded up the surface. Then, I began to breathe. Yes, I wanted to live.
I could not stop crying. The nurses kept on telling me to stop but couldn’t. I just had heart surgery and emotions were risks. I could not understand what state of consciousness I was into at that time. My body grew tensed the moment I heard the whirring sounds of the suction machine. A kind male nurse whom I could hear but could not see begged to be understood why he needed to suction the secretions on my nose, mouth and throat. Every time he put that trans parent, tiny, slither of a tube into my mouth, I felt my body jerked up on air. I felt assaulted. Tears welled down on my face from the horrific pain induced by suctioning. Stop it! Please, stop it. So painful. Voiceless shouts which the nurses couldn’t hear. “Juliet, kailangan mo ito!” They answered screaming into my ears, thinking I was hard of hearing, If only they knew I could hear their caresses, even their thoughtlessness. I demanded for a pen and paper. They gave me. I tried to tell them to stop the suctioning and let my mother inside. Only doctors and nurses were allowed in side the recovery room. Family and kin were forbidden. Better that way for them not to witness the horrors of intensive coronary surgical recovery.
“Somebody hold my hand. I feel so cold. Please, somebody hold my hand,” I repeatedly uttered to anybody who watched or stood near me. When I heard the familiar voice of Dr. Anastacio, I cried. “Thank you. One valve only. Thank you.” I knew he didn’t understand. But when he said, “You’re doing fine, Juliet. You’re doing fine”, his faltering voice betrayed him. I told him I didn’t want his assurances, I wanted him to hold my hand for it felt so cold. He was my only connection to familiarity, to closeness, to family. But he couldn’t understand me.
Next Stopover
Surgical Intensive Coronary Unit was my next stopover. The room was glass walled. There were doors for the medical personnel and another that led to a waiting room cum solarium area, the door for the family. My family had camped outside. And I, the princess of wounded hearts, was a precious specimen under microscopic observation in a room complete with all the razzmatazz.
I was awake but not in synchronicity with the flow activities. Images flickered on and off. The “French Lieutenant’s Woman” was the movie on my mind. I wondered why it kept rolling on my mind. In some odd, quirky way, I was uninterested in me and in what they were doing to me. I could just not flow with the routine activities. There was this sense of standing apart from myself, watching them watching me. I could see the nurses working on me, checking me up but not feel them. What was the matter with me? Nurses and doctors continually hovered at me but there was no inch of a response. Nada
The surgery was done on a Monday but I became fully aware and awake on a Friday morning. A simple sponge bath could wake one up to consciousness. When a nurse gave me one, I felt little chills. “Nurse, what time is it?” She said it was 4:30 A.M. Something inside me snapped. “That early? But why are you giving me a bath?” She had to as her shift was about to end. Then she wrapped me like a native suman sa ibos as I was cold. I just had surgery and the last thing I need was a bath, but thanks to her, she lead me back to reality. There I was, grouchy and testy, meaning I was back.
The first thing I asked for was the coldest Coke available. Naturally, it was against the doctor’s orders and postoperative regimen, but my sisters were delighted to see me come back to life so they obliged with my tweet of a request. But as soon as I drank the Coke, I spitted it out as it burned my poor, achy, throat. Mother kept me awake by continually making me drink hot milk and cookies. She was positive it would stave off any possibilities of slipping back to limbo. Milk and cookies worked. It made me long for some better food. They were hurrying me to get out of bed and walk around the room, But all I ever wanted was to sleep. When I told this to Dr. Anastacio, he told me to sleep. Immediately after, he saw me close my eyes. It surprised my family to learn that I never felt any postoperative pains. I was half more than astonished that I never felt any twitch of pain at all. So, I lay there, grateful to be alive but still could not shake off the horror and sadness, nor escape the sense of awe. What had they done to me? I stroked the hanging wire that went into and out of my abdomen. There was this horrible sadness that flowed like blood inside me. I was filled with this sense that my body had been grotesquely mutilated. I couldn’t bring myself to open my chest and be proud. What had they done to me? I had been anatomically raped.
I slept most of the days. I just flowed with my body’s tempo to heal itself. Later, I would think of everything. But for now I would revel in this glory of being freed from those terrible body ill feelings, no more nausea, loss of appetite, throwing up, difficult breathing, inability to move. The angels of mercy weaned me from staying only in bed, from dangling legs on bed to standing, walking within the room, nurse’s station, neighbors’ room to the wash room. I never thought that simple activities like eating, moving urine and bowels, taking a bath, brushing the teeth would be these tremendously crucial. Nurses would ask me to put a pillow on my chest as a safeguard when they tapped my back to induce coughing and remove phlegm. And because of this, also from the instinctive desire to protect my chest from all corners, all violations, all possible accident of contacts, that I had become attached to the pillow as Linus to a security blanket.
New Heart
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. These were the sounds made by the prosthetic valve they put inside my heart which was made of silastic material, a kind of soft, inert silicone rubber. My mitral valve was excised and implanted with the Bjork-Shiley mechanical valve. The tricuspid and aortic valves were repaired. They were planning to replace tricuspid with a prosthetic valve, as well, but my critical condition prevented the surgical team to do so. I was told that I would be on coumadin the rest of my life. (as if I would never be on drugs the rest) It was disconcerting but I would deal with this later when I had already recuperated. Meantime, I would pour out all my energies on healing.
Sleep and hunger drives have always been considered telltale measures of recovery, of healing. Indications were strong that I would make it sans the complication. The doctors were happy and proud to save another human. My family rejoiced in my sterling recovery that they continually gave what I longed for. No matter how tired with pressures from work and taking care of my, my sisters and brothers always saw to it that they fulfilled all their obligations.
Embraced By The Sun
Wrapping gifts for big and little cousins was my first serious activity after surgery. I spent Christmas at the hospital. Family came, heard Mass in the hospital, celebrated in the waiting area. So, this was what Christmas really meant. Birth. Life. Salvation. Hope, A second chance.
December 26 was my coming home day. My sisters brought me to the hairdresser before I went home. My hair was the butt of my emotions. When I felt bad, I cut it. I was so skinny. I looked like a skinless longganisa but no mistaking, I was very delighted to be back home after 45 days stay in the hospital. There was that glowing feeling inside as if a fine emotion has touched me. Nothing could elude me this time. Everything, as in everything, including ants, would hold me captive. What fears could possess me now when I had met the Cyclopes and carried the fierce Poseidon in my heart?
I woke up at dawn, walked to the terrace and sat facing east, waiting for the sun. I saw Mother came home from marketing. She wore kimona to the market, a rare moment because Mother usually went to the market dressed almost like a rag, as she opined, what for were the good dresses when you just haggled for fishes, fresh goods in mud-laden stalls and walked in the gutters. Beside, dressing up separated you from the simple folks. But this time, she wore her fines, as it was her youngest daughter’s rebirthing. The sun was beginning to show its face and strength to the world. Daylight has begun. And I, the princess of wounded recycled hearts, stood up in her direction, opened my arms and wallowed in her sunbeam. I would not begin thinking about the mechanical valve, the ticking sound, and all that included in my healing. I would not wrangle with thought questions about how life operated, how death was just sitting beside it, how the twin sisters of fate and karma work, how divinity was matched with miracles, what was destiny’s master plan and how science fit in all of these. As for now, I would catch the sun.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Class 1978...Photo Album
The slideshow of Class 1978 archived photos. . .revisiting where we all were yesterday and nurturing the bond that we have with each other today.
Class of 1978...Our Dream, Our Journey
I am now releasing our class video for the benefit of all those who, like myself, could not make it to Foster City, CA for the St. Luke's Alumni Grand Reunion this year. This is the video that was presented by our classmates, thanks to Veron's persistence, during the night of the dinner-dance. The video resolution will not be as good here as the actual DVD but if you would like a souvenir copy, please contact Veron.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
San Francisco - Reunion Memories
Pictures from the San Francisco Reunion... From various attendees...
Here is a link to the pics with the Memory Video - Part 2 from Gigi...
Here is a link to the pics with the Memory Video - Part 2 from Gigi...
 |
| Reunion-Me |
Sunday, July 6, 2008
St. Luke's College of Nursing Trinity College Class '78
IF YOU CAN CONCEIVE IT IN YOUR MIND, THEN IT COULD BE BROUGHT INTO YOUR PHYSICAL WORLD...
FOSTER CITY, CALIFORNIA JULY 5, 2008
Proudly Present: Class '78 CELEBRATING THEIR 30 YEARS
Sitting: Marietta P., Cynthia M., Ruth A., Liza C., Rachel E., Malou C., Carmen R., Marilyn Q., Melle S., Julie P., Fatima V., Josie T.
Standing: (R TO L): Dedel E., Ruby B, Teta L., Teli D., Cecile, H., Chato F., Cora F., Girlie I., Ann L., Jane L., Amy J., Veron O., Sarah P., Odie M., Chato S.,
Friday, July 4, 2008
Food for Thought
ENLIGHTENED PERSPECTIVE
Please read all the way to the bottom: If you will take the time to read these. I promise you'll come away with an enlightened perspective. The subjects covered affect us all on a daily basis:
They're written by Andy Rooney , a man who has the gift of saying so much with so few words. Enjoy.......
I've learned....
That the best classroom in the world is at the feet of an elderly person.
I've learned....That when you're in love, it shows.
I've learned.... That just one person saying to me, 'You've made my day!' makes my day.
I've learned.... That having a child fall asleep in your arms is one of the most peaceful feelings in the world.
I've learned... . That being kind is more important than being right.
I've learned.... That you should never say no to a gift from a child.
I've learned. ... That I can always pray for someone when I don't have the strength to help him in some other way.
I've learned. ... That no matter how serious your life requires you to be, everyone needs a friend to act goofy with.
I've learned.... That sometimes all a person needs is a hand to hold and a heart to understand.
I've learned.... That simple walks with my father around the block on summer nights when I was a child did wonders for me as an adult.
I've learned.... That life is like a roll of toilet paper. The closer it gets to the end, the faster it goes.
I've learned.... That we should be glad God doesn't give us everything we ask for.
I've learned.... That money doesn't buy class.
I've learned.... That it's those small daily happenings that make life so spectacular.
I've learned... That under everyone's hard shell is someone who wants to be appreciated and loved.
I've learned.... That to ignore the facts does not change the facts.
I've learned.... That when you plan to get even with someone, you are only letting that person continue to hurt you.
I've learned.... That love, not time, heals all wounds.
I've learned.... That the easiest way for me to grow as a person is to surround myself with people smarter than I am.
I've learned.... That everyone you meet deserves to be greeted with a smile.
I've learned.... That no one is perfect until you fall in love with them.
I've learned... That life is tough, but I'm tougher.
I've learned.... That opportunities are never lost, someone will take the ones you miss.
I've learned.... That when you harbor bitterness, happiness will dock elsewhere.
I've learned.... That I wish I could have told my Mom that I love her one more time before she passed away.
I've learned.... That one should keep his words both soft and tender, because tomorrow he may have to eat them.
I've learned.... That a smile is an inexpensive way to improve your looks.
I'v e learned.... That when your newly born grandchild holds your little finger in his little fist, that you're hooked for life.
I've learned.... That everyone wants to live on top of the mountain, but all the happiness and growth occurs while you're climbing it.
I've learned.... That the less time I have to work with, the more things I get done.
To all of you...It's National Friendship Week. HAPPY FRIENDSHIP WEEK TO YOU!!!!!! YOU ALL ARE MY FRIENDS AND I AM HONORED!
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Having FUNNNNNNNNNNN
MELLE,CECILE AND I are now in Lake Tahoe.We are sharing some of our pictures. My guests are in good hands!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Texas Reunion
You know, they say "everything is big in Texas" so even though we were a small group of three nightingales that got together, this reunion was certainly big on fun, love and laughter. Mildred, Patti and I had a grand 'ole time reminiscing, catching up, comparing notes and just plain old acting silly --- just like we used to 30 years ago. We occasionally paused to snap a few pictures to share with all of you so sit back, relax and enjoy the slideshow.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
this is the time when present and past becomes one
I cannot help but shed tears as Ate’s (Teresa Parian) assistant gave me a copy of our California itinerary via Northwest Airlines. She finished all our travel arrangement before my mother’s memorial service this Saturday. This trip costs much of my family’s income. A chunk of me feels terribly guilty for the expenses they will shoulder so they can grant my request from them. Plus the fact that in order to be with you, Ditse, Victoria has to fly with me. And I bet you understand what that means, a disruption in her personal/business activities. The amount is nothing compared to the amount that is asked by the SLNAF to mount the Daughters of Nightingales 30 years celebration of friendships and fellowship. My room has a small terrace that opens to the sky and, as always, I asked Heaven if I were not being selfish; if my decision to go is right. Did I get my answers? Yes, I know the world can go on turning without me. Yes, I know that you can always mount reunions anytime for you are all there; and all healthy. But I am not. My tomorrows is as tentative as today. Time has been kind to me, already, and holding it back is not there anymore. I gave Ate all my jewelry that my mother has given me (my mother was a very wise woman she has invested pretty well for us) as some sort of payment for the trip and others but she returns it to me.
When Josh Groban held a concert here, I told Ate I wanted to go, even just the bleacher section. I am a big fan of Josh. The bleacher chairs cost 5,000.00 Php. Can you imagine that? It is the section where you can just see the person as a dot already. Ate was willing to get me a ticket but no more tickets left. The primary chairs cost Php 25,000.00 to 10, 000.00. Sponsored chairs costs more. (Php 50,000.00) The bleacher chair by dollar rates now cost about $125.00 just for a night. The CD was just as fine. Though regrettable feelings stays with me for I know I will never have the chance to watch Josh perform live. I like concerts, plays, musicals. When I was still strong then, after work I go to Paco Park on their concert series days for that is the only place in Pinas where they held concerts for free. This is a long entry already. What I am saying here is my family has taught me, “ang pera madaling kitain basta masipag , tapat at hindi takot sa trabaho.”I understand financial obligations to family, children and basic needs. It is not joke!
Cynthia lifted my spirit. I like your attitude Cynthia. "this is just once in a lifetime event". And she is ready to shed some of her money." My family is funding my trip. They understand what it means to me. As my ate always says to us, the reason why we travel if we have budget, "kailan pa daw niya e-enjoy ang buhay, ang travel kung kailan uugod-ugod na siya?" Teresa has been blessed with travels as part of her job so she shares that travels to us, specially to me for I am their sickie sister. Yes, I am going. Yes, I am willing to blow my family’s money for me for they know what this reunion with you means to me.
My basic premise is when will I have the chance to smell the flowers? Will I be able to smell the flowers if I were in the coffin already? I'd rather smell the flowers while I can and have senses or still alive. I’d rather see your smiling faces, and hear your voices now. Yes, my situation is entirely different from you. You are all healthy, you are all hardworking, you are all providing for your family (and they always come first I agree with all of you on that) . But opportunity disappears; and may not come back again. I don't like regrets. And my family does not like regrets, too. I don't like..."if only".....I prefer this is my moment, this is my now. This is the time when my past and my present becomes one. Give me this moment, this precious chance. I'll gather up my past and make some sense at last!
When Josh Groban held a concert here, I told Ate I wanted to go, even just the bleacher section. I am a big fan of Josh. The bleacher chairs cost 5,000.00 Php. Can you imagine that? It is the section where you can just see the person as a dot already. Ate was willing to get me a ticket but no more tickets left. The primary chairs cost Php 25,000.00 to 10, 000.00. Sponsored chairs costs more. (Php 50,000.00) The bleacher chair by dollar rates now cost about $125.00 just for a night. The CD was just as fine. Though regrettable feelings stays with me for I know I will never have the chance to watch Josh perform live. I like concerts, plays, musicals. When I was still strong then, after work I go to Paco Park on their concert series days for that is the only place in Pinas where they held concerts for free. This is a long entry already. What I am saying here is my family has taught me, “ang pera madaling kitain basta masipag , tapat at hindi takot sa trabaho.”I understand financial obligations to family, children and basic needs. It is not joke!
Cynthia lifted my spirit. I like your attitude Cynthia. "this is just once in a lifetime event". And she is ready to shed some of her money." My family is funding my trip. They understand what it means to me. As my ate always says to us, the reason why we travel if we have budget, "kailan pa daw niya e-enjoy ang buhay, ang travel kung kailan uugod-ugod na siya?" Teresa has been blessed with travels as part of her job so she shares that travels to us, specially to me for I am their sickie sister. Yes, I am going. Yes, I am willing to blow my family’s money for me for they know what this reunion with you means to me.
My basic premise is when will I have the chance to smell the flowers? Will I be able to smell the flowers if I were in the coffin already? I'd rather smell the flowers while I can and have senses or still alive. I’d rather see your smiling faces, and hear your voices now. Yes, my situation is entirely different from you. You are all healthy, you are all hardworking, you are all providing for your family (and they always come first I agree with all of you on that) . But opportunity disappears; and may not come back again. I don't like regrets. And my family does not like regrets, too. I don't like..."if only".....I prefer this is my moment, this is my now. This is the time when my past and my present becomes one. Give me this moment, this precious chance. I'll gather up my past and make some sense at last!
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
HAPPY NURSES' WEEK!!!
WISHING EVERYBODY HAPPY NURSES' WEEK, BECAUSE WE ARE ALL CARING ANGELS. MAY ALL OF US CONTINUE THE PASSION OF THE MISSION AND VOWS WE TOOK: TO SERVE ALL THOSE WHO ARE IN NEED OF OUR SUPPORT AND HEALING HANDS.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
California Nightingales....
California Nightingales are gearing up for their mini- reunion in May @ Odie Martinez' residence....Kailan na ba and who are attending? Excited na ako for all of you..Odie, please update us...
I am counting the days before the July reunion..Excited na din ako na makita kayong lahat. I will not miss this for a moment!!!
I was so blessed to see the Mid-Atlantic Nightingales at our reunion and I am really longing for more fellowship with all of you..We were like in college again-- no inhibitions, free, all guards down, walang pataasan, walang ano na ang status mo or what?---walang ganoon akong na-feel...We were there to enjoy each other--just being us..Ang saya-saya talaga!!! I just want to share this with all of you--the acceptance, happiness, love and joy I felt when we saw each other at the reunion--what a moment! Thanks from the bottom of my heart to all the Mid-Atlantic Nightingales for such a wonderful time!!! I miss all of you already!!
I am counting the days before the July reunion..Excited na din ako na makita kayong lahat. I will not miss this for a moment!!!
I was so blessed to see the Mid-Atlantic Nightingales at our reunion and I am really longing for more fellowship with all of you..We were like in college again-- no inhibitions, free, all guards down, walang pataasan, walang ano na ang status mo or what?---walang ganoon akong na-feel...We were there to enjoy each other--just being us..Ang saya-saya talaga!!! I just want to share this with all of you--the acceptance, happiness, love and joy I felt when we saw each other at the reunion--what a moment! Thanks from the bottom of my heart to all the Mid-Atlantic Nightingales for such a wonderful time!!! I miss all of you already!!
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
MID ATLANTIC REUNION
Indeed, we had a blast last week-end. Some of you might be wondering why I went to this reunion when I am from Texas. Well, I taught myself a new geography lesson. "Texas is part of Mid Atlantic " so that gave me a reason to go. Veron and I planned this to be a big surprise. You can just imagine the look on our classmates faces when I open the door to greet them.
We really felt like we were still in college. We slept in one room like in Sta. Maria . We had big project to finish until the wee hours of the morning...that was scap booking, and we talked and shared our stories lying down with our pajamas just like in the dorm. This just reminded me how we all worked together as a team.
For me...this was a MASTERCARD moment. Something money can't buy.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
NEXT MINI-REUNION
First of all, I would like to thank the Lord for the perfect, most beautiful day for our reunion, to personally thank Flor, Obet and family for sharing their beautiful house to make this memorable affair of re-connecting, re-bonding and what Rachel had said-'just picked-up from where we left off 30 years ago' a reality and last but not least, to all our dedicated and loving husbands who gladly and willingly drove 2-3hours to bring us and join in this special occasion. Of course not to mention the coordinators and everybody who made it inspite of busy schedules.
We would like to extend an invitation to all who want to join us in another weekend of fun, food, music, drinks, dancing, karaoke, swimming, etc. (Veron, you can bring your Korean DVD's so we can all start getting hooked to watching them), to our humble home in Abingdon, MD on the 2nd or 3rd weekend of August whichever suits your busy schedules(whether you're in-state or out of state). From the wonderful experience this weekend, I believe that we can add these weekend gatherings to the 'list of healthy living' in addition to (3xweek) as the company, fun and enjoyment that we all share (not to mention the FOOD, forget the 'DIETS' during these times) can be our de-stressor to break the routine of a whole week of work whether it be at a job or home.
Since it's still a few months away, we can request to be off that weekend or coordinate our busy schedules.
We really had a good time this weekend!!!
We would like to extend an invitation to all who want to join us in another weekend of fun, food, music, drinks, dancing, karaoke, swimming, etc. (Veron, you can bring your Korean DVD's so we can all start getting hooked to watching them), to our humble home in Abingdon, MD on the 2nd or 3rd weekend of August whichever suits your busy schedules(whether you're in-state or out of state). From the wonderful experience this weekend, I believe that we can add these weekend gatherings to the 'list of healthy living' in addition to (3xweek) as the company, fun and enjoyment that we all share (not to mention the FOOD, forget the 'DIETS' during these times) can be our de-stressor to break the routine of a whole week of work whether it be at a job or home.
Since it's still a few months away, we can request to be off that weekend or coordinate our busy schedules.
We really had a good time this weekend!!!
Some funny lessons learned at the Mid-Atlantic reunion
Wow, I really enjoyed the reunion but I was tasked to post some of the funny lessons learned from this reunion--and you know of all people---ME?
Anyway, I truly had a wonderful time with the nightingales re-connecting, bonding, reminiscing, laughing, screaming and learning new things about where we are in our journey in life, our career, our ups and downs, our past, our children, health, beauty, marriage, menopause, scrapbooking, and the three letter word that starts w/ s-- (if you know what I mean):):):)Ha,ha,ha,ha....
Veron Orpilla taught us scrapbooking. We stayed up till 3am to do the Class 78 scrapbook. It was the first for me, Lele, and Mey, the rest, I believe have done this before... According to our instructor/"therapist", we all did a good job! Ray, Mey's husband said we all look like his creative therapy patients in the nursing home. He does not mean that we are "old and senior" but he meant his patients doing creative therapy..Ha,ha,ha,ha...
Rachel Evangelista taught us how many times we need to do s--(if you know what I mean) per week. She said we have to do IT 3x per week so we will stay fit and healthy. She also said we need to exercise the "muscles" involve in s-- to keep "these muscles" healthy just like how we exercise our heart muscles when we walk, jog or run...True! Ha, ha, ha, ha...Ang loko talaga ni Rachel!!!
We also learned instead of shouting "1, 2, 3, CHEESE!!" on pictorials, we should shout, "1,2,3 --times a week", taught to us by Ray, Mey's hubby.
Mahgene Pasion who is a Urology Nurse taught us sign language:
V- for Viagra
C- for Cialis
L -for Levitra
We also learned that husbands can be macho, sansui but tigasin:
Macho--- macho-nurin
Sansui --- 'sang sutsot, uwi
Tigasin--- tiga-saing, tiga-laba, tiga-linis
LOL!!!! Did I miss anything, Mid-Atlantic Nightingales?
Okay now, my advice to all the nightingales: As we are exposed to a lot of things in life, we have to be open and as my husband said: "You have to learn to just pick the meat and throw all the bones".....
Ciao for now.....
Anyway, I truly had a wonderful time with the nightingales re-connecting, bonding, reminiscing, laughing, screaming and learning new things about where we are in our journey in life, our career, our ups and downs, our past, our children, health, beauty, marriage, menopause, scrapbooking, and the three letter word that starts w/ s-- (if you know what I mean):):):)Ha,ha,ha,ha....
Veron Orpilla taught us scrapbooking. We stayed up till 3am to do the Class 78 scrapbook. It was the first for me, Lele, and Mey, the rest, I believe have done this before... According to our instructor/"therapist", we all did a good job! Ray, Mey's husband said we all look like his creative therapy patients in the nursing home. He does not mean that we are "old and senior" but he meant his patients doing creative therapy..Ha,ha,ha,ha...
Rachel Evangelista taught us how many times we need to do s--(if you know what I mean) per week. She said we have to do IT 3x per week so we will stay fit and healthy. She also said we need to exercise the "muscles" involve in s-- to keep "these muscles" healthy just like how we exercise our heart muscles when we walk, jog or run...True! Ha, ha, ha, ha...Ang loko talaga ni Rachel!!!
We also learned instead of shouting "1, 2, 3, CHEESE!!" on pictorials, we should shout, "1,2,3 --times a week", taught to us by Ray, Mey's hubby.
Mahgene Pasion who is a Urology Nurse taught us sign language:
V- for Viagra
C- for Cialis
L -for Levitra
We also learned that husbands can be macho, sansui but tigasin:
Macho--- macho-nurin
Sansui --- 'sang sutsot, uwi
Tigasin--- tiga-saing, tiga-laba, tiga-linis
LOL!!!! Did I miss anything, Mid-Atlantic Nightingales?
Okay now, my advice to all the nightingales: As we are exposed to a lot of things in life, we have to be open and as my husband said: "You have to learn to just pick the meat and throw all the bones".....
Ciao for now.....
Mid-Atlantic Reunion
I couldn't sleep that night.... I tossed and turned, opened and closed my eyes, but no shut eyes. Ah, tomorrow is a big day, a day of rekindling the past and looking forward to an exciting day of fun and laughter with my co-nightingales.
My husband and I left our house at about 10:30 in the morning to go to 9 Runkle Place in New Jersey. It will take us 2 1/2 hours to go to the important site of the reunion. Everything was a smooth ride until exit 17 going to Flor's house was closed because of constructions.She did not realize that all the nightingales were going to exit that part of New Jersey to go to her house. She forgot to warn us! Well, we finally found our way but some didn't. Poor Mahgene and Luis, they had to call over and over again before they can find the place. Oh ,we had a lot of fun because of that!!
The big surprise for me was that, as soon as I opened the door, the big smiling face of Rachel suddenly appeared in front of me. I didn't know if I was in the right house, whether I was in Texas or New Jersey? You see, I was planning to meet Rachel in Texas for a mini reunion in June and I didn't expect to see her in New Jersey. Oh, if you could only hear the shoutings and wailing of everyone. I think that we were the loudest in the neighborhood.
Each nightingale arrived one by one, and each time one arrived, further shouting and laughing could be heard, one louder than the other. It was very chaotic!!! Finally our food arrived, delivered by two sweet nightingales named Cecile and Chato F. You see, we ordered our banquet feast from Filipino restaurants in New Jersey. Smart idea, right? Ruth brought crabs from MARYLAND which I enjoyed tremendously, the others brought champagne and Rachel brought kielbasa sausages from the great state of Texas(yi-hah) Oh, what fun!!
We formed a circle, alphabetical manner of course , from Adamos to Salazar, we prayed for the delicious food and friendship and began eating. We had plenty of food to go around, I forgot my healthy diet for one day and just enjoyed every moment with all these wonderful 14 nightingales including some of our husbands. You see, our husbands did not eat with us, they had their own separate group and they seemed to be enjoying each others company.
We discussed a lot of things while eating. We talked about our health, our state of minds , our menopausal stages and who had colonoscopy etc, etc. Most of all, we talked about how to keep our marriage lives alive and vibrant. One nightingale commented that she read a journal that we have to do it 3 times a day(you know what) to be healthy. Others said that they were not interested about it anymore, others were just too tired to do it that much. We all laughed so hard and we kept on reminding each other about 3 times a week, 3 times a week in each and every conversation. One husband who was videotaping us was getting embarrassed of our conversation
and said that the video was getting R-rated.
Aside from having a lot of fun, we also did in-service training so that a lot of nightingales can participate in the blog. The reunion became an educational training for some of us and became very exciting and informative experience. I can assure you that more nightingales will participate in the blog from now on.
At about 9 p.m. , we had a champagne toast for good health and good camaraderie. We cheered for class'78 and that we are going to do it again in the future. I had to leave at almost 10 p. m. but the rest of the nightingales had a pajama party, just like the good old days.
All in all, it was a successful party. Thanks everyone for coming, I enjoyed every minute of it and looking forward for the next MID-ATLANTIC REUNION in the future!!!!
Saturday, April 12, 2008
MID-ATLANTIC REUNION
PLACE: FLORDELIZA BOLOS ODI
DATE: APRIL 12, 2008
PRESENT: RUTH ADAMOS
AMY BENAVIDEZ
LELE BERNARDO
FLOR BOLOS
SARA CAPEGSAN
MILDRED DIAZ
RACHEL EVANGELISTA
CHATO FRANCISCO
CECIL HERRERA
TESS HERRERA
VERON ORPILLA
GLORIA PASSION
MEY PENA
SUSAN SALAZAR
Friday, April 11, 2008
+-+Copy.jpg)
Thursday, April 10, 2008
The Way We Were
This has probably been spammed to you at one time or the other but I just want to resurrect it in this blogsite lest we forget those good old carefree days. . .let your kids know about it so they will realize how brave their parents were.
First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they carried us.
They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a tin, and didn't get tested for diabetes.
They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a tin, and didn't get tested for diabetes.
Then after that trauma, our baby cots were covered with bright coloured lead-based paints.
We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, not to mention, the risks we took hitchhiking.
As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or air bags.
Riding in the back of a van - loose - was always great fun.
Riding in the back of a van - loose - was always great fun.
We drank water from the garden hosepipe and NOT from a bottle.
We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE actually died from this.
We ate cakes, white bread and real butter and drank pop with sugar in it, but we weren't overweight because......
WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!!
We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on.
No one was able to reach us all day. And we were O.K.
We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem .
We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE actually died from this.
We ate cakes, white bread and real butter and drank pop with sugar in it, but we weren't overweight because......
WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!!
We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on.
No one was able to reach us all day. And we were O.K.
We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem .
We did not have Playstations, Nintendo's, X-boxes, no video games at all, no 99 channels on cable, no video tape movies, no surround sound, no cell phones, no text messaging, no personal computers, no Internet or Internet chat rooms..........WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them! We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no lawsuits from these accidents .
We played with worms and mud pies made from dirt, and the worms did not live in us forever.
Made up games with sticks and tennis balls and although we were told it would happen, we did not poke out any eyes.
We played with worms and mud pies made from dirt, and the worms did not live in us forever.
Made up games with sticks and tennis balls and although we were told it would happen, we did not poke out any eyes.
We rode bikes or walked to a friend's house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just yelled for them!
Local teams had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that!!
The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law!
This generation has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever!
The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas.
We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned
HOW TO DEAL WITH IT ALL!
And YOU are one of them!
CONGRATULATIONS!
The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law!
This generation has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever!
The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas.
We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned
HOW TO DEAL WITH IT ALL!
And YOU are one of them!
CONGRATULATIONS!
Sunday, April 6, 2008
The Invitation
By Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shriveled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,“Yes.”
It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.
Photo by .SantiMB. on Flickr
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Reunion Anxieties Anyone?
Since this blogsite began, we've been hearing a lot about the upcoming St. Luke's Alumni Association Grand Reunion in July and about how exciting it is to be seeing each other after 30 years and everything. Several people have already committed to attending it and have unabashedly declared that they are looking forward to reconnecting with old friends. Well, why not? After all, reunions are great for revisiting the past and stirring up wonderful memories. As we get older, it is no surprise that we tend to be more nostalgic and are more interested in reminiscing.
A reunion, however, is also a time to reveal to old friends how we are currently doing and that could potentially send shivers up the spine of some folks who are not too confident about how well they measure up to their old classmates. Fear of being judged on appearance and life status come to full throttle and drive people into a panic. It can make one go bananas over an event that doesn't even last for more than a few hours. Questions come flooding in. OMG, what if they think I'm too fat? What should I wear? Will they think I'm a loser? What if no one remembers me? What if I don't recognize them? I have to lose weight. I gotta get a life. I gotta make a million dollars. Aaaaaarrrgggghhhhh!!!!
The reason why I thought perhaps we ought to talk about these anxieties that some of us might be experiencing is so that we can put it out in the open and realize that we're not the only one with reunion jitters therefore we can just relax, leave our anxieties at the door and have a marvelous time at the reunion. And for those who are fortunate not to have any problems with the reunion at all, perhaps it will be good to be aware and be sensitive to the fact that there are people that may be feeling anxious.
Let's start with the anxieties we may have with our appearance. It is not uncommon for people to call up Jenny Craig and want to get on a quick weight loss program prior to a reunion. Naturally, we want to look our best when we see people we haven't seen in decades, right? The thing that people don't realize is that they're probably thinking as though they were still in their twenties. It will be more helpful to keep in mind that everyone will be 30 years older now with a sluggish metabolism just like yours. Unless, they've had liposuctions or facelifts, almost everyone will have bulging waistlines, double chins, graying hair and a few wrinkles. There is nothing shameful about having changed. It's expected and it behooves everyone to celebrate those changes instead of trying to look the way we did at our graduation in 1978. It's okay to look like we're fifty-somethings because we are.
Most people think of reunions as a time to impress others so they think of ways to make their careers and lifestyles sound exciting and lucrative. But what if you didn't have the charmed life that you hoped to live? What if things didn't turn out the way you dreamed they would? Honestly, you know what, nobody cares. People don't like show-offs and braggarts anyway. People are there simply because they want to have a great time connecting with friends from their youth; and maybe enjoy feeling young again for a while. People want a rejuvenating experience, not one that dampens their spirits because they have been made to feel less fortunate than others.
What if you've had a falling out with some old classmates? You wonder about how you're going to handle seeing them again. I say you ought to just forget about the problems you had with those people and assume that everyone else has grown up along with you. Show up at the reunion prepared to share the mature, fun and friendly you. By the end of the evening, you'll be laughing with old friends about how silly it was that you stopped talking to each other.
So come July, have a good time with everybody. Even if we've each taken different paths in our lives, we still share that common bond with each other. We still are sisters at heart...all St. Luke's Daughters of Nightingale 1978.
A reunion, however, is also a time to reveal to old friends how we are currently doing and that could potentially send shivers up the spine of some folks who are not too confident about how well they measure up to their old classmates. Fear of being judged on appearance and life status come to full throttle and drive people into a panic. It can make one go bananas over an event that doesn't even last for more than a few hours. Questions come flooding in. OMG, what if they think I'm too fat? What should I wear? Will they think I'm a loser? What if no one remembers me? What if I don't recognize them? I have to lose weight. I gotta get a life. I gotta make a million dollars. Aaaaaarrrgggghhhhh!!!!
The reason why I thought perhaps we ought to talk about these anxieties that some of us might be experiencing is so that we can put it out in the open and realize that we're not the only one with reunion jitters therefore we can just relax, leave our anxieties at the door and have a marvelous time at the reunion. And for those who are fortunate not to have any problems with the reunion at all, perhaps it will be good to be aware and be sensitive to the fact that there are people that may be feeling anxious.
Let's start with the anxieties we may have with our appearance. It is not uncommon for people to call up Jenny Craig and want to get on a quick weight loss program prior to a reunion. Naturally, we want to look our best when we see people we haven't seen in decades, right? The thing that people don't realize is that they're probably thinking as though they were still in their twenties. It will be more helpful to keep in mind that everyone will be 30 years older now with a sluggish metabolism just like yours. Unless, they've had liposuctions or facelifts, almost everyone will have bulging waistlines, double chins, graying hair and a few wrinkles. There is nothing shameful about having changed. It's expected and it behooves everyone to celebrate those changes instead of trying to look the way we did at our graduation in 1978. It's okay to look like we're fifty-somethings because we are.
Most people think of reunions as a time to impress others so they think of ways to make their careers and lifestyles sound exciting and lucrative. But what if you didn't have the charmed life that you hoped to live? What if things didn't turn out the way you dreamed they would? Honestly, you know what, nobody cares. People don't like show-offs and braggarts anyway. People are there simply because they want to have a great time connecting with friends from their youth; and maybe enjoy feeling young again for a while. People want a rejuvenating experience, not one that dampens their spirits because they have been made to feel less fortunate than others.
What if you've had a falling out with some old classmates? You wonder about how you're going to handle seeing them again. I say you ought to just forget about the problems you had with those people and assume that everyone else has grown up along with you. Show up at the reunion prepared to share the mature, fun and friendly you. By the end of the evening, you'll be laughing with old friends about how silly it was that you stopped talking to each other.
So come July, have a good time with everybody. Even if we've each taken different paths in our lives, we still share that common bond with each other. We still are sisters at heart...all St. Luke's Daughters of Nightingale 1978.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
God's Blessings
These two little girls were PAMELA and HANNA.They were 3 years old way back in 1985. This photo was taken in Virginia when we were vacationing. PAMELA,(wearing blue pants) is now a CHEMIST at WATSON PHARMACEUTICAL COMPANY, the third largest in the U.S.A. She is getting married in July. HANNA, on the right is now a LIEUTENANT IN THE U.S NAVY NURSE CORPS. Oh, how time flies, do you know who their parents are?
Yeah, the proud parents are MILDRED AND RENE AND RUTH AND VAL.
Several years later , two children were added in their families. Mildred was holding FAITH her second daughter and Val was holding JOSHUA, his son. Faith is in RUSSIA right now taking her PRE-LAW courses and Joshua is graduating this year MAJORING IN BUSINESS.
After several years, MILDRED AND RENE were blessed with another daughter namedREBEKAH. She is taking up Nursing in the FALL of 2008.
Do you know who these cutie girls belong to?
Yes, the proud parents are MILDRED and RACHEL. These photos were taken in Disneyland way back 1984.GOD is good!! He has blessed us with good families and good friends like all of you, THE NIGHTINGALES. I URGE YOU GUYS TO POST THE PICTURES OF YOUR MOST IMPORTANT TREASURES AND POSSESSIONS IN THIS WORLD....YOUR CHILDREN....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
The Class of 1978
