infiniteperspective.net

Devastating. This is the only word I could think of as I watched the horrendous aftermath of Typhoon Frank that swept the Philippines last week. Destroyed homes, power disruptions, food and water shortages in provinces like Iloilo marked the fury of the storm. But of all these, Frank showed the full force of his wrath with the sinking of MV Princess of the Stars in Sibuyan Island, Romblon. Only a handful of the more than 800 passengers on board survived the tragedy.

As I watch on TV the family members of the passengers of the ill-fated vessel, I can’t help but empathize with their grief. Those faces that are at all at once hopeful and yet hopeless, expectant yet resigned, mirror sorrow in its most profound form. Not knowing what has happened to a loved one, whether a child, husband, wife, nephew, niece, uncle, aunt, grandparent or friend is still alive or already dead is perhaps the worst form of torture imaginable. How could there ever be closure for them?

Having lost my father recently, I understand the importance of holding vigils, saying prayers and finally, of laying him to rest as vital in the bereavement process. This period somehow eases the initial shock of losing someone so dear, and these ceremonies, if they so be called, smoothens the transition of letting go, and of ultimately accepting the reality of death. I am by no means done with grieving. I don’t think one can ever be “finished grieving.” Perhaps, only time can assuage the pain that death brings. But my only consolation is that deep in my heart, I know that my father is in a far better place, and this helps me a lot in being able to go on with my life.

But what about those whose family members are still waiting for news of their loved ones aboard MV Princess of the Stars? The agony of not knowing where they are, the torture of not being able to give a proper burial- these intensify the feelings of grief a million times over. I can only pray that God give them the courage and the faith to face this trial in their lives. I also hope that the shipping company understands and takes to heart the needs and requests of these relatives. The news on TV features them complaining of their requests going on deaf ears, of not being given sufficient information, of being left in the dark.

I hope that Sulpicio Lines doesn’t treat the passengers on board their boat as mere statistical losses. Everyone on board that ship was once a flesh-and-blood member of a family. He or she had dreams, had loved, had cried, had trusted the shipping company’s judgments enough to travel in the midst of impending storm. Thus, the concerns of their loved ones must be addressed and heard.

Frank’s wrath has subsided for now, but we are left to grapple with the devastation and ruin that he brought on us as a people. Let’s take a moment to say a little prayer to those who were lost in the storm, holding on to the faith in our hearts that though their families may not see them again or may not have the chance to lay their bodies to the grave, God has already brought the souls of those who had perished to the tranquil seas of their Heavenly Home.

What happens now? This is the question I always ask myself now that my dad has already been laid to rest. People around me say that life doesn’t stop with death, that there are a still a lot of things that those of us left in this mortal world have to occupy ourselves with, that there are still people who need us. Relatives and friends remind me that I still have a daughter who is only two years old who is dependent on me for everything. And I know that.

Despite this, however, there are moments when I simply can’t move or do what needs to be done. Grief can be very crippling and though I try so hard to let go, part of me seems to want to hold on to the memory of a father who lived so bravely and loved ever so deeply. This might sound too emotional but I know that nothing will ever be the same, that a part of me has died too.

Writing seems the only release for me now. But this I can’t even do without shedding a tear, and I feel so tired and drained at this constant sorrow that hangs over me everyday. How does one cope with such loss? What happens now? Will I ever heal? These are just some of the questions that I ask myself during these trying times. I only pray that God and Mama Mary will give me the strength to go on living. I need that very much.

My father passed away in his sleep last June 7, 2008. He was only 56 years old.

When I was given a second chance at life after being diagnosed with late stage thymoma, living life to the fullest, treasuring every minute in this world became a priority. I didn’t want to entertain the thought of dying. After all, I was spared from it, and I never really thought anyone I love would leave this soon. However, my dad’s peaceful repose brought an end to all that. Nothing could have ever prepared me for this sense of helplessness, sorrow and grief that accompanies his passing. He was a healthy man- he played basketball regularly and never really complained much about his health. He lived life to the fullest, and didn’t give any hint that he was about to go. Thus, his passing came as a shock to most everyone of us close to him.

My dad was a courageous man. He always encouraged us to get a degree, saying that he had nothing else to bequeath us except an education. I graduated magna cum laude because of him. He loved so deeply, and though he had his share of heartaches and heartbreaks, he continued to love nonetheless. He had principles, too, and he stood by them to his dying day. But it was his integrity that I will always cherish and pass on to my daughter as she grows older. He valued hard work and honesty and exemplified these traits exceptionally while he was still alive.

I am still trying to make sense of his passing, and I am certain that part of me will always yearn for his presence. But I know and I feel deep in my heart that my dad is now in a better, richer, more beautiful place that God has prepared for him in Heaven.

I don’t like to say goodbye, for I know that death is not the end of life but a beginning of something greater. Rather, let me bid my father words of sweeter reunions in God’s own time: ‘Til we meet again, Daddy! I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH.

The motorcycle. Ah, what an indispensable modern-day convenience! Compared to four-wheeled vehicles, it has its own distinct advantages. For one, it’s cheaper by a long shot. Those of us in the upper level of the poverty line can at least afford to buy or loan one. It’s also more economical to use. With the rising gasoline prices nowadays, a fifty peso tank refill can at least get us to the market and back (albeit when I was in college, it used to get me all over the place for three days). Last but not the least, the motorcycle is traffic-resistant. With a skilled defensive driver, the single MC can easily swerve past rows of cars, easy rides and pedicabs jammed in our narrow city streets, and get us to our destination faster with time left to spare. Indeed, the motorcycle combines the ease of a bicycle and the speed of a car in one sleek and useful package.

Yet, with all its virtues, there is one thing that the motorcycle sorely lacks: It does not protect its riders from the elements. Heat, wind, rain, dust and smoke—the brunt of all these have to be borne by its riders. Add to this list suicidal street dogs madly dashing through the highways, drunken or otherwise stoned pedestrians and/or drivers, and reckless or imprudent drivers in general, who make life miserable and downright dangerous to the majority of decent and courteous motorcycle-riding public in this city.

Things being already as they are, we who ride our single MCs everyday have to deal, and our coping mechanisms have resulted to some rather peculiar scenes from the motorcycle:

1. The Masks. I don’t recall the Dumaguete motorcycle riders in my youth wearing masks. Back then, masks—whether they were surgical types, gauze ones or the wash-and-wear kinds—were only worn in hospitals. Not now. The increasing number of vehicles plying our city streets and the growing incidence of smoke belchers have made masks a necessity to the MC riders, especially to those of us whose lungs are too weak to take on all the pollution.

2. The “Hand” Mask. In the absence of a mask, the hand shall suffice. It looks quite peculiar at first, but on hindsight, I think this position not only makes for protection from dust and pollution, it also makes for safety: The backrider covers his or her own mouth and nose with her right hand and uses his or her left hand to shield that of the driver’s, leaving the driver free to maneuver the vehicle.

3. The Arm Gloves. Sunscreen just won’t do. The more enterprising entrepreneurs noticed darkened arms of the poor motorist since they are the body parts most exposed to the sun’s heat, and decided to make arm gloves. They look like regular gloves, except they’re longer (arm-length) with open ends at the knuckles (perhaps keeping the knuckles unwrapped helps motorists retain their grip on the throttle). At sixty pesos, they sell like hotcakes not only to single MC drivers, but to pedicab drivers as well, who only utilize one glove to protect their exposed left arm. Those without arm gloves improvise by inserting both arms into long-sleeved polos in much the same way that doctors would when they touch babies inside incubators.

4. The Overturning Umbrellas. When it rains, motorcyclists can either seek shelter and wait when the downpour stops before continuing their journey or go on regardless of the shower. The more prepared of us, however, readily open the handy umbrellas we’ve brought along. Most of the time, our tight grip would prove no match for the fury of the wind, which would cause our multi-colored, multi-sized sunshades to overturn, resulting in a rather comical scene of a man (or woman) fighting with an umbrella to the delight of other riders and pedestrians.

5. The Motorcycle Raincoat. Raincoats come in all shapes and sizes, but the most ingenious ones are those especially made for motorcycle riders. A long time ago, single MC riders had to contend with getting their lower extremities wet when the rainy season comes around. That was when raincoats were still cut a tad too short at the knees. Now, however, they are cut long enough at the front to protect the driver’s arms and legs from getting wet. Others are big enough to “hide” the backrider.

All cancer survivors know that fighting the Big C is never easy. We are like soldiers going to battle, never knowing what the outcome may be. Yet, it is essential that no matter what the future holds- whether it be life or death- we still must continue to live life to the fullest. I’d like to share this quote which I found from the LA Police Gear website to my fellow cancer survivors in the hope that they won’t lose hope in their continuing battle with the Big C:

“It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy course; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.” THEODORE ROOSEVELT (Paris Sorbonne,1910)

LA Police Gear is a website that sells law enforcement gear, including tactical footwear and boots and tactical apparrel, among others. Click on this link tactical holster to check out some of their latest products.

DUMAGUETE CITY- The torrential downpour this week turned an otherwise mundane spillway in Bagacay into something of a tourist spot. My husband and I were making our way towards the Hypermart when we realized we could not get across because the overflow, well, overflowed. The heavy rains had so increased the water level that it flooded the road and caused torrents of brown, muddy river water to gush down at incredible speeds, rendering it impassable to most motorcycles, pedicabs and any other two-to-three wheel contraptions known to man.

To most that is. Because there were not a few brave souls who dared to cross the raging surge, and their attempts, successful or not made for a rather entertaining show to those of us who watched. Some adolescent boys also earned some dough pushing these bold riders to safety as their vehicles stalled in the middle or near the end of the violent flow. The fearless (or perhaps they were practical- turning back means more gasoline, and thus more money spent) drivers who dared the tide also employed different tactics just to make it through. There was one pedicab carrying a full load of passengers whose driver decided that accelerating all the way was the key to a successful cross. Other motorcyclists thought that going slow as one traverses the tide and then accelerating near the end in order to get the their vehicles out of the water was a better idea. One man on a bicycle mulled over his situation and thought that carrying his bike and wading across was his best option.

Many of those who revved up their engine and accelerated from start to finish ended up getting stuck near the end. Those who went slow at first, and then going full throttle near the end had better chances of not stalling, while the man who decided to carry his bike and wade across successfully made it through with his pride and his bike intact.

That scene on a rainy Tuesday afternoon reminded me about the gushing torrents of trials and ordeals that we face in our journey through life, and our responses to them. When faced with troubles, do we hurry through- anxious to get out of it as fast as we can-and curse whoever we can for allowing us to suffer? Or do we tread the waters cautiously, carefully feeling the way, allowing ourselves to immerse in the problem and learn a lesson or two from it?

One of the pamphlets which I got from Carmel Church in Lipa, Batangas is entitled Suffering: How to Make the Greatest Evil In Our Lives Our Greatest Happiness by Fr. Paul Sullivan,O.P. Contrary to the notion that suffering is evil, he writes that “suffering is not simply an evil, for no one suffered more than the Son of God Himself, more than His Blessed Mother or more than the Saints. Every suffering comes from God [because] nothing happens to us without His wish or permission.” Fr. Sullivan believes that God allows people to suffer “because He is asking us to take a little share in His Passion… God suffered all the dreadful pains of His Passion for each one of us. How can we refuse to suffer a little for love of Him?” If borne with the utmost patience, he said that suffering becomes the gold in our lives, bringing out all that is good in us. “Those who have suffered are usually the most charming people.” The key, he says, to graciously bearing all our sufferings whether they are trifle ones or major agonies is to “accept them with serenity and patience. What really makes suffering difficult to bear is our own impatience, our revolt, our refusal to accept it. This irritation increases our sufferings a hundredfold and, besides, robs us all the merit we could have gained thereby.” Besides, God does not allow us to suffer alone. If we ask for help from the Almighty to bear our sufferings, then He gives us the strength to bear our troubles. Fr. Sullivan shares the experience of one doctor who published an article in the secular press on the power of prayer. The doctor claimed that: “Prayer is the greatest power in the world.” He further shared: “I and my colleagues frequently see that many of our patients, whom we have failed to cure or whose pains we have failed to alleviate, have cured themselves by prayer. I speak now not of the prayers of holy people, but the prayers of ordinary Christians.”

This doctor’s proclamation reminded me of my oncologist’s reaction three years ago when he noticed vast improvements in my cancer after only my second chemotherapy. He asked me if I prayed, and when I answered in the affirmative, he nodded his head and said: “Pagpatuloy mo ‘yan. Mahal ka ng Diyos.” (Just keep on praying. God loves you.) Fr. Sullivan also urges his readers (as I do) to ask the help of the Blessed Virgin Mary in our times of suffering, saying: “God gave her all the immense graces necessary to make her the perfect Mother of God, but He also gave her all the graces, the tenderness, the love necessary to be our most perfect and loving Mother.” Certainly, the intercession of the Mother of God is a very puzzling, if not difficult, concept to accept for some, but from one who has experienced the power of her miraculous intervention, I can only say that Our Blessed Lady loves us immensely.

We all have our personal overflows to cross everyday in our lives. Whether we choose to step on the gas and accelerate all the way to the end, or go slow, immerse in the tide or carry our bikes and wade through the turbulent waters, we can be assured that God, like the adolescent boys standing by the overflow, is ever ready to help. Their only difference is, God doesn’t ask for pennies or anything in return. He only requires our faith.

I’ve worked for as long as I can remember. Doing part-time jobs as a radio DJ/newscaster, student assistant in the Registrar’s Office, and English tutor to Koreans where I lived, provided for my allowance from high school all through University. Needless to say, I joined the workforce right after graduation. Thus, when the Big C came knocking on my door while I was infanticipating about three years ago, there was no other choice but to take a much-needed break, devote myself to my baby and go back to my first love- writing.

My cousin, who also runs his own site at www.theonlinematrix.com, knew about my condition and my passion for writing, introduced me to the concept of blogging, and earning money from it at the same time through Payperpost. Now I’ve heard of blogs before, but I didn’t know that one could actually earn from it. I was more than interested- after all, it was hitting two birds with one stone: I could earn by doing what I love and still take care of my daughter at the same time. He offered to set up my site and with my write-ups www.infiniteperspective.net was born.

Payperpost is an online community that pays bloggers for blogging. Their advertisers are willing to compensate bloggers for their opinion on various websites, products, services and companies. Once you have registered your blog with Payperpost and then have it approved, then, you can start searching through a list of Opportunites, posting your blog about that opportunity, submitting it to them for approval, and then ultimately, getting paid.

I am still a newbie in this whole blogging business, but I’ve already learned to harness the power of the Internet, other than using it for email and research. With my blog, I do hope to reach out to more people and inspire especially those who are battling cancer, to fight the good fight. I would encourage those who have a story to tell, those who seek to inspire and uplift, or those who simply love to write, those who want to earn without leaving home, to explore this world. If Payperpost pays bloggers for writing about what they love, then that just makes blogging a whole lot better.

 It’s so easy to thank God when you are at the top of your career, when you are happily married to a loving husband, when the pregnancy test yielded positive results and you know that in nine months you will be blessed with your first baby. When you have all the good things, praising an ever-loving God is easy. But what if you have to stop working because you got sick? What if the possibility of a miscarriage stares at you right in the face? What if you suddenly have to face the thought of leaving your loved ones behind as dying becomes a real possibility? Will you thank God then?

 I was a 26 year old happily married teacher expecting my first baby when I was diagnosed with Stage IV Thymoma—a rare form of cancer affecting the thymus gland. (Normally, the thymus gland disappears as a person grows older. In some uncommon cases, it doesn’t. It grows and becomes malignant). Though faced with a very uncertain future, I continued to trust the goodness of God. Amazingly, the blessings came pouring in. You see, when cancer came knocking into my life, it did not bring with it demise. Rather, in one of God’s miraculous paradoxes, my cancer brought with it life.
 
By the time I was diagnosed, the mass had grown so big that I had developed all sorts of cardiac complications. As a result, my heart was having difficulty pumping blood throughout my system, making my pulse rate go up and my breathing laborious. As if that wasn’t enough, the MRI Scan also showed that the cancer had metastasized to the lungs and other nearby areas. Chemotherapy or radiotherapy had to be administered soon since lying in bed had become very difficult. I had to sit on the chair in order to get some sleep. However in this position, dizzying and vomiting spells constantly plagued me. My baby was in no better condition either as there were days when I had spotting—a sign that not everything was going well inside my womb.

Under those circumstances, radiotherapy was seen as the best possible alternative since it offered the best chance of shrinking the large mass in a short amount of time, thus affording me some relief. Taking this course of action meant the risk of losing my baby.  My little angel had to receive the treatment with me with only a thin abdominal lead shield placed over my stomach to protect her. But we resigned ourselves to the stark reality of losing our firstborn. We cried our confusion, but trusted God nonetheless—hoping against hope that our little angel would make it through. And she did. Chemotherapy followed soon after. My baby and I were given six cycles every twenty-one days. Still she continued to hang on and fight the good fight with me. 

However, when a congenital anomaly scan was about six months into the pregnancy, we were in for more bad news. Fluid had filled my baby’s heart. My doctor explained that this condition could result to fetal death. Despair set in, but we continued to pray. About a month later, a follow-up ultrasound revealed that the fluid had diminished and my baby was thriving well!
 
At eight months, I delivered Maria Carmela via Caesarian section. For a premature baby weighing only 1.55 kilograms at birth, she had a lusty cry that woke me up from my anesthesia-induced sleep. My fears of a deformed baby were put to rest when the doctors held my beautiful and complete baby girl close to me. Amid the ecstatic exultations of my doctors inside the delivery room—“She has such a wonderful cry! She’s our miracle baby! Do we have a camera?”—I knew that God’s hand was again at work.

Although a month premature, Carmela was placed in the incubator at Neonatal Intensive Care Unit of the Medical City for only twelve days. Now, a healthy baby with a ready smile, Carmela is a constant reminder to us that despite all the seemingly insurmountable odds, God is there. He is only a prayer away. With all these marvelous blessings, how can I not get down on my knees and thank Him? At this eleventh hour, when Big C came to visit, I got my faith back. #       
 
   

Filipinos love celebrations. In Dumaguete alone, we have barely gotten over the Buglasan mania and preparations for the city fiesta are already in full swing. With December just around the bend, Christmas also smells wonderfully close. Of course New Year follows, then Valentines and then …but I’m getting ahead of myself. You do get the picture, don’t you? Fiestas and celebrations are part and parcel of the Filipino (perhaps, even the human) psyche. We just love festivals!

But we don’t have to wait for fiestas or special family occasions to come around so we can party. Life is reason enough for a toast. In fact, I’ve noticed that the more I found reasons to celebrate, the more life gets placed in perspective. So what really makes life worth celebrating?

Family comes first in my list. I savor every precious moment of my daughter’s infectious laughter and my husband’s firm resolve. Of course, when it comes to family, I must not forget to mention Jewel, my “eldest daughter,” whose canine loyalty is far more precious than any material possession that I have.

The next best thing to family is food—especially Italian fare. Savoring very creamy and cheesy pizzas and pastas have become a very precious treat. And now that it’s also imperative for me to eat lots of fruits and vegetables, I’m giving my taste buds a workout with varied tastes and textures. Everyday is a fiesta with sweet lansones, chilled watermelons and would you believe, steamed okra dipped in salt and vinegar.

Then, there are pictures. With the invention of camera phones, priceless moments are captured easily and printed just as quickly. Photographs capture that once-in-a-lifetime instant when a face cannot look exactly as it did at any other time, when a first step was taken, when the triumph of a victory or the pain of loss is as genuine as the day it was felt. When I look at the photos I have of my daughter—from the time I first held her in the delivery room up to now—I always find a reason to celebrate.

I always get a kick out of people whose eyes narrow and jaws drop whenever they see me. So on my list, I always find a cause to celebrate when I see old acquaintances and yes, even relatives, who disbelieve that I’m still alive. Sometimes I even get the feeling that others wish me dead just to prove what they want to believe. So I celebrate everyday of the life that the good Lord has given me so that I can continue to proclaim how wonderful He is and how truly effective Mama Mary’s intercession is. Of course, the jaw dropping gets pretty hilarious sometimes, so a bash is always in order every time that happens.

Last but not the least, I find reason to celebrate in everything that Life throws at me. The joys, fears, uncertainties, sadness, anger and grief—all sorts of emotions and sentiments that make this existence colorful and vibrant are more than enough for a toast. Dreams fulfilled and dreams yet to be realized, the everyday struggle to either succumb or fight—all these scream for a celebration. Because despite all of life’s punches, it’s still good to be alive.

“To have faith is to be sure of the things we hope for, to be certain of the things we cannot see.”
Hebrews 11:1

My daughter is my greatest blessing. Bringing her out into the world amid all the odds was a feat that I can only attribute to God’s miraculous grace. Cancer and pregnancy don’t really go well together and undergoing both chemotherapy and radiotherapy—both mainstays in the cancer treatment program—significantly increases the risk of birth anomalies in the fetus. It could only be through God’s extraordinary blessing that our baby girl was born whole and healthy, with the Newborn Screening showing normal results. Adele Pillitteri in her book Maternal and Child Health Nursing explains: “As a rule, women can receive chemotherapy in the second and third trimesters of pregnancy without adverse fetal effects. Radiation therapy, in contrast… puts the fetus at risk throughout pregnancy if the fetus is directly exposed.”
I started receiving both treatments during the first trimester of my pregnancy. When you take that into consideration, you can understand why this case is a medical miracle. Now that I am convalescing, I know that my continued health and that of my daughter’s hinges on God’s providence alone. Human as I am however, there are times when I succumb to worries that God might not continue the miracle He started.

Yesterday was one such day. The news featured an adolescent boy with leukemia whom the news channel’s foundation was sponsoring for chemo treatments. The reporter also interviewed a physician who revealed the causes for this type of cancer. One stood out clearly in my mind: A fetus’ exposure to radiation early on in the pregnancy. My husband, who was happily playing with our child, stopped laughing and simply held our baby close. Exposure? My daughter had more than exposure! She had tons of radiation and x-rays she’s probably bionic!

Dr. O.P. Jaggi in his book Cancer: Causes, Prevention & Treatment reveals that from a scientific standpoint, studies have shown that x-rays and radioactive substances are well-recognized causes of cancer. Nineteenth century mine workers in Czechoslovakia who were exposed to radioactive substances developed lung cancer. A lot of inexperienced technicians working with x-ray machines in the past developed leukemia and skin cancers. Many Japanese who were exposed to the atomic bomb explosions likewise developed leukemia and other cancers.

Then I remember that my oncologist had given me a straightforward answer about a year ago when I asked what my daughter’s chances are of “inheriting” the illness. “If she gets it, leukemia might manifest itself in her adolescent years.” He did give the assurance that this was highly unlikely yet should it come to pass, by then medical science should already have rendered chemo obsolete and found a complete cure for the Big C.

There is nothing for us to do now but strive to give the best possible care for our precious little girl. Because we are treading a very uncertain path, we know that only God’s firm grip can see us through. We have been given a reason to pray.
When I shared this possibility with my mother, her answer was more basic: “She is God’s gift. God’s angels protected her, Mama Mary sheltered her, and Jesus blood washed away all traces of radiation that she received. God won’t allow her to get sick—now or ever.”

Such trust, such confidence. Yet such is faith. I would do well to follow her example.

“This world is not conclusion;
A sequel stands beyond,
Invisible, as music,
But positive, as sound…..”

-Emily Dickinson

Whenever November 1 comes around, I always feel a certain sense of foreboding. Perhaps it has something to do with my fear of death and the unknown. For instance, I would consciously look the other way when passing by funeral parlors and cemeteries. Horror flicks are never on my movies-to-watch list and I would feel like retching whenever I see a dead carcass of a cat or a dog on the street. Oh, I’ve gone on wakes and watched the deceased lying peacefully in their caskets, but I still find funeral atmospheres stifling, to say the least.

Fear is a good thing, I suppose, because it helps one prepare for that inevitable hour when the clock of life would have to come to a grinding halt. It’s peculiar how our time on earth now seems to be one big audition for the after-life. For Christians, the concept of heaven and hell are two motivating factors why life on earth must be of upright consequence. For others, the notion of basic human decency and impressing a fine legacy is enough.

But can we really prepare for death? After all, we know for a fact that there is no exact schedule for passing away. We could go tomorrow, next week, next year—nothing is ever fixed. The only thing that’s certain is we go. When the doctors told me that I had cancer fourteen months ago, the only question that burned inside of me was: If I die now, have I not wasted my life? My whole existence literally flashed before my eyes as I sought to answer my own query. The pain that accompanies each potential dying breath and the physical part of the demise did not scare me as much as wanting to know if I have not wasted my time on earth. In case God convenes a jury to try whether each departed soul was fit for heaven I wanted to be able to properly respond and defend myself. Up to now I’m still searching for an answer as the shadow of mortality stalks me everyday. While looking for that, I strive to know my purpose so as not to waste the second lease on life granted to me. It’s a good thing that I have my baby to care for. I now have a goal as I strive to live my life on a daily basis—that of nurturing the little miracle that has been with me from the start. Surely, loving and ensuring the welfare of God’s gift to me is purpose enough. If this isn’t the only objective of my existence, then I hope the Almighty would be lenient enough to add more sand to my hourglass.

In the end how one prepares for that final destination is a matter of individual preference. Whether preparation entails doing good deeds, heeding God’s call for the ministry, or praying five times a day, pondering on the hereafter is a personal endeavor worth taking because it sets the mood for one’s animate existence in this world. Of course, it’s always easy to go through life without giving death a thought, but every time we celebrate All Souls Day, we know that our time will come. When it does, it would be wonderful to embrace it with no reservations.

My daughter is already ten months old. She babbles in simple monosyllables, smiles a lot, crawls with lightning speed and maneuvers her walker confidently. But as a mother, I find that nothing compares to my baby’s ability to recognize faces. When she wakes up in the morning, for example, she always looks for me or her daddy before she breaks into that wonderful smile that always puts the “good” in “Good Morning!” Nothing makes me happier than to see her hold up her arms, eyes beseeching her grandma, her daddy or me: “Please carry me.” Or the way she squeals with delight whenever I tickle and kiss her tummy. The power of an infant to mesmerize and hold one captive is something short of amazing, isn’t it? Because this power is pure and uncorrupted, it has the effect of drawing people easily to them. Think about it: Have you ever looked at a baby before and found yourself repulsed? I don’t think so. Even those born with congenital diseases do not evoke in us a feeling of revulsion. Rather, we are so much more drawn to their plight. Out of pity? Perhaps. Or is it because in a world so tainted with all things vile, we fear the loss of that one beautiful, innocent life? I would like to believe that this is so.

A child born into the world brings with him or her limitless potential. Your little bundle of joy could bring happiness in the hearts of many with her gift of laughter. Your neighbor’s month old boy could serve the cause of justice with his gift of wisdom. My darling child could find the cure for cancer, AIDS or any other debilitating disease with her gift of healing. Our little ones hold these aspirations with them. What little they can show for physical strength and energy, they make up for boundless potential, holding our minds and hearts in rapt attention as we wait and see what they would ultimately become.

With such wonderful prospects wrapped in the evocative innocence of babyhood, how could we go wrong? But we did go wide of the mark. Humanity knows of power, but one that boasts of dominance and submission. Civilization knows of stirring talent, but one that is used for malice and destruction. The world knows of life-saving devices and medicines, but also realizes that the maladies we face now are fast making these obsolete. Countries aspire for peace, but are willing to go to war over borders. Politicians rant of public service, but are ready to milk dry the public they serve. We speak of religion, but sorely lack the basic human notion of respect for those who are also sons and daughters of God. We know of love, but are eager preys to the call of pride, prejudice and hate.

How could that once innocent infant turn out to be one power-hungry maniac? How could that tiny tot turn out to be a merciless killer? How could that gurgling baby you once knew turn to dealing and peddling in the underbellies of sin?

Can someone or something be blamed for tainting such innocence? Oh, biologists will say it is one’s genetic predisposition that eventually molds an individual’s personality. Psychologists will point out that the environment is the main culprit. Adults blame their bosses or spouses, whoever they find more despicable. And teenagers blame their parents. Maybe everyone and everything else is the cause. Maybe no one and nothing.

As an afterthought, I hope my baby ultimately finds the purpose for which she was born and I dream even more, with much anticipation and optimism that she goes on to fulfill it. Yet more than this, I pray fervently that while she sets about accomplishing whatever it is that God set her to perfect, she does not lose that innocence that makes her such a power to be reckoned with.

MANILA- 2007 is now only a distinct memory. Yet for me, it certainly did not go quietly away. Like the fireworks that lit up the Manila skies from midnight to dawn of December 31, 2007 to January 1, 2008, the year that just closed was one fraught with colorful- sometimes dazzling, sometimes deadly- displays. And that’s just on my own turf. In the realm of politics, calamities and showbusiness, 2007 can certainly boast of its just share in the limelight.

As our little family watched the dark skies light up with the rainbow of colors that herald the coming of the new year, as we listened to the ear-splitting sounds of whistle bombs, triangles and baby rockets in our midst, it suddenly occurred to me that all these noise and fanfare are simply forerunners of the year ahead. Just like any other year that came and went, 2008 will certainly have its share of surprises, trials and accomplishments. Just like any other year, it will give opportunities and take them away without batting an eyelash. And just like any other year, it will have the same number of month, weeks, days, hours, minutes and seconds that it always has. Yet, like every time it came and went, the New Year always gives a frayed humanity what it sorely needs: hope.

Although I’ve made the New Year speak like it was some sort of pyschic offering us a glimpse of the future, the truth of the matter is that 2008 or time for that matter, doesn’t have a hand in what happens to the world, to our country or to us. It simply gives us a blank page, an empty calendar in which to work on. It allows us to close the year before with all its successes, failures and emotional baggage and gives us a fresh slate in which to work anew. Though by no means does it give us rose-colored glasses or reason to believe that things will certainly work for us this time, every New Year gives us endless possibilities. It presents prospects for improving our lives, our health and our relationships. It allows us that precious chance to make of ourselves something better, aspire for things greater than ourselves, and ultimately get down to business to do the work necessary to make all these happen.

We are already given the groundwork to pursue our hearts’ desire- all the time that the Year of the Rat holds stretches out for us like an empty highway that extends to that place we could call success, contentment or achievement. And because we are mortal, 2008 could also lead us to that eternal sleep which only God can wake us from. Yet, even with such ominous acceptance of our own mortality, the New Year confers on us the hope that in spite of it all, we could still live our lives and make our mark in this world. For in the final analysis, it is the hope of something better, be it in this life or the next, that urges us to face life head on.

I started working when I was in fourth year high school. Part-time, that is. Whatever free time I had from school, I put into my job as a DJ/newscaster in a local radio station or as a student assistant in the then Silliman Medical Center or the Registrar’s Office. It was tough. Taking hold of my time was like juggling three metal balls while maneuvering a monocycle. The comparison might be a little extreme, but I do not exaggerate. I think any working student now can put themselves in my shoes then. A regular day is not complete without the usual sprint from the Registrar’s Office, for example, to the A/S Building and then to the Main Library to take down notes for a paper due the next day. When most other students consider their day complete, mine had just begun at around eight-thirty at night as I drive my trusty old motorcycle to one of the radio stations here to go on board the 9-12 midnight shift. Remember the paper due the following day? Well, I still had to type that as soon as I got home. After college, I rushed on to work as a research assistant before finally flying to Manila to teach.

All those years were busy years. My days were spent thinking about what would happen next. There was always a deadline to beat. Everything that had to be done for the day and if humanly possible, what was assigned to be accomplished tomorrow, must be done today. My mantra then was: Seize the day! It was always a race against me and time. When I got sick, I realized one does not stand a chance of winning against time.

Time is set. We are given 60 seconds for every minute, 60 minutes for every hour, 24 hours in a day, 30 days in a month (on the average) and 12 months in a year. It’s a constant that we have to live with so that no matter how many activities one crams into a particular day, time won’t give up its hands and say: “I can’t do this anymore! You’re schedule is overloading my system.” The hands of the clock will continue to turn—tick-tock-tick-tock. Meanwhile, our fragile bodies get stressed and ache all over before finally succumbing to exhaustion. Medical studies have shown that chronic stress is now one of the causative factors of sickness and disease. In a world that considers “instant” normal, people now live like automatons—somehow forgetting the fact that we are given the eyes to see, the ears to hear and the nose to smell.

I believe that getting sick is God’s way of telling me to enjoy His creation and “behold the wonder” of all that He has made. Now that I have to rest, I’m finally able to take each day as it comes and savor the time spent with family and friends. Whether it be a motorcycle ride to cool Valencia to smell fresh air, a walk in the beach to look at the sunset, or a no holds barred Wow magic sing session of Melissa Manchester’s Looking Through the Eyes of Love (where I always get a 95, by the way), I’m finally learning what it’s like to live. But the best part of getting sick is having all the time in the world to take care of my daughter. Talking to her, hearing her laugh, giving her light massages everyday—these make life worth living. And whether I have 5 minutes, 5 days, 5 months, 5 years or 5 decades, I’m glad that I’m not fighting against time anymore. I’m smelling the roses, finally.

When I watch people doing extreme sports on TV, I can’t help but ask the question: Why do they do it? When I see the all-too-real dangers and pitfalls associated with these games such as those featured on Sports Disasters at AXN, I raise my hands in resignation, then close my fists, pound the object nearest me and yell: “Why? Why? Why?” After this initial outburst, I calm down and start waxing philosophical: While there are so many who are dying to live, why are there also those who are seemingly living to die? All sorts of games to make the latter more exciting have been invented. Skydiving, base jumping, bungee jumping, just to name a few, are some of the breathtaking stunts which, in my opinion, “flirt with death.” And for what? Is it because of the thrill? Perhaps the adrenaline rush that accompanies such a feat is too much resist. Is it because they want to test the limits of human strength and endurance? The human spirit is capable of accomplishing what seems impossible and maybe this is the best avenue for such. Is it because they want to defy nature? Perhaps this is one way of standing up to nature and claiming victory. Is it because they crave the attention? After all, such staggering exploits do give one a spot on national, sometimes even international, television. Or is it because they want just for one moment, that single, priceless moment, to cheat death? Perhaps, it would be worth the effort just to be able to proclaim that at one particular time, no matter how fleeting, you played with death and won.

It’s truly amazing how these types of sports draw their share of avid enthusiasts. Out of sheer volition, individuals spend loads of money on equipment and training just to be able to do it and experience the ultimate high. The knowledge that they might not make it out alive or at the very least, with body parts complete and bones unbroken, does not seem to stop them.

Picture the other end of the spectrum: You’re diagnosed with a potentially fatal disease and the doctor tells you that unless medical intervention is given (e.g. an operation or a series of treatments like chemotherapy for cancer, or dialysis for kidney disorders), you might snap out anytime soon. What would your response be? Not counting the initial crying episode, most would tell their doctor to go ahead and do what is best. Kindhearted souls pool together resources for that much-needed operation or therapy, with the hope that it will prolong the patient’s life. Meanwhile, the ailing individual psyches himself or herself up to fight the disease and survive, while summoning all the saints who would listen to intercede and pray to hasten his or her recovery. Rarely does one throw in the towel and “go gentle into that good night.” Suddenly, there are a lot of reasons to “rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Whether it be for a son or daughter, a career or the smell of fresh coffee in the morning, the myriad of motives to triumph against the disease and live becomes endless and the will to survive becomes ever more clear. When faced with the grim reality of saying hello to the Grim Reaper, one thinks of business left unfinished, of lands yet untraveled, of dreams yet unfulfilled, and immediately the primeval instinct to survive immediately comes into play.