A few weeks ago I was having severe abdominal pain.
Hah! And you thought I couldn’t milk this non-event any further. Well I would milk it, scrape the bottom of the barrel, agitate the aardvark, and such– much to your MK (major karindihan)!
The infuriating pain was getting more terrible and more frequent each day that I’ve gotten annoyed at the smallest things, such as someone calling my attention once again for the hundreds of unreturned x-ray plates cluttering my table, or the fact that I keep lots of unwashed cups on my table. The pain meds weren’t working, I’ve been injecting myself more frequently than usual, and of course, the whinings. In the middle of one duty night I woke up Vampirella. “Vampirella, paturok, huhuhu,” I fake-cried. Vampirella agreed and as she was about to poke me I cried, “Ako na lang”, and I injected myself. “Eeeeek!” Vampirella eeeeeeek-ed. Yeah, even in the middle of the night I needed someone to witness the drama.
Whenever someone asks me why I decided to go through with the elective, very un-cinematic procedure my reply would depend on who was asking. If it were some high, authoritative figure I would say, “my patient care was getting impaired.” It wasn’t a total lie anyway. A few months back while clearing a patient in the middle of the night and I was clutching my abdomen I said, “Hingang malalim. SINABI NANG HUMINGANG MALALIM!”
On my next blog entries I’ll be exploring further the many different interesting, complicated facets and aspects of this major, major event. Expect deep, exploratory discussions on the issue of… the stitches! Expect an intense, detailed, step-by-step account of my exciting trip from my room, to the x-ray room, back to my room, then my sleep prior to the event, and the dreams I’ve had (with psychoanalytic interpretations!), and how I was transferred to the gurney, and eventually to the OR table! And how about the post-event drama? How do I now walk back to my bedroom after taking a bath? Is my towel now positioned higher up my belly to hide my hideous scars and therefore my… vulnerability? Do I feel an inner emptiness, like something inside is, I don’t know, missing? If Karen Horney and Carl Jung were alive, how would they interpret this psychotic call for attention?
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