Drowning (fiction)

I took the longer route to the hospital this morning. It seems rather early for my visit to Nana, an elderly lady stricken with cancer of the uterus. I was thinking I might see the vendor who sells fresh cinnamon rolls every morning and I thought I should get some for Nana. They have become her favorite since the day I first brought her the only bread she used not to eat.

My daily visit to the hospital ward to see the lady in her eighties who’s been ignored mostly by the nurses and her ward mates started on Valentine’s Day last year. I thought I’d do something different so instead of going on a date with my special someone who really wasn’t that special or on a group date with my office mates, I opted to drop by the government hospital near my rented place and just look around.

I am not nor would want to be in the medical profession although as a kid I harbored the dream of being a doctor. Still, I’ve had a lot of experiences in hospitals that the thought of being inside one seems to feel comforting in an odd way. I was a sickly kid while growing up so my parents had to bring me in and out of different hospitals. The smell of antiseptic on freshly mopped floor, the white lights in the corridors, the hospital staff in their scrubs and silent shoes walking past you as they go from room to room, the visitors with their flowers or boxes of cake or goodies, the companion of the patients whose eyes seem to want to fall off from their sockets from tiredness and lack of sleep, and the many other things that you experience inside a hospital are all familiar to me. Interestingly, even if I am entering a hospital for the first time I feel a sense of coming home.

Unlike most people who equate hospital with disease and hopelessness, I see it as a haven for sick people who have faith in their hearts that it is in that place where they will find healing and their health will be restored. People would borrow money, pawn their valuables and go through any length in order to send their sick loved ones to a hospital. Despite diagnosis of imminent atrophy even under the care of the most competent doctors and hospital staff, people go to hospitals for any cure.

Such is the case of Nana. (to be continued)

Musings

(Written almost 3 years ago)
I never thought I’d feel this way towards something that I’ve started to enjoy doing. I am, by the way, talking about my work. I guess being in this field is not as great as it sounded at first.

I used to teach college students in one of the premier universities in the country. Unfortunately, I didn’t finish my Masters so I had to find another job or another school/university. As the gods would have me, I was hired the following semester that my contract with the premier university expired. This time it was an exclusive university, one with all the amenities and stuff to cater to the needs of the rich college students who can afford to enroll. It was easy getting into that one. I was just my usual, arrogant self. Armed with almost five years experience teaching the brightest and toughest kids of the land, I walked into the classroom and did my thing. I delivered an almost flawless teaching demonstration on Integration (College Calculus). They were convinced I could do a good job imparting my knowledge and they hired me.

I was ecstatic. Surely this university could pay me more. After all, it is a private university and known for big compensation packages for its employees. But the gods I was talking about had some tricks up their sleeves. It turned out the job was on a part-time basis. At that time, what choice do I have? It was either that part-time job or no job for the next four weeks. I grabbed the chance and did a little modification on my wardrobe that used to consist of comfortable jeans, loafers, sneakers or mojo slippers and (organization, faculty, university) shirts or a few blouses. I had to buy more decent blouses, some slacks and a pair of high-heeled sandals. It was fun at first. I felt I was playing “dress up” and the classroom situations were as varied as they could get. The students are especially diverse. By that, I mean their mathematical capacity and backgrounds. It was a challenge indeed. And challenges I love facing head-on.

After a semester of grueling classroom discussions and mind-bending exams that majority of the class despised, I found out I was about to go looking for another job. It didn’t come as a surprise. Seven of the graduating students in my class did not get their diploma because they failed my course. It was a tough sem-ender. I was called to the dean’s office and was asked to explain their failure. Is a failing grade in most of the exams including the removal exam and the finals not basis enough? I was once more my adamant self. I was afraid they would make me change the grades, something I definitely did not intend to do whatever the cost. After the dialogue with the failing students at the dean’s office, I never heard from them again. Not from those students who failed the course and not from the dean as well. In fact, I found out by the end of the semester that I no longer have any teaching load for that summer. That was the end of it.

Fortunately for me I had a pending application to a private school near my University. The principal saw my credentials fit so they asked me to come for an interview. Now that is another story worth telling another day.