Consequences

THERE WAS NO glory in the gutsy throwing of caution to the wind, only gore and guilt in the wake of pain and suffering. During healthier times, it was a breeze to just put up with occasional, tolerable aches here and there; the ever present numbness sometimes bothered but the stubbornness always held sway. The comeuppance grinned its righteous verdict for the inevitable moment to arrive. There was no sadness, solace, or sympathy when sorrow struck. It was a misery that company loathed. The ancient neuropathy was worsened by recurrent dropsy but the diabetes-caused pair did not daunt. Clearer was the certainty that the reunion will rejuvenate whatever allegiance that strayed from the purpose. Fonder was the desire to wonder about little changes that visited upon missed acquaintances. Stronger was the bluster to exhibit once more the suspended skills that took French leave from kindred competencies. Evidently, the meeting served as an excuse for platforms to be posited, usually more personal than populist, even if they ultimately covered a common cause. It is never lost that an enormous amount of control and propriety were contributed by those who are there to deserve belonging to the brotherhood. Thankfully, the number is greater than the eagerness to simply be counted, heard, seen, and respected. (To say nothing of break bread and, inevitably, clink glasses.) The galvanizing factor is owed to an ideal of sorts, indubitably earned by a leadership that broke a detached bureaucracy shared by smug residents, which necessitated a show of physical performance unheard of in a span of complacent crisis and self-preservation.  Before the group was exiled out of a rehearsal area that the ugly head of gossip politics cruelly described as its watering hole, their venue inspired the loyal attendees to let go of whatever creative musical juices that would flow from those with meager skills enhanced by the catching, copious enthusiasm of the inherently gifted. Their polarized interests somehow merged into one goal, indeed, carved in stone in the moniker aptly crafted as One Sound, Team, Goal – or One STG Band, for brevity. How appropriately creative indeed. And firmly cohesive.
However, my short-lived membership to the band was severed without warning and ceremony. This all happened in a blur of March 29, at the Philippine Orthopedic Center, Banawe, the first of several hospitals that tried to diagnoze what ailed me, and failed. In this blur, the sins of my past preoccupied the delirium that visited me during the hospital hopping with my wife and sons. The overriding factor that comforted me throughout the catharsis was the company of page 43 of Fr. Henri J.M. Nouwen’s “The Return of the Prodigal Son.” It defined me as the prodigal son everytime I search for unconditional love where it cannot be found. Why do I keep ignoring the place of true love and persist in looking for it elsewhere? Why do I keep leaving home where I am called a child of God, the Beloved of my Father? I am constantly surprised at how I keep taking the gifts God has given me – my health, my intellectual and emotional gifts – and keep using them to impress people, receive affirmation and praise, and compete for rewards, instead of developing them for the glory of God. Yes, I even carry them off to a “distant country” and put them in the service of an exploiting world that does not know their true value. It’s almost as if I want to prove to myself and to my world that I do not need God’s love, that I can make a life of my own, that I want to be fully independent. Beneath it all is the greatest rebellion, the radical “No” to the Father’s love, the unspoken curse: “I wish you were dead.” The prodigal son’s “No” reflects Adam’s original rebellion: his rejection of the God in whose love we are created and by whose love we are sustained. It is the rebellion that places me outside the garden, out of reach of the tree of life. It is the rebellion that makes me dissipate myself in a “distant country.”
Sis Tes was urgent. The strict instruction of Ate Myla (she who always had a book to brook me during crises) being I had to submit a copy of my senior ID and she will submit the same in order for me to qualify as the next patient for admission to the Philippine Heart Center’s growing, lengthening list. True enough, after complying with her requirements, Myrna and were on the way to the Center.
Through all this, Alex brought out his stationary bike and placed it in the lanai, my happy place which doubled as my sick bay. I have renewed my leg exercise as daily therapy. On top of that, he and Myrna took pains in securing for me a wheelchair, should my infected, arthritic left knee prove to be incurable. Alex added a black-and-silver walking stick for good measure, to this day a companion constant and reliable attendant. Although my youngest Aesop thinks that a pair of crutches would be better, by way of balance.
My weeklong confinement at the Heart Center did not cure my ills. Ate Myla consulted with Ate Clare, who recommended a quick ultrasound of my arthritic left knee. My wife was quick to call on Malvar Hospital and secured an appointment with Dr. Pastor, who was very gentle when she tested my knee. As soon as Ate Clare received the lab result, she instructed us to queue up at the Emergency Room of East Avenue Medical Center. Myrna, not used to long hours of waiting anywhere, put up with five, long hours of paper chasing to secure for me a sickbed. In my blurred memory, I’m grateful that , while we were waiting for the result of Dr. Pastor’s test, I was able to squeeze in my heartfelt appreciation for her sacrifice, and sincere apology for my transgressions in the past. She reassured me that she has long forgiven me. Long story short, I soon occupied Room 5005B in one of the Charity Wards; how fortunate for me that my wardmate was Maricel, a potassium-deficient patient whose loving husband Budz hovered over her like a mother eagle. All this time, Aeron, the youngest son of our Kasambahay Weng, provided Myrna company, and stood by me, especially during times when I had to rush to the toilet because of a darn diarrhea, which lasted for a week, and used up most of my underwear. 
To be concluded