Labels: rant

We are the Starbucks generation.

Yup, the youth of today, the hope of the motherland, the future of the modern world serves one master – coffee.

Starbucks, with its oh-so-comfortable couches, snazzy jazz music and rich coffee-ish aroma, has changed the world as we know it. Look around you. It is not uncommon to see a young executive balancing a cell phone, four stacks of paperwork and a briefcase in one arm. His papers are falling, but he will never let go of the cup of Starbucks coffee held so delicately in his other hand. Look at a normal teen – he claims that he never gets enough allowance from his parents, yet he is Starbucks’ most beloved “suki.” In one sneaky way or another, the tiny little coffee bean has managed to infiltrate the nooks and crannies of the so – called Generation X, wiring our brains and uniting us in one glorious caffeinehood.

And so, the Starbucks generation, the youth of today, empowered by its secret weapon – the amazing coffee bean, is the world’s most interesting group of people. We have the ability to stay awake until the wee hours of the morning, studying (yeah right), partying, doing heaven-knows-what. And we have the uncanny tendency to sleep in the next day, handicapped by a headache that only coffee can bring. Wired by caffeine’s promised antioxidants, our generation claims to have anti-aging properties – we have the fairest skin, the brightest eyes, and the most energy. We will never look old. And never look old we will, because we will die young from cancer, stroke, and heart disease. But hey, at least we’ll look good in the coffin – as long as our coffee-stained yellowish teeth aren’t showing, that is.

Everytime something comes along with the pretense of actually being good, I ruin it.

The mystery is gone.

I got scared, my kamanhidan got the better of me, so I cracked too many jokes and now I guess I’m back in the friend zone. Which is quite a nice place, but it is nothing like the accommodations at the Potentials - Could Be Something More site. And it’s not like I want to be more than friends. I just like the thought of knowing I might actually mean something to someone.

Can someone just prescribe me something that keeps a big mouth shut? Or something that keeps feet from entering oral cavities? Gosh, I’m such a turn-off.

Haha story of my life. I feel like kicking myself in the shin and saying “Yup, you screwed up big time, sister. Again.”

Arrrrgggggh….

Just another boring vacation day. After watching me waste away in front of the portable DVD player watching reruns of “Ugly Betty” while my brain turned to goo, my well-meaning nutritionist mother finally decided to perform emergency intervention.

Which, in motherhood world, spells “teach-your-lazy-child-how-to-cook.”

With the threats of having the DVD player confiscated from my hands and our internet connection being cut off for the entire remainder of the vacation looming over me, I accepted. Me + Kitchen is usually a recipe for disaster but my mom probably knew what she was getting herself into, right?

I was told to wash this whole stash of vegetables for our lunch. I had no idea what recipe involved sitaw, ampalaya, kamatis, luya, and just about every other vegetable in the “Bahay Kubo” song, but I washed everything anyway (Given, the only recipe I know is fried eggs, but don’t tell anyone). I got through that task without offending any vegetables, so yey for me. Off to the next, more complicated task – cutting and chopping them up.

And so I did. Following the instructions my mother left me, I chopped the spinach into three parts – the stump, the stem and the leaves. I spent ten minutes painstakingly peeling the skin off a single, three-inch long ginger.I chopped up the kamatis into cute little pieces. I broke up the long sitaws into shortened strips. Lastly, I cut the ampalaya into these tiny, itty-bitty slices, because who in their right mind would eat big chunks of bitter ampalaya right? Wow, I’m actually good at this. I should just shift to culinary arts next semester.

With the ominous task behind me, I called out to my mother and proudly presented to her my masterpiece, the fruits of my labor, the sweat of my brow. She took one look at my work: an assortment of large spinach pieces, tiny ampalaya bits, mushed up kamatis, uneven ginger slices, long and short sitaw parts, and said, “Masyadong maliit yung ampalaya… Haysh… Bakit ko ba naisipang ipagawa to sayo?”

Exactly! I could have told her that mid-Betty-marathon. I was about to agree, but her next words shut me up.

“Hindi ka pa talaga pwedeng magsweetheart. Wahaha.”

Oh no. Oh no no no no. Someone teach me how to cook, quick.

But seriously? Is there even a single person out there who would eat chunks of ampalaya that big?

Labels: cooking

So there I was, the heroine of the story, locked out of my own patient’s room, standing alone in the empty hallway, no idea of what to do as my “busy” patient watched the details of Rudy Fernandez’s death on The Buzz. All I could think of was, “Here I am, all willing to give her a bedbath, feed her, clothe her, clean her poo, wash her butt if need be! And she chooses Rudy Fernandez over me? Oh, Rudy Fernandez, with all due respect, why did you choose this day to die?” I had memorized all medical abbreviations, perfected my vital signs taking, and completed all my checklists in preparation for this very very day! Instead of her being in grateful tears, I was the one almost in tears.

But never fret, dear readers, our heroine is not one to give up. Standing up a little straighter, I rejected all the things I learned in nursing theory and focused instead on my father’s words the night before “Anak, ang health ministry ay napakaimportante. Galingan mo pagaalaga. Malay mo, ikaw ang huling taong makakausap ng pasyenteng yun bago siya mamatay. Ikaw ang binigyan ng huling opportunity para madala ang taong yun kay Jesus.” Right there and then in the hallway, I discreetly looked around to see if anyone was watching, closed my eyes, pretended to rub them as if in deep thought and said a quick prayer. This time armed with my father’s words and a prayer to the Father, I turned around and entered the lion’s den.

She looked at me quickly, irritated at my disturbance, her eyes asking “What is it this time? My goodness.”

I did as she asked – quickly, so she wouldn’t get impatient again. Noticing the almost empty cup at her bedside table, I quickly opened the refrigerator door, got a bottle of water, and refilled her cup.

Silence.

Grateful for the progress our “nurse-patient rapport” was having, I quickly refilled her cup again. Now more confident, I began to notice little things I could do for my patient, little things she didn’t have to ask me to do. While she busied herself listening to Lorna Tolentino’s grief report, I busied myself too. I adjusted the room temperature. I raised the head of the bed. I refilled her water again. I took her blood pressure as subtly as I could. I cleaned her bedside table. Refilled her cup again. Adjusted the TV so she’d have better reception. Assisted her to the CR. Refilled her cup. Again. And again. For the entire afternoon shift, we stayed in one room together as I, the pampered, sheltered, spoiled AUP kid, tried my best to “serve.” Just tiny little things. The nurse was officially in the building. Oh yeah.

Despite my best efforts though, she remained stoic and unfriendly, immune to my charms (which is, like, an amazing outrageous feat, haha). I refused to admit defeat though. Undaunted, our heroine gave it one last shot. I would wear down her thick wall, even if it killed me. I played my last card, my secret weapon - no one I knew had ever won against this particular ace before.

Cue my victory party. The stern face softened into – ooooh, is that a smile? It is! The wall broke down. She laid down on the bed and I worked my magic. In between strokes she asked me about my plans for the future. It turned out that she was a caregiver who had worked in different parts of the world before (Oh… so that’s why she knew about the oxygen tank). She told me not to work in the States, (“Matataba ang mga tao don, hindi mo kaya buhatin, kailangan mo pang magpataba!”), clued me in on her family (“Ang asawa ko nasa abroad, may isa akong anak na nagnunursing din, yung isa naman business”), told me I had good hands (“San ka natutong magmasahe?”) and finally asked me about my faith (“Adventist ka diba? Lahat ba ng worker dito Adventist? Sumisimba kayo pag Sabado diba? Tapos kahit anong karne hindi niyo kinakain?”). She gave me the name of a website that she said would help me if I ever I needed to find work someday.

Then came the funniest coincidence of all. “May kamukha ka… Kamukha mo yung dati kong nurse nung naadmit ako dati.” It turned out that my eldest sister, now a registered nurse, had taken care of the very same patient several years ago back when my sister was still a college student. Amazing.

To make this long tale short, my first hospital duty taught me something. It’s not your accurate vital signs taking or your amazing oxygen tank managing skills (or lack of it) that will win over your patient. It’s how you perform the simple, tedious, acts of kindness that will. Oh and sometimes, not having a celebrity’s death shroud your shift really helps.

Labels: nursing

1. That nursing is cruel to vegetarians. A nursing student has to eat – which is why they invented fastfood restaurants. They are the student nurses’ best sources of breakfast, lunch, and sometimes even supper while on duty. They are critical to sustaining the student’s ATP-producing processes (in other words, energy) in order to avoid episodes of syncope (fancy word for fainting). Unfortunately, most of these restaurants are not very animal friendly. So while you, the faithful vegetarian, are munching on mushy, oil-dipped fries, fries, and oh, fries (or if your lucky, Chowking tofu), your blockmates are feasting on Go Large chicken fillets, Big Macs and Hotshots. Oh the unjustice of it all. You’d think that after listening to the Cardiovascular System lecture about how cholesterol builds up in the arteries and causes atherosclerosis (or arteriosclerosis – forgot which is which. Sorry Ma’am Da), nursing students would be a little bit more careful about their daily fat intake. But sorry honey, that’s wishful thinking. As McDonalds and KFC would be happy to know, the College of Nursing’s appetite for dead animal carcasses covered in crunchy breading is still unbelievably strong. Ugh.
2. That no matter how close you are to your clinical instructor, there is still that tiny, tiny line you must never cross. Because at the end of the day, no matter how crazy cool they are, no matter how close your age difference is and no matter how many jokes, food or make-up tips you exchange, they are still your superiors and ultimately, THEY DECIDE ON YOUR GRADE. So respect them and do not, I repeat, DO NOT ever piss them off. Unless you’re masochistic or something. Understood? UNDERSTOOD?!? Good.
3. That an intradermal injection hurts. Which my patient at the OB ward would probably testify to after I pierced through her skin three times with my shaking, freaking Richter Intensity 7 - fingers.
4. That you must always read labels on containers before using them. Especially when you’re on NOC duty in the operating room with no running water. Trust me. Or else you’ll find out that what you thought was water in a bottle is actually formalin in a bottle. And you’ll discover this only after your oh-so-delicate skin turns red with irritation because you scrubbed your entire arm with it. (Yup, true story. Oh well, at least my arm will be preserved after I die. Bright side.)
5. That after eight hours of monitoring hourly urine outputs, three hours of scrubbing in on an exploratory laparotomy, four minutes of changing adult diapers, and ten seconds of dressing a viciously infected scrotum, you will become officially immune to blood, gore, sputum, pus, projectile vomiting, rotting body parts, urine, feces, and other pleasant things. Nothing will ever faze you again. Nuh-uh. I can witness all that and still munch on aforementioned mushy fries an hour later. Just all in a day’s work.
6. That labor and delivery is the most unglamorous, most difficult experience facing today’s women (and sometimes even 14-year old teens). I’ve watched a full term pregnant mother experience intense uterine contractions for three hours, gripping the DR table’s handlebars (or whatever they’re called) with such intensity I thought they would shatter, pooing a little with every vigorous push, exposing all her body parts for all the world to gawk at.. My goodness… I tell you… Childbirth is not for the fainthearted. (Guys, just imagine something as big as a football coming out of your pee-pees. Not so nice, huh?) Our mothers literally went through hell for us, and what do we give them? Hell in return? Tsktsk… As Ma’am Cadalig eloquently put it in our Fundamentals of Nursing Class, “Yang sakit na nararamdaman niyo pag nakipagbreak ang boyfriend niyo sa inyo? WALANG WALA YAN KOMPARA SA LABOR PAINS!” LET US LOVE OUR MOTHERS!!!
7. That micropore tape is a nursing student’s best friend. Future nursing students, students of all courses, I am about to educate you on the best, most well-kept secret in the duty world. This is a trick I’m proud to have perfected. Here’s the situation: You are charting your Nurses’ Notes at the Manila Adventist Medical Center, notorious for its meticulous graphs and squeaky clean charts. You’re just about to finish, when suddenly that cute male staff nurse you’ve been crushing on passes by, and you accidentally write down “rectal cannula” instead of “nasal cannula.” OOOPS – that’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. So rather than rechart the entire thing complete with the patient’s vital signs, medications and progress for the past week, the student nurse should just follow these simple, do-it-yourself instructions: 1.Get a short strip of Micropore tape. 2.Roll up said strip into a ball. 3.Dab the ball into the area of error as many times as needed to complete blot out the error.
   Note: Do this carefully and delicately as not to rip out or damage the paper.
   You can try this at home if you don’t believe me. It’s pure genius. As the saying goes, “No one’s perfect, that’s why nurses have Micropore.” Haha.
8. That it doesn’t matter how many hours you spent reviewing your notes, how big your eyebags have gotten in burning the midnight oil, how many cups of Nescafe you brewed in six hours – the exam will always be about something that you didn’t study for. You’ll always end up screwing your previously memorized anatomy of the respiratory system and relying instead on good ol’ common sense and your mother’s prayers.
9. That you must photocopy your accomplished OR and DR scrubs from your skills booklet. THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT. Don’t be the idiot who lost her skills booklet (which is practically like, a clinical’s Bible), and had to visit all the hospitals again in hopes of having her scrubs signed again. That idiot = yours truly.
10. That your smile must radiate from your eyes. Because if ever you’re blocked in the Mandaluyong City Medical Center, famed for the unique scent of its male ward, you will be required to wear a mask – a mask that will cover up your toothy, heart-melting smile. I only noticed this after I smiled comfortingly at my liver cirrhosis patient only to have him stare blankly back. It was then that I realized that I was wearing a mask. Not good. A nurse is only as good as her smile. So I set out on a new mission – to radiate warmth and empathy not from my lips but from my pupils. Which is more difficult than it sounds, because while the mouth can lie, the eyes don’t. It’s not something you can practice in front of a mirror, it’s something that must be sincerely felt by the heart and expressed by the soul. I’m still working on it.
11. That you don’t have to be the smartest or the most skilled in order to be the best nurse – you only have to be the kindest. Refer to my other blog “Nurses’ Notes” for details.
12. That you are infinitely blessed. Because no matter how exhausted you are at the end of the shift, no matter how frazzled your hair is after you’ve finished changing a patient’s bed, no matter how many nails you chipped in cleaning up the operating room instruments, you are on the better side of the hospital bed. You are the nurse and you are not the patient. You have been blessed with the gift of health, given so that you may restore health to others in return. This is your gift, this is the call you have accepted, and this is the lesson you have to learn far above everything else.

What is wrong with me? For some inexplicable reason, my heart seems to have lost its function. Yeah, it beats all right. It lubs and dubs a thousand times a day and pumps pure fresh blood to all the vessels in my body thus keeping my entire being alive. You know, all those trivial physiological functions we learn about in BIOL 125 Anatomy and Physiology under Sir Nestor Carillo. But does it lub and dub for a reason? Nah.

Let me explain.

Here’s what I’ve just realized. I am emotionally, romantically, pathetically numb. As in I don’t feel anything. Manhid, manhid, manhid!!! I can’t explain it. I used to be a hopeless romantic. Now just scratch off that last word and you get a word that defines my current status: hopeless. Somehow, over the past year, my heart has forgotten what it’s like to you know, love. (cue me vomiting.) I don’t even know what kilig feels like anymore. Forgive the cliché, but my heart has built a ridiculously thick wall around itself. I’m cynical. I laugh at those who obsess about love. I doubt anyone who says those three little words to anyone. I even hate myself now for even writing about this topic.

Sure, when I think about it, being numb has its advantages. I don’t cry anymore. I don’t get distracted from my studies. My heart can’t get broken. I am not vulnerable. No one can hurt me.

They even say I’m lucky. They say I’m smart. Smart for not letting emotions get to me and for guarding my heart. They tell me to keep it up. To remain focused and undistracted. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I should be thankful that even though my life’s boring, uninteresting and drama-deprived, at least it’s stable. At least I’m strong. Free. But maybe I don’t want to be smartand strong anymore. I want to cry over dumb romantic movies. I want to go to bed dreaming of some stupid guy. I want to fall into an emote spell when I’m alone or when I’m listening to a love song, or when I’m staring out a window. I want to get all giddy and kilig over cheesy lines in a text message, flowers delivered at sunrise, a music video dedicated to me, a moonlit picnic on the field, an out-of-tune song sung over the phone, a timid “I love you.” I want to be sentimental and silly and girly and touchy-feely. I want to see flowers and sunshine, and roses and butterflies. H*ck, I want to be that idiot who’s stupid enough to fall in love, get her heart broken, then fall in love all over again.

But for some reason, I can’t.

I wish I had an excuse. Even if its something mushy and pathetic like, oh, some guy broke my heart and now I’m too scared to fall in love. Or even sorry, I’m gay. (haha). But I’m just numb. Anesthetized. Unfeeling. Unsensitive. So numb it actually hurts.

Sure, my heart beats. But for no reason other than to pump my blood.

Labels: numb