My Life has Background Music

Embarass? Embarrass? Embbarrass!

2009-11-01T07:30:00.000-08:00

You know what's embarrassing?

That I misspelled the word "embarrassing". Haha. Remember the welcome screen on this blog?

"This might be embarassing."

Haha I guess I couldn't have been more right. That is embarRassing. Haha. Don't worry, I changed it to its rightful spelling now.

And I dare call myself a geek. Tsk.

Pathophysiology of the Cross

2009-11-01T07:26:00.000-08:00

Nursing student, this is for you. Yes, you - someone who has spent countless hours in case conference classes, dissecting the intricacies of diseases. You - someone like me who spends 70% of my waking hours memorizing signs, symptoms, physiologies and pathophysiologies while I unwittingly neglect the Creator Himself. Someone who watches out for signs and symptoms of hypovolemic shock yet forgets the blood spilled out on Calvary. Someone who winces over the mere mention of Grade IV bed sores but cares not for nail scarred hands. You, yes you. This is for you.

Yes, I know, this note is quite long. But pardon me. If you can make it through four hours of your classmate's monotonous mumbling while you enter a "hypoglycemic hypoosmolar" nonketotic coma in casecon class, then you can make it through the ten minutes it will take you to read this. And maybe, just maybe, the sacrifice on Calvary might mean so much more.

THE PATHOPHYSIOLOGY OF THE CROSS
(facts taken from thecrucifixion.org)
THE SCOURGE

The Roman legionnaire stepped forward with the flagrum, or flagellum, in his hand. This was a short whip consisting of several heavy, leather thongs with two small balls of lead attached near the ends of each. As the flogging continued, the lacerations would tear into the underlying skeletal muscles and produce quivering ribbons of bleeding flesh. Pain and blood loss generally set the stage for circulatory shock.

During the scourging, there is "first an oozing of blood from the capillaries and veins...finally spurting arterial bleeding from vessels in the underlying muscles. As for Jesus' specific case, he probably had one of the most severe that was possible by Jewish law. As for the crown of thorns that he bore, it was not simply a few briars. The mocking crown of thorns "had thorns up to six inches long."

The scourging prior to crucifixion served to weaken the condemned man and, if blood loss was considerable, to produce orthostatic hypotension and even hypovolemic shock. When the victim was thrown to the ground on his back, in preparation for transfixion of the hands, his scourging wounds most likely would become torn open again and contaminated with dirt. Furthermore, with each respiration, the painful scourging wounds would be scraped against the rough wood of the stipes. As a result, blood loss from the back probably would continue throughout the crucifixion ordeal. Likewise, after the scourging, "when the soldiers tore the robe from Jesus' back, they probably reopened the scourging wounds" (Edwards, Gabel, Hosmer Par. 14). Thus, "even before the actual crucifixion, Jesus' physical condition was at least serious and possibly critical."

THE WALK

The Via Delarosa is by no means characterized by having a man carry a little board of wood as used on a building. It is reported that the "weight of the entire cross was probably well over 300 lb. (136 kg), only the crossbar was carried" (Edwards, Gabel, Hosmer). In spite of Jesus' efforts to walk erect, the weight of the heavy wooden beam, together with the shock produced by copious loss of blood, was too much. He stumbled and fell. The rough wood of the beam gouged into the lacerate skin and muscles of the shoulders. He tried to rise, but human muscles had been pushed beyond their endurance. After that point of Jesus falling, Simon of Cyrene had to carry the heavy cross the rest of 650 yards to Golgotha.

THE CROSS

With arms outstretched but not taut, the wrists were nailed to the patibulum. It has been shown that the ligaments and bones of the wrist can support the weight of a body hanging from them, but the palms cannot. Accordingly, the iron spikes probably were driven between the radius and the carpals or between the two rows of carpal bones, either proximal to or through the strong bandlike flexor retinaeulum and the various interearpal ligaments. Although a nail in either location in the wrist might pass between the bony elements and thereby produce no fractures, the likelihood of painful periosteal injury would seem great. Furthermore, the driven nail would crush or sever the rather large sensorimotor median nerve. The stimulated nerve would produce excruciating bolts of fiery pain in both arms. Although the severed median nerve would result in paralysis of a portion of the hand, isehemie contractures and impalement of various ligaments by the iron spike might produce a clawlike grasp.

The nails in the wrists were putting pressure on the median nerve, large nerve trunks which traverse the mid-wrist and hand. As He pushed Himself upward to avoid this stretching torment, He placed His full weight on the nail through His feet. Again there was searing agony as the nail tore through the nerves between the metatarsal bones of this feet.

It is important to note that, "the major pathophysiologic effect of crucifixion, beyond the excruciating pain, was a marked interference with normal respiration, particularly exhalation" (Edwards, Gabel, Hosmer Par. 30). Even the very effort to breathe was intensely painful. It is written that "each respiratory effort would become agonizing and tiring and lead eventually to asphyxia" (Edwards, Gabel, Hosmer Par. 31). The further effects of lack of air show, for Bradley says, "Air is sucked in, but cannot be exhaled until the buildup of carbon dioxide in the lungs and the blood stream stimulates breathing to relieve the cramps". The weight of the body, pulling down on the outstretched arms and shoulders, would tend to fix the intercostal muscles in an inhalation state and thereby hinder passive exhalation. Accordingly, exhalation was primarily diaphragmatic, and breathing was shallow. It is likely that this form of respiration would not suffice and that hypercarbia would soon result. The onset of muscle cramps or tetanic contractions, due to fatigue and hypercarbia, would hinder respiration even further.

Adequate exhalation required lifting the body by pushing up on the feet and by flexing the elbows and adducting the shoulders. However, this maneuver would place the entire weight of the body on the tarsals and would produce searing pain. Furthermore, flexion of the elbows would cause rotation of the wrists about the iron nails and cause fiery pain along the damaged median nerves. Lifting of the body would also painfully scrape the scourged back against the rough wooden stipes. Muscle cramps and paresthesias of the outstretched and uplifted arms would add to the discomfort. As a result, each respiratory effort would become agonizing and tiring and lead eventually to asphyxia.

In reference to Christ's heart, Bradley writes that it is the very struggle of his heart to "pump the thick blood as each of His billions of cells die one at a time" . Although it was very hard to speak, Christ still uttered those infamous phrases showing His love and forgiveness and lack of bitterness toward his persecutors.

The actual cause of death by crucifixion was multifactorial and varied somewhat with each ease, but the two most prominent causes probably were hypovolemic shock and exhaustion asphyxia.Other possible contributing factors included dehydration, stress-induced arrhythmias, and congestive heart failure with the rapid accumulation of pericardial and perhaps pleural effusions.

Acute Pain. Fluid Volume Deficit. Decreased Cardiac Output. Impaired Tissue Perfusion. Impaired Skin Integrity. Ineffective Breathing Pattern. Social Isolation.

All for you. All for me. Our debt paid in full. Promise fulfilled.

Goal met.

Don't read, this post is totally useless.

2009-10-29T07:40:00.000-07:00

dull. dull. dull. sucky. day.

Spent the morning attending what was probably the last orientation of my collegiate career. Spent the afternoon watching Glee reruns, and clicking "Home" on Facebook just in case someone would post something that was the least bit interesting. Spent the night playing Cooking Academy on my hardworking laptop. Found out that even in the virtual world of cooking, I suck too.

I just wasted 24 hours of my life. My laptop is my bestfriend now. Darn.

The one thing that made me smile today was the sight of Mimo dashing to his room after hearing Mommy come out of the master's bedroom. He was seriously breaking the computer curfew.

Don't know what's wrong. It's too early to be PMSing. Things aren't going well in the love frontier either. Love and life haven't been coinciding lately.

Yuck, too emo. I'm gonna stop before I start wearing all black and listening to bleeding love songs. Night night.

nerd. nerd.

2009-10-28T22:08:00.000-07:00

i'm a geek.

i might just go out and admit that. haha. while most people probably spent their sembreak malling, gimmicking, beach-ing, sight seeing, drinking, working, and all other -ings, i spent the past three weeks doing my case conference requirement, working on our thesis, researching for nursing reviewers, conceptualizing the upcoming dedication ceremony, and making reviewers for the board exam.

i need to get a life. raar.

Goosebumps

2009-10-28T08:28:00.003-07:00

I feel weird. My palms are tingling and I’m tachycardic.

No, it’s not because of love.

Just a few minutes ago, my sister shouted from the living room that an accident had occurred in front of the Philippine International Church and that two were dead. She got the news from a post in Facebook.

Cue the feeling mentioned above.

Just a week ago, a little kid had gotten hit by a truck while inside the AUP Campus. And now this. Frankly, I was quite shook up. Accidents occurring in AUP? This was too close to home. AUP is my haven, my comfort zone, my safe place. In my eyes, AUP had a force field, protecting it from dangers. Accidents don’t happen here. People don’t die in accidents here. News like that turn my knees to jelly, making them automatically kneel in front of God, scared.

It turned out that it was just a joke. True, an accident had occurred after midweek. But the only things dead were the car engines.

It was a mean joke. Really, I’ll never believe in Facebook gossip again. But in those moments when I thought the news were honest to goodness real, I had an epiphany.

Life is short. Accidents happen. People die. AUP Kids are no exemption. Earlier today, while I was crossing the streets of Silang to board the clunky AUP bus, I forgot to stop, look and listen. Dazed, I had crossed the street, not noticing that a scooter was almost about to hit me.

It could’ve been a truck, or a car. Thank you, guardian angel.

It made me think about death yet again. I’ve contemplated about death so many times in my twenty years, and I know the exact thoughts that are probably going to flash through my head in the split second that it takes for me to give my final breath. No snapshots of my life flashing before my very eyes. Just this thought.

“Jesus. Save me.”

No, I don’t mean that He save me from the clutches of death. It’s not a desperate cry for help. Rather, those three last words are a plea for eternal life. Jesus, forgive me from my sins. Jesus, I’m about to die. Please give me eternal life. Jesus. Please. Despite the sins of my life. Save me.

I know He already has. Saved me, I mean. More than two thousand years ago, on the cross, a condemned robber painstakingly whispered my future script. “Jesus, remember me when Thou comest into Thy Kingdom.”

The last words of a dying man. Jesus, save me.

And just a few hours later, Jesus did the one thing that could answer that sinner’s prayer. He died on the cross. In that glorious, heartbreaking moment, the plan of salvation was fulfilled. The robber was saved. The world was saved.

I was saved.

So why am I still scared? Why does the thought of my death still terrify me so much? Why don’t I have the serenity to face death trusting that the next time my eyes open, my Savior would be descending from the clouds?

I have a few theories. Maybe it’s because I know I’m not yet ready. Maybe it’s because I haven’t loved Jesus enough to trust Him fully. I haven’t surrendered my life to Him that way. Maybe.

Right here, right now, in my bed, I’m making a decision. I don’t want a deathbed conversion. I don’t want the last seconds of my life to be a scared plea to God. I want to find the quiet peace that comes from knowing that though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil because the Lord is with me.

I pray that you will too.

--------------------

My palms are still tingling.

Rocking the Vote

2009-10-28T05:51:00.001-07:00

So i know i haven't done anything on this blog for the longest time. I've had a dozen or so blog entries all written out on my cerebrum, but transcribing them would take so much time away from my facebook sleazing time. Haha. But anyways, this is what i was up to today.

i did something i had never done before.

I registered for the upcoming elections.

Totally cool right? Finally, after 20 years of existence, I could finally exercise that which women had fought tooth and nail for in the past - the right to suffrage. Oh yeah. Only I found out today that it's called suffrage for a reason.

It's because in order to be eligible to vote, you have to SUFFER.

Oh, the day started out pretty well. We left AUP at 8:30 AM riding the bus I thought had been stowed away in the junkyard twenty years ago. Haha. Dear AUPians, you know which one I'm talking about. It's the faithful light blue bus with a distinct noselike hood which I think was purchased from AIIAS two eons ago in order to bring the nursing students Batch 1942 to their affiliating hospitals. But despite the fact that merely touching the bus might actually make you contract tetanus, I kinda like that bus. It has a homey, old-fashioned feel to it.

But anyway. So we rode that bus. One hour and several bumps to the head after, we arrived at Silang at around 9:30 am. My heart started sinking as I caught a glimpse of what was the first sign of danger - a long, 10 meter line. Under the glorious 9:30AM sun. Without even a tent to cover our poor heads.

I should've turned back. Yes, Weanne, you should have known better than to siksik yourself in a line of people trained to singit. But naivete that I am, I fell into the trap.

Eight hours later, I was still in line.

Maybe it was because of the hordes of people cramming to meet the registration deadline. Maybe it was my fault - I really should have registered a couple of months ago. Maybe it was because lots of people were more gifted than me in the art of "singit." Maybe it was because after getting one official to write a couple of numbers on your form, you had to fall in line yet again to write your name on a logbook, then fall in line all over again to get your picture taken. Maybe it was because they only had ONE friggin computer and ONE friggin camera. Or maybe it's because our government conveniently forgot to allocate a few thousand pesos to the election budget while it was on its way to getting an extravagant, thousand-dollar dinner in the United States (Yes, I watch the news sometimes too).

It was a memorable day, though. I got scolded and shooed by a Chinese-Muslim (?) store owner for resting my tired legs in front of his pirated dvd store. "Wahla na makabhili, wala na makadaahn dahil upo kah diyahn!" To forget the crampiness in my legs, I immersed myself in playing Cooking Dash on my iTouch until I finished the entire game. Undeterred, I cracked open my trusty nursing review book and proceeded to memorize the names of the great Filipino nurses who contributed to our profession. Yes, thanks to that incredibly long line, I now can tell you off the top of my head that Cesaria Tan was the first Filipino nurse who got a master's degree in nursing in the United States. And just for your information, Rosario Montemayor Delgado was the first president of the Philippine Nurses' Association. HA!

Yet even after memorizing their glorified names, I still found myself stuck in the center of a large, shouting crowd. I could almost see Mycobacterium tuberculae gleefully skidding across the air shouting, "SUSCEPTIBLE HOSTS! SUSCEPTIBLE HOOOOOSSTTS!!!" All my nursing education forbade me from inhaling properly. I didn't even realize that I was breathing so shallowly until I reached AUP and my lungs felt like they were two breaths short of atelectasis. Upon stepping down from the trusty bus, I deep breathed like never before. Thank you, AUP. Thank you, green-carbon-dioxide-receiving-oxygen-giving trees. Thank you.

As of blogging time, I am now an official registered voter of the Republic of the Philippines, duly licensed to pick a worthy candidate in the upcoming elections. But forgive me for sounding like the proverbial Israelite grumbler, but really, Philippine government? That was the best you could do for your voters? For the youth, the hope of the motherland? Haha. In return for the taxpayers' money, you give us eight hours in the sun, three long lines, one camera and one computer?

But then again. Maybe that was their plan. Because, I tell you, after going through all that trouble, I am going to guard my vote with every fiber of my sunburnt body. Haha. Watch your backs Noynoy, Teodoro, Erap, and the rest of you presidential hopefuls. I am going to research your backgrounds meticulously, I am going to analyze each of your cliche promises one by one. I didn't increase my risk of skin cancer and tuberculosis just to throw away my vote on a half-hearted candidate. No way Jose. And to those who may want to buy my vote for a couple thousand? HA! Fat chance.

So to you who will get my vote this coming elections, please make sure you are worth the nation's effort. And maybe, just maybe, you could throw in a couple more pesos to provide air-conditioned precincts for those who might want to register for the election too. :D

cynical

2009-10-28T05:37:00.000-07:00

Johnny and Marissa sitting on a tree
K-I-S-S-I-N-G

First comes love
Then comes marriage
Then comes an abrupt miscarriage

Then comes blame
Then comes despair
Two hearts damaged beyond repair

Johnny leaves Marissa
And then takes the tree

D-I-V-O-R-C-E.

haha. funny but true. TSK.

Moments with the Boyfriend: Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, Part II

2009-05-14T06:05:00.000-07:00

First off, congratulations to my older sister and her boyfriend, who are celebrating their 5th MONTHSARY today, the 14th of May. Theirs was the quintessential love story of two "just friends" who spent their waking days adamantly telling everyone that they were just that and that was all they were ever going to be. Weh. Classic case of denial. After around four years of wrong turns, prayer, and even more denial, they finally came to the realization that best friends make the best lovers. And everyone went, "WE TOLD YOU SO." Sa kahaba ng prusisyon, sa simbahan din lang pala ang tuloy. Haha.

Anyway, hindi ako nagkulang sa payo na wag sila mag monthsary ng 14th of the month all for the reason that their February monthsary would fall on a Valentine's Day. If you ask me, your own celebration of one month's worth of mushiness should be a separate occasion from the entire world's lovefest. I do not want kissy couples, heart decor dangling from the ceiling, and naked angels with bows and arrows flying around on the day that's supposed to be ours alone. Pero yun. Ok nadin siguro, para makatipid, isang celebration nalang.

They celebrated the past 5 months with toasted chocolate flat tops, mixed chuchurya, grape Sprite, and a movie at the Estrada's residence. And I have to say, as their chaperone for the day, it was all very yummy.

------------

On the flip side, me and the boyfriend celebrated our 27th day together (haha) by eating gourmet caf take out at the Molave park. When allowances are dry, anything will do as long as you're together, right? haha...

After devouring the veggie burger and meatless macaroni soup, we decided to play Text Twist on the laptop for lack of better things to do. For those of you who have been living under a rock all these years, Text Twist is an anagram game where the computer shows you a word with its letters all mixed up, and you have to guess what the word is, as well as to find other words that could be formed by the given letters.

I have to say, with all humility, that we were ruling Text Twist -- high scores in the first round. Oyeah. Haha.. The second round was much more difficult.

"LVOESW"
My mind worked quickly, formulating the first word of the round, zoning in on four standout letters. My fingers poised on the keys, ready to type the word "love" when my eardrums broke to the sound of the boyfriend suddenly screaming in my ear... "WOLVES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Good to know that Mars and Venus are still in their happily opposite orbits. :)

My Curse

2009-05-12T08:42:00.000-07:00

*Disclaimer: It is with utmost humiliation that I post these pictures here just to emphasize what I’ve written in the blog entry below. The people I’ve taken the picture with have been cropped out to protect their reputation.

Aargh… You know what’s nakakainis? This morning, I was looking at the pictures during my graduation and here’s the summary:

Ooh, there’s me sweating like a camel in the Sahara desert.
There’s me squinting into the camera with a confused look on my face.
There’s the batch’s crush ng bayan posing with the eyebags that grew a face (aka me.)
Ooh is that Tado? The long haired guy comic? Oh no wait, that’s me. (sigh.)
Oooh, there’s me looking pretty decent – except I’m not looking into the camera

And here’s the worst part: my eyebrows’ bald patches are scene-stealers in every picture. Yup, my practically non-existent eyebrows - which I had unconsciously plucked out with my bare hands during the last few days of school due to the stress of planning the graduation – are the final touches on the horrifying pictures that are supposed to be my mementos of the glorious day I culminated four years of educational torture. Hai… It’s not like I’m not used to it. In every event where everyone’s supposed to look good, I’m always the one who looks unkempt, unpolished, un-brushed, un-ironed, unprepared. My excuse for my hobo look on my graduation day?

I didn’t sleep until 2 am to finish my farewell speech (that would explain the eyebags.)
Graduation day: I woke up, took a shower, dried my hair, slipped into my clothes and rushed off to the church (which would explain why my hair was greasy and my face was makeup-less).
Then I was cheerfully greeted with the news that the flag stands were still at Finster. I grabbed Cristy and we rushed to Finster where I ran across the wet grass of Friendship Park (in my heels, no less) to wake up the janitor who had the keys (oh, so that’s why I was sweating.)
My pained look in the pictures must be because of my shoes – they looked nice and innocent, but believe me, they’re murderers.
And what about my eyebrows? I plead insanity to that one. Hai…

Welcome to my world… hehe… Don’t even get me started on my junior prom pics. (While the other girls looked like hookers in their dresses and make-up, I looked like a wallflower… Huhu… The unjustice of it all…)

Hai… Wala na akong magagawa don. Promise to myself: From now on, I will never ever look losyang in any picture again. If ever I forget that promise, I’ll just look at my graduation pictures. And after I’m done wiping off my vomit, I’ll do my hair, put on some powder, smile brightly and take a picture of myself. Just to make things even.

Which One Are You?

2009-05-11T23:07:00.001-07:00

The way I see it, when it comes to ending relationships, a person will act either of two ways:

There is the girl who humbles herself, latches onto a relationship fiercely until she is let go, dredges the bottom until she can no longer find any scraps or semblance of what she used to love. This girl will hang on until she is at the point of humiliation. At the end of the day, when the relationship finally falls apart, she is content in knowing there was nothing else she could have done to save it. She thinks this will give her less of a reason to look back and regret.

And then there's the girl who recoils at the first sign of trouble. She will withdraw faster than he has a chance to prove her wrong. She'd rather be the one who rejects than the one rejected. She covers her bases quickly, and shuts out any possibility of being embarrassed or offended. She'd rather have her pride intact than the truth, with all its potentially gory details.

There are pros and cons to being one or the other.

So which one do you think I'll be? You'll be?

from: http://www.candymag.com/katie/2007/05/15/which-one-are-you/

east vs. west

2009-05-11T21:00:00.000-07:00

"Do not rejoice at the fall of your enemy: do not gloat when he is brought down, or the Lord will be displeased at the sight."

- Proverbs 24:17, REB

Just something to think about while we reminisce the glorious 2-round moment between Pambansang Kamao and the so-called Hitman.

But anyways, ILABYOUPACKY!

♥ weannemyrrh

EUREKA!

2009-05-11T20:46:00.000-07:00

found the comment box! put it to use people! hahaha... demanding. :)

weannemyrrh

blahg.

2009-05-11T08:53:00.001-07:00

So this is like, my newest blog.

I'm beginning to think I'm desperate. I've made four blogs on four different websites with almost exactly the same content in the span of one day. And I don't know why.

Maybe I'm transferring my obsession over notebooks onto something more virtual. See, I'm in love with notebooks. I get the "O" word, whenever I see one. I have like, a twentillion of them in my locker. I have a notebook for poems, a notebook for thoughts, a notebook for prayers, a notebook for doodles, a notebook for, well, notes. But more than 75% of them aren't even filled up.

Like my past blogs.

And I'm ranting right now.

Haish.

I don't really care if no one gets to read this. It's therapeutic and blahblah for me.

Ha. Who am I kidding. I changed the layout of this blog around 15 different times, trying to judge which layout was most reader friendly... And...I'd probably check my blog every 10 minutes to check if someone made a comment. Which is highly unlikely since I DON'T SEE A COMMENT BOX ANYWHERE ON THIS SITE. Blogger, where is the darn comment box?

Haha. Anyways. Hope I get to write faithfully.

I pray that God's children sleep in peace tonight. Especially those with no shelter over them. These supposedly summer nights are weirdly cold.

Generation Coffee

2009-05-11T08:49:00.000-07:00

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.

We are the Starbucks generation – the world’s most diverse, most active, most good-looking, most high-strung group of people. Enjoy our company while you can, because truth be told, thanks to our bestfriend the coffee bean – we’re probably not gonna live long.

News Flash

2009-05-11T08:47:00.002-07:00

I, Weanne Myrrh Razon Estrada am in an official, but temporary State of Crushlessness.

There are no members of the male specie within a 50-mile radius who I think is cute or is even mildly interesting. I henceforth say that the only guys I’m interested in now are ~~movie star celebrities~~ no one. From this day on, I vow to never fall in love/like (take your pick) again with a guy who:

a) talks incessantly about himself

b)talks incessantly about his girlfriend

c)makes me do all his assignments

d)flirts shamelessly with all girls in sight

e) says, “it’s very obvious that you have a crush on me.” (though what he’s saying is true, still, ang kapal ng mukha. Note to any guy reading this: Don’t blurt out in public that you think a girl likes you. It makes you sound supercilious [ooh, big word!]. Guys who assume are asses. Got it? Good.)]

f) is probably gay.

I duly state that I have learned my lesson and pledge that I will stay in “No Man’s Land” until I find a guy who will not fall short of my standards and is nothing like the guys stipulated above.

Signed this tenth day of March, year two thousand and five.

So help me, God. (Please.)

Signed,

Weanne Myrrh R. Estrada

*The guys aka manhid and insensitive jerks stipulated above, are in fact, real people. Names have been withheld to protect privacy, though it would be my greatest pleasure to warn my fellow females to stay away from them.

Lesson Learned

2009-05-11T08:47:00.001-07:00

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….

Bahay Kubo

2009-05-11T06:17:00.000-07:00

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?

Nurses Notes

2009-05-11T06:09:00.000-07:00

So let me cut to the chase. On my very first day of duty, I was assigned to this cranky, middle-aged patient at the Manila Adventist Medical Center. Armed with my BP, stethoscope, and trusty pocket notebook, with the Halleluiah chorus playing in my head, I entered her room and enthusiastically introduced myself with a flourish! “This is it Weanne, time to save the world! TADA!” I thought to myself. I had all these notions of me building nurse-patient rapport, performing miracles of healing, telling my patient about my oh-so-ideal Christian faith, the shift ending with her in tears, thanking me for the care and inspiration I had given. But for all my enthusiasm and high hopes, I was met with a tart, “Pwede ba? Wag mo muna ako distorbohin… Busy ako eh, busy ako! OH OH OHHHHHH! WAG MO HAHAWAKAN YANG OXYGEN TANK! HINDI KA MARUNONG GUMAMIT NIYAN!” What? What kind of alternate universe am I living in if it is the patient telling the nurse that she doesn’t know how to work a piece of hospital equipment! I am not exaggerating! She really said that, complete with this shaking, p*ssed off voice. Earth to Weanne. Darn it, reality bites. Talk about barado.

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.

“I should just probably request my CI to assign me a different patient – someone sweeter, someone more appreciative, someone less… scary.”

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.”

“Uhhmmm… ma’am? Gusto niyo pong iadjust ko yung TV para po hindi mangalay ang leeg niyo sa panunuod?”

“Oh. Ok. Salamat. Ihiram mo nalang din ako ng remote, kung pwede.”

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.

“Salamat. *drinks water* Pahingi pa nga.”

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.

“Ma’am, gusto niyo po ng masahe bago matulog?”

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.

TOP 12 THINGS I LEARNED FROM NURSING

2009-05-11T05:44:00.000-07:00

So I’ve been a nursing clinical student for quite some time now, roughly seven months. And even though I still have a long, long way to go before I can call myself a real honest-to-goodness nurse, I have learned several things that I believe would be very very very useful to future nursing students and perhaps entertaining to them envied registered nurses. So read on, and feel free to add lessons of your own at the comment box. J Welcome to the crazy world of Nursing.

TOP 12 THINGS I’VE LEARNED FROM BEING A NURSING STUDENT

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.
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.
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.
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.)
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.
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!!!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

So Numb It Hurts

2009-05-11T04:40:00.000-07:00

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.

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus

2009-05-10T08:37:00.000-07:00

Today, a miracle happened.

Today, I, Weanne Myrrh Razon Estrada, self-confessed scatterbrain, decided to clean my room.

I spent the entire morning, six hours, if you will, performing my cleaning ritual. I spent the greater part of the day messing the room up, as I unearthed all the items inside the cabinet, under the bed, on the table and inside the drawer.I sorted everything out according to eight categories: nursing stuff, memorabilia, priceless things from toks, other people’s stuff, useful things, unuseful things that will probably be useful in the future, unuseful things that will never be useful again, recyclables. With the first phase of my mission done, I proceeded to the next phase: organizing things.

I put all make – up on the dresser, deciding which items deserved to sit on top and which should just be hidden in the drawer. I organized all my nursing stuff (BP, steth, masks, books) in one designated area of the room. I placed all study items on my study table, all memorabilia in cute treasure boxes, each organized according to content, and all trash in the garbage bags. Not content with my organization, I re-organized my precious belongings until they were not only neat, but also pretty to look at too.

And on the sixth hour, I looked around the work I had done and I saw that it was good.

Except for the other half of the room. The other half belonged to my brother. It was a giant dump of rubiks cubes, gadgets, cords, clothes, notebooks and heaven-knows-what. So I screamed at him to come into the room and do his own cleaning.

And it took him precisely nine minutes to throw out his old stuff, stuff the not-so-useful items inside his cabinet, and display the useful ones on his table.

Men. Figures.

random.

2009-05-09T08:45:00.000-07:00

Staring
at flies dance threateningly at the spot just below…

Listening
as the wannabee guy beside me changes music stations for the umpteenth time
(Gosh, can he make up his mind sometime this century?)

Watching
a spider swing ~~back and forth, back and forth, back and~~ —- there, he made it.

Regretting
coming to gazebo sooo early.

Wondering
why everyone gets to be happy… except me.

Waiting
for a reply long overdue…

Staring…

Listening…

Watching…

Regretting…

Wondering…

Waiting…

Seems
like that’s all I ever do.

La UNdolce Vita

2009-05-09T08:44:00.000-07:00

Okay, so here’s another confession

I’m not sweet.

Yup, the girl who owns a blog with the name “Sugar and Spice, Everything Nice” has recently realized that she has been incredibly hypocritical all this time. It has just come to her attention that sugar requires sweetness. And sweetness just doesn’t come easily for her.

Fairly predictable for a girl who claims to be numb. (Numb and unsweetened – I’m quite a catch, eh?)

I guess I was just never born with the sugar gene. Let me give a prime example.

Some girls: “Kumain ka na poh ah. Ayoko pong nagugutom ang *insert baduy term of affection here* koh. Eto oh, subo… Ahhhh… Miss na poh talaga kita, **baduy term of affection.** koh. mmmmmmmwaaaahugz!” (Seriously, gag me.)

My best attempt at sweetness: Haha tara kaon na… haha ingat lagi… miss ko narin kayo… haha ang kire… haha…

I mean, I’m nice and all, but sugary brown sweetness just isn’t my color. Mushy displays of affection raise my eyebrows, corny pet names (i.e. bhe, sweetie, sexy, honey bunch, muffin, cookie, mommy, daddy, baby, luvz) only serve to amuse me, and I won’t be caught dead adding “H” at the end of every other word (i.e. poh, koh). I’ll tease you, hit you, or give you food to show my oh-so-passionate luuuvv, but you won’t catch me dripping syrupy words from my mouth. It doesn’t help that I belong to a barkada who only use the word “po” strictly when talking to a real older person and not just to make pacute, friends who can’t say the word “baby” without affecting an Austin Powers/Mike Myers accent (beybehhhhh!), friends who would much rather call each other “bruha” and “kire” rather than “bhezie.”

Hey, moment of enlightenment here. Maybe that’s why I’ve never had a boyfriend! (Hahaha leave it to me to find an excuse for my NBSB status every chance I get…Haha…) It’s just that I read somewhere that all guys fall for sweet girls. Aruy. At this rate, I’ll still be an NBSB by the time I’m 80. Haha… Makes me wish there was some secret formula you could look up on the internet that converts the actual glucose in your blood to real, feel-able, pukeworthy sweetness.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anything against sweet people. You guys rock. Hahaha… You wear your heart on your sleeve. Meanwhile, I’m still figuring out whether I have a heart or not. Haha joke. I do have a heart, I think. I’m learning. It just doesn’t come easy.

So yeah. I’m not sweet. So sue me.