I’ve been confined in the UST Hospital for a night and a day. I didn’t want to go—it’s just flu, I swear! Uh, yeah maybe I needed the nebulizer once, but that’s all. Nothing serious. My mother was worried it was dengue, but seriously even if she knows all its symptoms (and she knows I don’t have them) she still wanted me to go to the hospital. Well, what do you get from the most stubborn person in the planet I know—also known as ME? A big NO. My mother couldn’t convince me, so next thing she did was phone my father.
I was sick then, but there’s a petty argument on the phone. Making me choose what’s more important, my health or one whole day of absence at school. I have to assure him I’m okay, but next thing I knew, he had taken a two-day leave at work and he’s going to take me to the hospital. I was gnashing my teeth then. They’re always overreacting when I’m sick, but then again, given what had happened to me in the past, I couldn’t exactly blame them.
So there, I was confined. We soon found out that—guess what, I’m right—it’s just FLU. But I needed to stay until my temperature goes down. I’m feeling pretty okay, and knowing the high degree of boredom this institution brings, I brought The Hunger Games and reread it. Finished it in six hours, until I was told to rest my eyes and body.
The next morning, my temperature had gone down considerably yet not to a normal level. So I had to stay for a few hours more. I didn’t get bored because my parents are there. Only one person can accompany the patient at a time, so ma and pa took turns. The other waited outside. Sometimes my mother will go inside when it’s still not her turn, and my father will point it out. Oh yeah, bantering. I joked that they can both stay there and I’m going to be the one outside. I’m not sure if they saw that I said it in jest, but my mother slipped out of the room. Got a hint of smile on my father’s face, and that’s when I knew they got it. Really, parents are interesting creatures. :3 Haha, kidding! Love 'em! :D
Hours passed and we tried all we can to not get bored. My father continuously mimicked the voice of the super meek nurse in the next station and I couldn’t help but chuckle. Then, he noticed a Japanese doctor (I said he looked Korean but my father brushed me off) and formulated a string of complicated Japanese names for him. I swear I heard Akihiro Sato in the middle of that. I laughed, and that’s when the doctors came to check my temperature. The female doctor hasn’t touched the thermometer yet and concluded that I’m already really well (“Tumatawa na siya,” she whispered to the male doctor, “Wala na ‘tong sakit). She pulled the instrument and of course, I’m well.
My mother came in for her turn and she noticed the Japanese doctor too, who seemed to be doing nothing at the counter since we arrived there. I told her that pa guessed he’s Japanese, and being the hilarious woman that she is, my mother whispered in a low, Japanese accented voice: “Oi doktoru! Kamu heeru! (Hey doctor, come here!). We laughed then, the way I laughed with my father, and I knew the hospital wasn’t the right place for people like us. Crazy, happy family. :D
After getting the results of my CBC (where I found out that the Japanese doctor isn’t Japanese or Korean at all, but Chinese—he’s doctor Lim), I requested for a medical certificate. My father said the certificate should be paid too—one hundred pesos. He shook his head and commented something about people making business out of helpless papers.
I was released at five. We stayed and ate in McDonalds. Because of number coding, we still can’t drive home so we hang out around the UST campus. It was a wonderful feeling, walking like that, as if my parents were just my teenage friends. Sit there, buy sago’t gulaman, point at a cool edifice and whatnot. It seems so normal and yet bizarre, but it felt really good.
Soon, we have to go to the car. We stood by for a while, listening to the radio for updates about the hostage taking in Quirino Grandstand. My parents discussed the topic as they would when we are on the dining table and I threw in some comments. My mother said something to the effect that the handcuffs couldn’t be broken by just a small nail clipper. My father disagreed because he said he tried that once with his brother’s cuffs and it worked. He even showed me other techniques, like using a broken frame of an eyeglass to pick the lock of the cuff. Of course the cuff is imaginary, but it’s really believable. I was waiting expectantly for him to add more. What he said is that the easiest way is to just pull it broken with your bare hands. I looked at him quizzically. He shrugged and said, “I’m superman,” and I laughed away.
The journey home was quite quiet then…or maybe I just fell asleep? I was not fully aware. Next thing I remember is that I’m trying to locate the laptop because I still have a lot of work to do. :)
Ok blog, here's what your writer sounds like after she's gone from the hospital bed. Crazy.
And I have all the rights to be crazy because all I've finished is my short story for the literary page. :O Boo me for not putting the thesis stuff on the top of my list. :'(
Byez! Off to get some zzz's! :D
Procrastination at its finest. Woot.