Highblood
Yes, God loves me!
By Nina Arabe Fadul
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 03:09:00 06/28/2008
It was late afternoon when the phone rang. On the line was my sister, her voice excited, telling me JR was in a hospital.
My younger brother had been found around lunchtime in the garden unconscious. He was moaning and blood was oozing from his nose and mouth. Obviously, he fell from the garden ladder while pruning plants.
I thought of my father’s sister who suffered a fatal stroke some years back. She, too, had been gardening. I was also reminded of my sister-in-law who had a mild attack atop a ladder while trimming the tall hedges of her yard.
I guess the three of them got so carried away in what they were doing, unmindful of the heat of the sun. Heat makes the heart beat faster.
I also suffered a stroke three years ago. I just could not handle the big doses of stress that came my way that year. Before this, I had three transient ischaemic attacks. I thought nothing of these TIAs. I got alarmed only when my right hand could no longer hold up the paper I was reading.
I was confined for 10 days in a hospital. My faculties were intact, but I couldn’t lift my right foot even a millimeter up. Zero. I was dismayed at my dismal state. Five weeks earlier, a daughter had wired us that her mother-in-law was comatose. I was almost that.
My thoughts went on panic mode. Why, oh why, did I get myself this way! I regretted taking things for granted, especially with my own self.
So, I thought of alternative illnesses—as if I had choices. Cancer is far too expensive, and it hurts. Diabetes? I thought of this couple, neighbors in the village we left. They made a handsome pair. If they had children, the picture would have been perfect. The wife kept a supply of sweets and cookies, and often shared them with us. The husband passed away a year ago of heart attack. She herself just recently had a foot amputated. I won’t like that.
I thought of the other patients in the hospital. Does God love us less? And of our lively visitors; some, past their 60s, still go ballroom dancing. Does God love them more?
I was jolted to reality when a nurse aide pushed in a wheelchair. I was going home. All were cheerful, but inside me, I was so afraid. I was going to get well, the doctors and nurses assured me. But it depended on me, they added: I must go to a rehab.
At the rehab clinic, a lawyer was losing heart because of his badly slurred speech. The Math professor despaired over his jumbled equations. There was also a friendly lady, but most of the time I couldn’t make out what she was saying. But, maybe, it was my fault.
The patients were not all stroke victims.
The little boy was born with a club foot. He had been in the clinic a long time building up his confidence and balance. He had his own basketball hoop.
And there was the man who slipped down the overpass stairs and could not really locate his sprains. And the basketball player who pulled an arm muscle. Several came to have their stiff neck massaged. There was the lady executive who regularly drove in for a rub-down to relieve stress.
I had a good cardio doctor. The rehab doctor was sweet and understanding. But somehow, after several months of twice-weekly sessions, I felt it was in God’s own time that I would heal some more. I didn’t belong to the 10 percent fortunate ones who got completely well.
Being hypertensive is scary, hypertension is a silent killer, I was told. Avoid extreme emotions, I was cautioned. Still, when things go wrong, I get angry. My blood pressure shoots up. I then feel thickness on my nape and shoulders, a sensation of having water in my ears and my feet refuse to move. Medicines tide me over. But already some harm is done: I move about much slower.
On some mornings, I am reluctant to get up. I am tired of hobbling around, my good left foot supporting my 80-pound frame. A granddaughter recently called from Singapore and asked what I would like for Mother’s Day. Arm and leg replacements, I jested.
But I do get up. I can’t be blind to my folks’ efforts to make me comfortable and safe. They cannot air-condition the whole house like a mall, but there are electric fans which can be turned on or off where and when needed. My bathroom has a wireless beeper I can press when I need help. There is hot water for bath, a bidet, and skid-proof floor mats. There is even a wall clock.
But accidents happen. Once, somebody had left the plastic bags of ice in disarray, so when I opened the freezer, a bag fell on my right big toe. The impact stunned me and I fell backwards, my head hitting the cement sink and I fell unconscious. I bathed in my own blood from a head wound. I was rushed to the nearest clinic. It took the surgeon six stitches to close the wound. I had a CT scan and was confined for three days.
Despite all that, I still appreciate the bluer skies after days of continuous rains. The black whistler birds are happy and the ordinary brown sparrows chirp in agreement. I am tempted to do some gardening before it gets too warm—prop up the plants bent by the strong winds and cut off their broken branches.
I get up early to have time to write replies to e-mail messages. A daughter in Alameda City, California, tells us she got the job she wanted. The news from a granddaughter in Doha, Qatar is most amusing: her first-born joins in the church gospel-singing complete with hand motions. He is just 2 years old.
One particular day, I got up lighthearted. My daughter, the caregiver and housekeeper, asked for the grocery list for the week and wanted to drive to the supermarket early to get a good parking slot. A son had phoned in to say he was coming over with a copy of his third book, a first-ever encyclopedia on the country’s national hero.
I have accepted my condition and stopped wailing: “Does God love me less?”
I count my blessings instead and thank the Lord I am still alive and useful.
Nina Arabe Fadul, 81, is a former schoolteacher.
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