Coming Home

Chup1 Comment

I am 10 years old.

The tricycle zooms along a small street in rural Laguna. It almost seems like we are driving towards Mt Banahaw as it quietly looms on the horizon. My grandmother and I are inside, having just finished our weekly shopping trip at the market. I’ve always liked trips to the market. More than buying meats and fresh produce, it was how my grandmother socialized with her friends. That day we purchased some rice from the mother of a friend whom I went to kindergarten with. I haven’t seen her in years, and that day we find out why. She’s moved to a small city in another province where she now goes to school.

“I didn’t know she went to school so far away” I tell my Lola

“It’s a really good school, one of the best” she replies

“Well, I like my school” I study in a nearby city about 30 minutes away. There were schools in our small town, but my parents wanted to send me to a bigger school with more students. I already made a big fuss having to leave our small town and our small school, so I had no choice, really.

“But you know, your parents want you to study high school in Manila”

I shuffle uncomfortably in my seat “They do? Well I’m not going to go. I don’t want to move to Manila, Lola. I want to stay here with you. I already have my friends here”

“At least go to Manila for College” She smiles a little bit, because I know that’s the answer she wanted to hear anyway. Lola and I have always been a team, she raised me from infancy and I don’t think we can stand living apart.

I shrug and pretend to consider it. Now is probably not the time to tell her I already know I want to stay in Laguna for College. There are a few colleges in our city that I know I could go to. A lot of my friends have older siblings going to college in the same school, and I just want to go where they were going. I don’t even have to move out of our house. In a few years, Lola will probably let me ride the jeepney by myself and I don’t have to think of leaving home to live somewhere nearer the school.

I’ve lived in Laguna all my life. My parents took me home to our small town shortly after I was born, in the house that my grandparents built. It’s the only home I have ever known. It’s small, peaceful, and everyone around me is family. It’s where I learned how to walk, to read, where I started school, where I grew up. I don’t need the big city. It has everything I could ever need. It’s where I want to spend the rest of my life in.

It’s the only home for me.

I am 14 years old.

I am typing away in our little office in our home in Quezon City, I have an autobiography, due for class the next day and I am, as usual, doing it the last minute.

I stop for a bit, counting the years I have spent in QC – it’s been 5 years since I moved. When I was 10, my grandmother had to have open-heart surgery, and I had no choice but to move to the big city that very same week. Lola couldn’t take care of me by herself anymore and my parents decided it was time for me to leave our small town. Lola had since gone back home, and I would often visit during school breaks. She doesn’t like life in the big city, and I don’t blame her. Trips to the supermarket are not as fun as trips to the wet market.

Moving to the big city was difficult. 10-year-old girls here grow up so much quicker than 10-year-old girls from small towns. I don’t remember much from 5th grade, but I still remember that first day so vividly. Half the class swarmed around me asking me where I was from and I had to reply in broken, heavily accented English, because I thought girls at my school preferred English. They would then stare at each other wide-eyed and whisper amongst themselves. Whether that was from innocent amusement or ridicule I guess I would never know. By lunch time I was alone. I didn’t know where to go and I remember crying in the middle of the school field just wanting to go home. A few days later, I go home to the hospital where my Lola is still recovering from surgery. I remember entering her room afraid she might cry when she sees me in my new uniform. She tells me I look very nice. I smile and I tell her I was very happy. I wasn’t.

I tried very hard that first year to fit in and while I did find some friends that first year, I was always worried I was going to do something they didn’t like and leave me. I dropped the accent, read the books they liked, wore the same style of clothes, changed my bag from a Sanrio character bag to a nondescript sporty backpack. In the sixth grade I met my best friend, she would laugh at whatever I said or did, and I didn’t even have to hide who I really was. Things have been better since then. I stopped pretending just to fit in and as the years pass we find friends who like me for who I am. I stopped dreading going to school and learn how to be myself. I stopped gauging my worth by the number in my report cards or the opinion of others and just lived like a normal teenager.

The next day at lunch I meet my friends for lunch at the sports complex. I am eating some “grilled” chicken breast, bacon and rice doused in Knorr seasoning and dumped on top of rice. Top tier high school cuisine. We sit on the floor, take turns playing the guitar practicing the songs we’ve looked up the chords to. Some girls are playing basketball. Some chasing each other. We take goofy photos on our camera phones. The court is filled with chatter and laughter and it makes us feel alive.

My 10 year old self would probably feel betrayed, but Quezon City has become home to me.

I am 20.

On a hot summer’s day, a few friends and I talk about heading to the National Museum after class. In the past few years living in Manila, I have visited the National Museum so many times I have lost count. The museum and the park are walking distance from my condo and I would often find myself walking around the area for some peace.

Manila has always been one of my favorite cities. The city is vibrant with culture and it has always been fascinating to me. However, I never really looked forward to living there.  Though it’s only about 20 kilometers from our home in Quezon City, the terrible traffic in Metro Manila takes more than 2 hours on a regular day, more during pay days, and almost unbearable when it starts to flood. When we found out where we were ending up for university, most of our friends ended up staying in Quezon City and I was set for Manila. I remember telling my parents that I’d rather drive to Manila than live there, because I didn’t want to move too far away from my friends. But they knew that traveling through the Manila traffic would severely compromise my ability to focus on my studies, so in June of 2008, I move into my new studio in the city.

Shortly after moving, I quickly realized how fun life in Manila could be. I was in college, I was freshly eighteen and I was free. I learned how to take care of myself and had a newfound independence that I was proud of. In my first year, I remember my grandmother coming up my unit, her sitting down on my bed and looking around my small studio. “This is nice” she says while patting down the covers. She doesn’t say anything else, but I know she’s proud of what I have achieved.

There’s another thing that I have experienced in Manila that I haven’t anywhere else. I fell in love. This afternoon, despite having visited The National Museum countless times I am nervous. The boy I loved is coming to the museum with us. We’ve always been close, but this summer has been different. He holds my hand for a little bit longer than before, he pulls me in for a hug more often, and he takes me to watch the sunset over the Manila Bay. The way our relationship has been the previous years, I have given up on the thought of being more than friends, but the past few months have rekindled my hope. Maybe he does like me back.

We get out of the museum just before the sun sets, with the boy I loved holding my hand the entire time. Now we are walking around Rizal Park having completely left our friends to spend some time alone. My heart is fluttering as he gives my hand tiny squeezes every now and then. As the afternoon turns into dusk, music starts blaring by the fountains and the people start gathering around. The song choice is hilarious and I can’t help but admire the way his eyes crinkle as he laughs. When the light show begins he stops and stares at the fountain wide eyed. My heart skips another beat. I love him. I love this city. I love the woman I have become in it.

Manila is home to me.

I am 27 years old.

The hum of the boat engine almost lulls me to sleep as we make our way back to our little island. After a full day of swimming and exploring the neighboring islands with my friends in the Calamianes, I am exhausted. My friends are taking photos on the bow of the boat, taking full advantage of the warm light from the sunset. Tomorrow our 15 days at the hospital for the month of May officially start, and I am on call to assist at the Operating Room. This is how life has been the past 5 months.

I started working in Culion in January 2017 in the middle of my year off. The job was offered to me on my 27th birthday by a friend. I figured it would be a nice to spend my year off in the islands and to be near the ocean, spending my days off in the most beautiful beaches the country has to offer.

Of course, the island did not disappoint. Within a week of arriving, we spend a warm afternoon on a beautiful beach with our seniors. Every morning whenever I walk to work I am greeted by the most wonderful view of the sea and the smell of salt in the air. It turned out exactly how I imagined it to be.

With all the wonderful sights the islands had to offer though, there was something far more important  Culion has given me. It was growth. The past few months had reminded me of who I was and had given me a clearer understanding of what I wanted to become as a doctor and as a member of the community. It brought me back to the girl who never knew anything but life in a small town. There was so much to be done to bring health to a remote community, and there was a huge sense of fulfillment that came along with taking part in it serving the community. This was something I wanted to keep doing in my career, whatever path I chose to be in.

Some weeks later, my friends and I are sitting in front of the dormitory after a few drinks. I feel a little woozy from the alcohol, and I am inebriated enough to not care about lying down on the dirt. We are a little morose as we count the remaining days we have in the island. In a few weeks, we go our separate ways and go back to the city and none of us are excited about it.

I look at the sky, there are so much more stars in our island than I could ever see in the city. How can I even leave this town?

“Let’s promise each other we’ll come back” one of them says

Im trying to hold back my tears at this point. I’m not even sure where I will be the next few years so it’s difficult to say when I will be back. “How about we meet each other here in 2030?” I suggest.

We agree on meeting at the same spot after 12 years. There is no doubt that we will spend time with each other in the coming years, but there is something about this island and the way it has brought us together that makes it so special to the four of us. 12 years down the road, I know that I’ll still hold these memories close to my heart.

Palawan has become home to me.

I am 29 years old.

I lead my husband to our usual spot by the lake. We haven’t walked on our favorite trail for weeks, but this weekend I was determined to catch the leaves turn for fall. A few days ago on my way home from work, I noticed the trees at the park nearby starting to change into a variety of warm colors. I wanted to see them before they all started to fall off.

We slowly go down a gravelly path leading to a steep road that will lead us to the lake. We are preoccupied in making it down safely without falling on our faces on the dirt path. When we finally make it safely to the concrete road we stop in our tracks.

The path is lined with the most brilliant reds and oranges.

“God, I love fall” my husband quips.

My husband and I grew up in the Philippines where we only had two seasons – dry and wet and it is hot all year round. Moving to a temperate country, we both had to adjust to living in a place where you had to check the temperature daily. We both had to change wardrobes every 13 weeks rather than wearing our favorite clothes all year round. It was very inconvenient, but it had its perks, among them, days like these.

I haven’t been in Toronto for long. I would usually visit Carlo every 2 years or so, usually in the Spring or Summer for a month or two. In February 2020, I moved here for good. Three weeks later, COVID-19 became a pandemic. What I anticipated as a difficult few months of adjustment became one of the darkest months of my life. I’m pretty transparent when I tell people that I struggled with my mental health at the time. This took an extra toll on me because I have always seen myself as a strong woman. I remember going out to buy groceries in April, my first time out of the house in 3 weeks, and had a full blown panic attack on our way home just because I felt a little out of breath. Every night,sleep took 5 hours to come, and when it did I would wake up from nightmares about monsters and death.

A year ago, when I told my best friend that I was going to move to Canada, she asked me if I think I was ready to move. I told her I was, Toronto was not unfamiliar to me, and it seems like a place I could settle in nicely.

“But you’ve always been there as a tourist. How’d you think you’d find it when you actually have to live there?”

I was adamant in my stance that I think I’d love living in Toronto, but I know she had a point. But I made a commitment, and I was going to follow through, even though it scared the shit out of me.

My feelings for this city will always be complicated. This city has taught me what it was like to be lonely, to feel that I wasn’t good enough. This city has seen the lowest points of my life. This massive city of 6 million people had made me feel so little and inconsequential that I doubted that I will ever amount to anything.

And yet, this city has also taught me to be stubborn. It taught me to keep going despite the odds. It has taught me to chase my inner demons away and to rise above the challenge. It strengthened my bond with my husband and our families. I was a first generation immigrant, and I knew, that if I were to settle in this foreign land to make a better future for our future children, I knew I had to toughen up. And while a lot of times the doubt seeps through, I know that Toronto has made me into a stronger woman.  

When Carlo and I reach our spot by the lake, we sit on a log while watching the waves slowly lap at the rocks.

“I don’t think I can ever wrap my head around these huge lakes. How are they so huge and not be the sea. How is this fresh water….?”

I stop talking to sniff around a bit because I suddenly pick up a smell I was oddly familiar with

It smells like salt water.

We stay on the log for a bit, savoring the sound of waves and the crisp fall air.

It feels like home to me.

I am 30 years old.

My husband is visiting me in New Brunswick and I am picking him up – in a cab.

“Take care, my daughter!” The cab driver tells me as he drops me off the airport.

I’ve been in New Brunswick for 2 months, and usually go around the city by cab. The cab drivers here are extremely friendly, so his comment didn’t come as a surprise anymore.

I remember arriving in New Brunswick for my residency mid June in the middle of the night.  The airport was so small it reminded me of the airport in Palawan. After getting my bags, I go to the arrival area and book for an uber, or a Lyft. There were none. There were no cars available. They didn’t have ride sharing services in New Brunswick. They did say that this province was quiet. I was worried it may be *too quiet*.

 Carlo texts me before he goes to the arrival gates, I don’t even have to wait 2 minutes until I see him in his Blue Jays cap.

“Wow, this airport is small!”

The comment makes me nervous. My husband also grew up in a small town, so he assures me he would like a quiet life as well, but I am making him move here for my career. So I feel some pressure to make him look forward to making such a big move.

I was on a mission.

I had 4 days to make my husband love our home for at least the next 5 years. I prepared well, too. Our days were filled with nature, good food and good friends. Honestly I think I won him over that very first day when we went axe throwing.

On his last day in the city, we drive back to Shediac beach to go swim in the Atlantic. We had been there shortly for about two hours on his birthday to have some drinks and walk along the shoreline and we quickly realized that we needed to spend more time by the water and go swim in the ocean.

We pick a spot near the water and lay down our things. After a long day of driving around the province, we looked forward to a good nap under the sun while listening to the sound of the ocean and seagulls. Sleep just wouldn’t come however as I had so many thoughts racing in my head.

When I think of the next few years living in New Brunswick, I get a little anxious. I always find that I thrive in small towns back home, but this was Canada. Could I fit in this community? Will the people here like me? I can’t even speak the tiniest bit of French and there were barely any Filipinos here, at least not as many as I encounter in Toronto.  But if the past few weeks were an indication of how life will be like in New Brunswick, then it keeps me optimistic. Despite being halfway across the world, I am still met with the same warmth and kindness that I experienced back home in our little small town. Working with my patients have been rewarding and fulfilling on most days and I look forward to the day that I serve them as a physician in the community. The past 2 years out of practice, I lost a lot of faith in myself and forgot what it was like to live my life with purpose and fulfillment. Slowly, I am regaining all of that back, and to be honest, I do not think I have been this happy in a while. “Spem Reduxit” as the NB motto goes. Hope restored.

My husband stirs and wakes up from his nap. “Let’s go swim” I tell him.

We make our way into the Atlantic holding hands. The first wave slowly hits our feet, it’s warm. As we slowly move towards the sea, a cool breeze blows and I shiver a bit.

“You have to dip your head under the water, then you’d feel better about the breeze”

The breeze blows again and I chicken out “You go first” I tell him

He dunks his head under water and 2 seconds later he jumps back out, seawater streaming down his face, his eyes open wide and there are small beads clinging to his eyebrows .For a split second, it reminds me of that moment by the fountains in Rizal Park.

“It’s salty! The water’s salty!!” and he smiles widely in amusement.

I quickly follow suit, holding my breath for a few seconds underwater to get acclimated.

When I resurface I look at him and say “Oh my god, it is salty!!”

We are like young kids who have gone to the sea for the first time, laughing, wading, looking for fish. We haven’t been this carefree in a while, and it is a nice break from the stressful routines that we have set for ourselves the past few months. Life is good.

Maybe New Brunswick can be home to me.

Getting my spark back.

Chup4 Comments

One of the first things I ever did entering a relationship with my husband 10 years ago was to Google “How to become a doctor in Canada” and one of the first things I was ever told about being an internationally trained doctor in Canada was it was one of the toughest countries to be licensed as an IMG, and that most of the time, it’s not worth to pursue the battle.

But I was stubborn and I tried anyway and on April 20th, I was matched into the Family Medicine program of Dalhousie University as a 1st year resident.

It’s been more than 24 hours since the results came out and until I can’t stop pinching myself. It’s just so surreal that after years of trying to find my place in this world I am finally, finally — here. I’m going to be totally honest when I say that the last few years, most of the time, I thought this was a moment I would never see.

My family and friends have always believed in me since I started this journey, but sometimes, it’s the discouraging comments that sound the loudest.

I’m not a stranger to being discouraged. Sometimes it’s hard to blame people who have been disillusioned by the system. But it’s the well meaning comments, sometimes even coming from the people closest to you that hurt the most – the ones who say “You’re so brave for taking on the system – but don’t feel too bad when you don’t make it”. Those words really cut deep, and kept replaying at the back of my head, even in the moments when I felt the strongest.

I’ve gone through something similar before when I was younger. When I was in high school, I applied for the UPCAT. I remember telling the guy I liked that I was putting Nursing as my first choice. He told me “I don’t want you to get your hopes up. I tried a few years ago and I didn’t get in.” A teacher that I looked up to told me “UP Manila? It’s tough to get in they have triple course quotas, you have to be really smart to get in”. I performed fairly well in high school, and have always been confident about my grades, but hearing those words from people who knew me made me doubt myself that I could ever make it. Maybe I was just dreaming too big.

A few months after – I remember rushing to UP in the middle of the night a few minutes after they posted the results. I remember how I fell to my knees when I saw my name on the list. Clarice Redonda – BS Nursing.

I got in.

I should have listened to my parents and my friends. I had what it took. I worked my ass off during that summer. I spent the nights before the UPCAT drowned in my reviewers late in the evening til my mother took my book from me and told me to sleep.

Getting into UP was something I always liked to look back on whenever I had doubts about myself. There was something I had in me that could beat the odds.

That was 13 years ago and I guess, as I grew older and found myself in the company of people far more brilliant than I was, I forgot I had that spark. I stopped dreaming. I was just comfortable in the middle, blending in the crowd.

Throughout my long distance relationship with my boyfriend our plan has always been to settle back home in the Philippines when we get married, where it was easier for my medical career. In 2014 on a Trip to Toronto on a bus ride home I remember telling my boyfriend “Maybe living in Canada isn’t too bad. Maybe I am okay moving here”. My boyfriend, who at that time struggled to get licensed as a nurse was wide eyed when he shook his head fervently. “I don’t want you to go through what I did” and for a while that was the end of it.

In 2018, right before I applied for residency in the Philippines, my boyfriend proposed. By that time I was already thinking of the possibility of moving to Canada. Years of working at hospitals have shown me how much people struggled in the Philippines because of health care costs – even those who had incomes better than my middle class family. I knew Canada could provide a better future for my family and I. So when we decided to get married I had to make a decision – move after I finish residency in the Philippines, or try my luck earlier while I was still young?

I realized then that was what stopping me wasn’t something I did not have control over. What was stopping me was fear – I was giving up before I even tried. If I wanted a brighter future for my family – I needed to take the risk, and put up a good fight. But with all the horror stories of unmatched IMGs and some ending up having to do odd jobs in order to scrape by, I wasn’t sure I had enough fight in me. Still, I slapped on my brave face and decided to go for it.

Let me tell you, this journey was one of the most difficult ones I ever took in my entire life. It unearthed so many insecurities I didn’t even know I had. For every hundred words of encouragement from people who had my back, I’d have a discouraging “reality check” which resonated in my head a million times more than words of support ever did. Those comments I bring to bed with me and many times I have cried myself to sleep thinking maybe I will never be good enough to prove myself to this country. My nights were riddled with dreams of letting the people I love down, my husband, my parents, my friends and family. The road was misty was no clear path in sight – let alone a finish line I could look forward to.

But every morning I wake up and tell myself to persevere – I was not going to go down without a fight. Every day (and I do mean every single day) my husband tells me we’ll do our best and keep on trying, no matter what it took. There were times that we were struggling on how to pay for an exam or application fees – and every time we’d get help from family, or the unexpected windfall and it felt so serendipitous that I knew I just had to keep on fighting.

Every day was a struggle, but I surrounded myself with people who took my best interests in mind. My husband, family, my batchmates from medical school, my seniors, Ranika my career counsellor, my bosses and co-workers at the clinic who put their faith in my abilities as an internationally trained doctor. I knew I owed it to them to keep trying my best. Most of all I knew I owed it to myself. There was that spark in me – the one I knew I had long ago, but buried within me.

Those nights leading up to match day, I kept telling myself “Don’t get too disappointed, you probably won’t match but we’ll just keep trying” I’d curl into my husband’s arms and cry for a bit, and he’d tell me that no matter what happens, we’ll be alright. The way we have always been alright all these years, holding each other up when things got too heavy.

I took a look at the results with my husband who picked me up from work that day. I didn’t want to take a video of my reaction because I was ready for heartbreak. When CaRMS told me I matched, I sat in disbelief and my husband and I held each other while we cried. I matched. On my first try. I can’t say people didn’t believe in me, because so many did, but maybe I should have believed in myself a little bit more. I still had that spark. I found it. It’s still there.

In the next few months, I expect new anxieties to kick in. Moving to a new province, settling in, starting a new job and performing to the best of my abilities as a resident. But this time I do not look at my challenges with dread. Rather I am embracing it. If there is anything that I have proved to myself time and time again is that I have what it takes. Maybe this time, I won’t lose that spark ever again.

Living the Meme: Is there a doctor on this flight?

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It’s something you often only see in memes, but apparently can also happen to a 29 year old barely 3 years in the profession. Yesterday I was on a long haul flight in the middle of the pacific and was almost half asleep when the attendant asks over the PA system “Is there a doctor on board?”

It was me. I was a doctor on board.

I could barely see the other section of the plane but I could make out there was already a small commotion from where I sat. The massive confident guy in front of me sprints to the commotion, ah of course. It’s a fully booked Boeing 777, of course I won’t be the only doctor on board.

Except a few seconds later, another page — “if there is a doctor, nurse, emt or paramedic if you would so kindly identify yourself to the staff” turns out, the cocky guy was just a spectator.

I quickly weigh my options in a span of 3 seconds. I was a young 29 year old general physician with only a couple of years of experience in emergency rooms. Was I qualified to do anything? What if I had no idea what was wrong with the patient? What if I screwed up? What if there were other doctors watching thinking how stupidly I handled the situation? What if they didnt believe me? On a regular clinic day, I get at least 5 skeptical patients asking me “You’re really my doctor? You seem kinda young…”

But I also thought that if something happens to this person and I just chose to sit there doing nothing I would probably never be able to forgive myself.

So I stood up and ran to the commotion, tapped the 6 foot 2 flight attendant on the shoulder, looked up at him and said in a small but steady voice “Hi, yes, I’m a doctor how can I help?”

Several other passengers approach the scene and I could hear the other passengers talking amongst themselves saying “It’s fine… she’s a doctor!!“. Among them was a pleasant lady who told me she was a nurse. As we transferring to a more spacious part of the aircraft I was very apologetic to her saying “I’m sorry but I’m just a really young doctor” she sweetly replies “Oh dont worry about it.. I’m an old nurse!” Meanwhile a passenger shoves a thermometer onto my hand and tells me “It’s fine, you can have it if you need it”

After a few minutes of assessments I explain to the crew what I thought had happened to the patient. They ask me what I think should be done and I tell them that apart from just keeping a close eye on the patient for the rest of the flight (and a prompt consult when we land) there was no need for extra measures at the time. We all breathe a little sigh of relief and finish up with some paperwork.

I told the flight attendant I was really nervous about coming forward because of my age. She’s quick to assure me that they were all thankful for the nurse and me and that sometimes it’s more difficult when no one ever comes to help.

The truth is, no one is really obliged to, however I don’t think it is something I could ever reconcile with myself. I decided to be a doctor because 20 years ago, when my uncle was coding and my grandmother was crying beside me in the hallway I promised myself never to feel helpless again. I could never betray the 10 year old me like that. I needed her to be proud of me.

In the end the staff sends me and the nurse a bottle of champagne and flight discounts as thanks. I was really just happy to be able to help and relieved that this brain could be of use after all, but of course I am not one to turn down a bottle of bubbly.

In this profession we are called, foremost, to serve. It’s easy to forget. It’s easy to fall into your insecurities especially in a job that demands the very best from everyone in the field. When lives are on the line, there is no room for mistakes. It becomes so deeply ingrained in you that it sometimes freezes you from doing something in fear of screwing up. The end point in all of this though, is to save someone’s life. Something that I could never do just sitting from my window seat wondering if I was who they needed.

What happened yesterday was something I needed to happen at this point of my career. To be honest I think I needed the patient more than the patient needed me. Recently I’ve had so many uncertainties and insecurities about me ever being able to amount to something. Inside that Boeing 777 the flight crew, the nurse and the passengers thought I was enough. They believed in me and were willing to help me. The skeptical voices were mostly the ones inside my head, accumulated by years of telling myself I wasn’t good enough. As it turns out the doctor they needed was the one who was willing to be there as it happened. For yesterday’s flight that doctor was me.

The patient and I had a language barrier and we had to rely on a translator the whole time. As I said goodbye to him I gave him a curious look and a thumbs up. He returns it to me with a smile and bows down in gratitude.

We were going to be okay.

At the arrival gates my husband greets me with roses, something he has never failed to do in all our years in a long distance relationship. This time I was the one who surprised him with a bottle of champagne and an amazing story on how I got it.

“You’re meant to do this” he tells me while kissing my brow.

I think I really am.Enjoying free champagne and my husband after a long trans Pacific journey

Blasting off: Carlo and Clarice finally get married

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T minus 4 hours – I am lying in our hotel bedroom in Times Square – a daytime talk show is humming in the background and I’m barely paying any attention. My friends from back home are freaking out – telling me not to be nervous. I chuckle a bit and tell them that I’m really just lounging around waiting for my makeup artist to arrive while eating a large McNugget meal from downstairs. There’s not much to do anyway – a perk of a very small and intimate wedding. I’m not the least bit nervous.

T minus 3 hours and 50 minutes – Oh my God. I’m nervous.

T minus 3 hours – My makeup artist is trying to appease my nerves by telling me stories. She tells me she has done Bono’s makeup which amazes me but also makes me gulp – I don’t think my face shares the same mold as a rockstar older than my parents. My fiancé is on the other side of the room watching his favorite show on his phone. My makeup artist is amused. When that is done he stands up to prepare his clothes. “Oh my God. He irons!!” she gasps. “Girl, you guys are gonna be fine”

T minus 2 hours – “You think he’s nervous?” The makeup artist asks as she puts foundation on my face. He’s being awfully quiet and I think he’s ironed his dress shirt twice and is now staring intently at his pocket square. I almost laugh “Oh, he definitely is”

T minus 1 hour – our families have arrived at Central Park and we are still in our room. I look at my dress and sigh. I haven’t ironed it. US sockets are only 110v and my steamer refuses to produce any steam. We also forgot the ribbon that laced up the back and

 

MikkoChupwedding-13
Photo by Cheers and Captions Photography

we had to buy gift ribbons from a craft store in a subway station the day before. I didn’t realize it wasn’t the same color. I am close to freaking out.

There is still so much to do.  The flowers for the flower girls are still wrapped in plastic and floral tape. We were supposed to go to Chelsea and buy flowers early in the morning but we were out until 2 in the morning drinking with our best friends. I wobble a bit while walking in my heels thinking there’s no way I was going to wake up early enough to travel 20 blocks for flowers. As we were about to turn right to our hotel, I see something in my drunken haze. The supermarket across the street sells roses. We buy 2 dozen of them.

Thankfully Ate Leigh arrives and we get some much needed help. It was a blur of tossing things into bags, jumping around clutter, answering calls from the front desk – “Ma’am are you done with those pair of scissors?” and posing for photos. We are cutting and arranging flowers into baskets the last minute. But we finish the job and squeeze through the corridor – my big ass gown won’t fit. Well it’s not as if it was ironed anyway. We were expected at the venue in 15 minutes and we still had the Times Square traffic to go through.

T minus 25 minutes – We get out of the car and scurry to the venue – baskets and guest books and all. I almost trip at the first step on my huge gown. We are still on the sidewalk of 5th avenue and have been congratulated twice by strangers. So this is what it’s like to get married in the big apple.

T minus 10 minutes – This is good. My parents give me away and I have managed to hold back my tears. Thank goodness. It looks like I’m not gonna cry my makeup off today. Our officiant starts the ceremony. She thanks everyone for coming and then starts acknowledging my grandmother… and I start crying.

And crying

And crying.

Someone hands me a handkerchief to wipe my tears which dislodges one of my false eyelashes. Thankfully we flick that off before anybody even notices. My fiancé holds my hand as I giggle nervously. I know he’s got me.

Ten seconds to lift-off: The officiant is asking my fiancé to recite his vows. He opens the note he’s rewritten at the hotel with trembling hands.

5 seconds– He looks at me and holds my gaze.

2 seconds– I stare back and smile at him, the water works begin.

Then he mentions my name.

We have liftoff.

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Photo by Gianna Leo Falcon

 

I don’t remember when I started liking Carlo, but I remember the exact moment that I realized I was in love with him. It was my first day back in college after being gone for a week – we’ve just buried my grandmother the day before and my heart had been feeling lost and heavy for days. I am greeted one by one by my friends with comforting hugs. Carlo is the last one to come up. He puts his arms around me and I am enveloped by warmth that I’ve never felt before. I felt like it was where I belonged. I felt home.

9 years later and I find myself in front of the same man – whose arms still feel like warm hearth on a cold day, promising to take care of me, and to build our family from that moment forward.

I guess he doesn’t realize he’s been doing that for 9 years.

T plus 45 minutes – “You know it’s amazing,” I tell our photographer “we’ve been walking and running around for hours now in these heels in Central Park and my feet do not hurt at all.

“I think couples get that adrenaline rush when they get married. I’ve got brides who run in the most uncomfortable heels and don’t feel anything until after”

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Photo by Gianna Leo Falcon

No. I think I just bought really good heels.

We say goodbye to our photographer in front of The Dakota apartments in 72nd street W. Our restaurant is a good 10 blocks south of it. Carlo asks me if I wanted to get an uber. Still feeling energetic I say no, grab his hand and start walking south.

In between sprinting in heels, laughing and jaywalking while holding my husband’s hand we stop at a corner. A little girl passing by tells her parents “She looks like a princess!”

I sure feel like it, kid.

T plus 3 hours – Our sisters bought champagne for everyone. There is a buzz around the table as they talk to each other while the wait staff hands out the flutes. Underneath the table I hold my husband’s hand.

In college, I never thought I would have actually ended up with Carlo, but when he became my boyfriend I knew right away that I wanted to marry him. I was never the sort of girl to imagine what my wedding would be like but I guess when I found the right person, I started planning in my head. I imagined it in our favorite cathedral in Manila. It’ll be a huge event (we have big families and a lot of friends). My dad would cry which would make my mother cry. I will hold Carlo’s hand all night long. The best man will say silly things in his speech and Carlo and I would scoff. I would start my speech with a funny anecdote about the day we met. We will dance until the wee hours of the morning and everyone will say it is the best wedding ever.

I look at the table in front of us and it is nothing like I have ever planned all those years – but it is beautiful. Perhaps there will always be a part of me that wishes we could have shared it with more people – especially the ones closest to us. But I look at that table and see those faces, our parents, sisters, cousins, nieces, friends, and the best man – who did say something silly that made Carlo and I scoff – and I can’t imagine anything more beautiful.

Underneath the table I am still holding my husband’s hand.

This is exactly what I wanted.

T plus 5 hours – My first cab ride in New York City and I am in a wedding dress. I have put this ball gown through grass, soil, the pavement and the floor of a NYC cab. It has served me well. By now the streets are quiet – I guess this city does sleep.

My ballgown has flattened considerably since I stuffed it inside a booth in the restaurant and inside the cab but I still had a hard time fitting through the hallway. I waddle along the hallway and Carlo stops me short when we reach the door.

He has to carry me inside our room.

Although with these narrow hallways and this monster of a wedding gown I am not sure how we will fit, but my husband is determined. He taps they key card, swings the door open and hoists me up his arms. With his stride it only takes him a few steps to softly deposit me on the bed. I kick off my shoes and see that my feet have blisters everywhere– it was the adrenaline rush

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Photo by Cheers and Captions Photography

 

I lean my head against the mattress, it has been a long day, but my head and my heart are still up way past the clouds, right there in the stratosphere. I feel light as air.

We made it I think.

“We made it, and we are making it” my husband often says. And we will continue to make it. No problem is as big as my wedding gown, no path as narrow as that hallway. We will always make it with each other.

And now I’m home.

If you see a girl crying on the train

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Well, it finally happened.

I broke down in the middle of the LRT.

After a night of overthinking and sappy movies and perhaps, perhaps a shitload of hormones, it was bound to happen really. This is why I hate being alone.

Life has been a challenge lately. I’ve been making some pretty… interesting decisions which I admit has surprised most people. But for the most part they have been met with encouragement. You’re so brave, they say. We’re sure you will make it, they say. It’s so nice that you are so driven they say. And I puff my chest out a little bit because, Yeah! That’s pretty darn brave of me isn’t it? What a spunky move by Chup Redonda. No one will expect anything less from this girl. So unpredictable, so rash! So brilliant! So in character!

And this character, I play this one so well that no one hears that my voice falters a tad. But I do.

I hear it when I’m alone in the condo and it is so silent I feel like throwing a chair at the AC for humming so loudly. Or when I finally decide that I cant keep the TV on for white noise when I sleep like I do when I try to drown my thoughts early in the evening. I hear it falter a little bit, then a lot. Then, like a log ramming against the wall of my ears.

The faltering is suddenly all I can hear.

Is this what bravery feels like? Because right now all of this is making me feel like a grade A wimp.

The supremo of the Katipunan was born today. One of the bravest men our nation has ever produced. More than a century ago, did he cry clandestinely at a Tranvia when it became too much? Did he have a constant nagging fear in his chest that he’s failing as a leader? He must have had some of the same fears like me, because if it were the contrary it wouldnt be bravery at all wouldn’t it? Confidence, dominance, hubris? Yes perhaps. Or at the other end of things… folly. But bravery? Maybe not.

I guess this also can be how bravery looks like, fighting a battle everyone tells you you may not win or crying on the train but still going to work to see your patients. It doesn’t quite look like a lion roaring on top of pride rock, but the tiniest squeak at the face of adversity is still a squeak. So I’ll take it.

But for now, let me just cry a little bit more on the trains, or during the minutes between patients when it is just me in the clinic. Let me eat another one of those subway cookies that makes me feel good about myself. I’ll be okay.

It’s not like I’m stopping anytime soon.

Jumping into the Gap: The story of my Gap Year thus far

I’ve never been to a cliff before, not even a small one, and the Gap was enormous. The way the waves crashed against those rocks were beautiful, almost poetic. The song in my iPod had to be replaced. This wasn’t a My Chemical Romance moment, no. This was a moment for Augustana’s Boston

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Sydney (2)
My parents and my horrible seventeen year old fashion sense at The Gap, May 2007.

There is a place in Sydney – a cliff called “The Gap”. It sits at the edge of the city in a quiet suburb facing the Tasman sea. It’s nowhere near as popular as the Sydney Opera House or the Harbour Bridge, but eleven years ago, on a cool Australian afternoon, I figured that it was one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.

I was a whiny, angsty, sixteen year old who thought she was far too cool for anything the city had to offer. Blah, buildings. Blah, suburbs. Blah, yachts. Blah, blah blah – I’ve seen it all. It was chilly, I was tired, and all I wanted to do was listen to My Chemical Romance on full blast on my iPod nano and sob at the tragedy of life. I was a really angsty kid. I wore a lot of eyeliner and smudged my water line excessively. I wanted to be Helena, for goodness sake.

But when we got to the Gap, I was caught off guard. I’ve never been to a cliff before, not even a small one, and the Gap was enormous. The way the waves crashed against those rocks were beautiful, almost poetic. The song in my iPod had to be replaced. This wasn’t a My Chemical Romance moment, no. This was a moment for Augustana’s Boston (The slower and mellow version).

I’m not sure if it was my mom’s friend who told me or if I read it on the signage, but soon I found out that while The Gap is very beautiful, it is also the place of many suicides. Which shouldn’t come as a surprise really because it is a very high cliff with huge rocks at the bottom. Rocky cliffs are perfect for jumping off of. I mean, have you heard of Björk’s Hyperballad and how she often imagines herself slamming against those rocks? (Okay I’m sorry I’m putting way too many musical references here) It’s quite a disturbing thought that so many people have died at the place, but it’s made the place so much more mysterious and eerily beautiful. Mesmerizing yes, but also haunting.

I haven’t been there since that day in 2007, but 10 years later I found myself staring at another gap, this time it was a figurative one. During my internship in Manila Doctors I was faced with a decision – should I take a gap year or go straight into residency? It wasn’t something I ever considered before – the plan was to go through training as quickly as possible with no stopovers. But just like the Gap the thought of going through a year off was looking very dangerous, but very very appealing. Was it a millennial thing? Was I just tired? I struggled with the idea because I felt like I was already too old to have a break. I was almost 10 years out of high school by then and I was still nowhere near what I wanted to become. I wanted to be a cardiologist and damnit I wanted to get there so quick.

But I also wanted to experience many other things – things I missed because I went straight to medical school. When I was in medical school it was all about reading my books, going to coffee shops for all nighters and the occasional party every now and then. It actually feels closer to high school than my college life was, and I felt no older than a high schooler. I mean I certainly looked the part, let’s not go back and count how many times I was asked for my ID.

I guess for whatever reason I had at the time, I finally decided to take the year off. Once I passed the boards I went and took different jobs at different places – all of which I thoroughly enjoyed. For someone who was happy to earn 4,000 pesos a month during internship, having a real job that pays real money felt amazing. I had my dad drive me to some of my jobs but sometimes I had to do the commute on my own – jostle with people in the train and go home tired as fuck from it. To which my parents would laugh at because they’ve been there before. My friends and I would debate on how to deal with our taxes, and damnit, shouldn’t we already be paying for insurance? How is it that I had so much money a few days ago but after bills I had already halved it? I would go back racking my brain where the hell my money went but I would smile before passing out on my bed because finally I knew how it felt like to be a real adult. After 27 years. It took me long enough.

I was working several jobs until January when I finally decided to take on a regular position in a government hospital in Palawan. It was offered to me by a friend (on my 27th birthday, no less) and since Palawan was still one of the most beautiful places I’ve been to I quickly passed my application. I took the job with one of my best friends from medical school. I remember coming there on our first day with my heart almost beating out of my chest and asking myself what I’ve gotten myself into. I’ve only had my license for 3 months then. I looked like a child and certainly felt like one. I slept in the hotel that first night thinking of one thing only: I wanted to go home.

We signed our contracts the very next day.

You know how sometimes the best decision you make comes on a whim? Right now it feels like that. I really just took the job so that I can get closer to the beaches – and while I do find myself going to the beach often, it’s more than that. I haven’t lived in a rural area since I was ten years old, and I guess I forgot how it felt like to be part of a small community. I forgot how completely satisfying it was to just look at the night sky and count how many stars you could see. I forgot how it felt like to be so close to everybody that you didn’t even know who you were related to so you just call everybody tito, or tita, or lolo or lola. There are downsides of everybody knowing each other, like when you trip in front of the plaza and half a dozen tricycle drivers see that huge gash on your knee, and the next day that guy from the general merchandise store knows about it too. But there are a lot of upsides too, the most of this being that you know that these people would always look out for you.

It felt so much like home when I was a little girl. It feels so much like home right now.

Our consultants have already taught us so much. The anxiety that used to eat me alive before I started those first duties have waned, because now I know that they are always there to guide me. I’m slowly seeing what I am supposed to be, what I want to become. My gap year didn’t make me forget the things I wanted to do, but instead it made the path a little bit clearer. Granted it has made me realize that there are far more bumps in the road that I have initially imagined, but it’s better to see them ahead so I could prepare for them.

It’s funny how terrifying this decision was for me all those months ago. Jumping into my gap year in September 2017 felt like jumping into The Gap in Sydney. Beautiful. Exciting. Terrifying. This time I see myself standing at the edge of that cliff wearing my red shirt, my denim jacket and the wind blowing my hair. The intro to Augustana’s Boston plays softly on my earpods. There are rocks with jagged edges at the bottom with the waves crashing on them, seafoam spreading across a boulder. A seagull calls behind me and I see that my friends are just right beside me. We’re holding hands, trembling, in a cold sweat because MAN THIS IS SOME CRAZY SHIT WE’RE ABOUT TO DO.

And we jump.

The crazy bitches jump.

We are free falling, Earth’s gravity pulling our weights and the rocks are almost there and I could taste the salty sea spray in my mouth because we are so close, so close to that huge rock over there – so we shut our eyes and try to brace for the impact but we don’t hit anything.

Because we’re flying.

A letter to my 10 year old self, on her 10th birthday.

Today, you turn 10. Before you come home from school, you will pass by Goldilocks and pick up a cake before you ride the jeepney home where your relatives and some pancit are waiting for you. You take the 45 minute jeepney ride home with your grandmother and the cake on your lap and you can’t help but smile at yourself: you’re a big girl now.

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To my dearest Clarice,

Today, you turn 10. Before you come home from school, you will pass by Goldilocks and pick up a cake before you ride the jeepney home where your relatives and some pancit are waiting for you. You take the 45 minute jeepney ride home with your grandmother and the cake on your lap and you can’t help but smile at yourself: you’re a big girl now.

The next year will be a blur, and you won’t be prepared for it. One night, your grandmother will notice swollen ankles. Now you are not quite sure if you did not understand it at the time, or that they were keeping things from you, but the same night, you find yourself in a van with your family, travelling from Laguna to St. Luke’s in Quezon City, and the next thing you know, your grandmother is to have open heart surgery.

The next time you go home, it is only to collect your things, it seems like such a rush decision, you think, but you have no choice really. Lola shouldn’t have to worry about raising a preteen, her heart has gone through enough.

The moving part? It’s scary, and it will break your heart. Your uncle tells you that you don’t need to go back to your school anymore but you insist on saying goodbye to your friends.  Your adviser will the whole class to write a letter for you before you leave. Keep them in a safe place because you will read those letters every day and will help you go through your first few days in school.

Your daddy will enrol you in Miriam, he’s always wanted to send you there. It will be weird, there are no boys, and your classmates – some of them are filthy rich. You will feel that you can’t keep up, you are just a middle class girl with a thick Tagalog accent. I’m not gonna lie, but the first weeks will be tough. Girls can be mean and you will find yourself running to the school field alone in the middle of lunch with tears in your eyes because you know this isn’t where you belong —— but don’t give up on the place. Keep going to the library, fill up several library cards, read books and encyclopedias. Don’t worry about feeling like a nerd because you will find people who like you for who you are. Those people are the ones worth keeping in your life among them your very best friend.

There will be one day that you will receive a chain letter you are supposed to send to 7 more girls.You wont be able to do it because 1) your lola would see you wasting paper and would be livid if she found out what you’ve been writing on them and 2) you are among the last of the girls you know to receive one – there’s no one to send them to anymore.

Now the letter says if you fail to send the letter you will have 7 years of bad luck in love. I’m not sure if it’s because that letter was really cursed – because you really will have bad luck with boys for the next seven years. But that’s a good thing because when you turn 17 you will meet someone. He will be a good friend first and when he starts to reach for your hand and (sometimes literally) sweep you off your feet – let him. Listen to those butterflies in your stomach and the tingling you feel down your spine whenever his fingers interlace with yours and take the chance. Trust me, you will be glad you did.

This probably terrifies you, doesn’t it? It’s probably a lot to handle for a 10-year-old, but trust me when I tell you that you that you are gonna make it, and you’re gonna make it beautifully. Grow up to become the strong girl your grandmother and your parents have raised you to be. Make them proud – every day. Always be happy, try to laugh whenever you can. Be yourself – and under no circumstances should you ever let anyone tell you what you ought to be.

For now, go home and enjoy your time with your family. Eat as much cake as you want, as much noodles as you want. Because, you’re 10 now. You’re a big girl, and life is just getting started.

Medicine Thus Far and Why You Should Never Take Job Advice from the Motivational Poster Cat

I was far closer than I ever was to becoming a doctor – why wasn’t I jumping up out of bed every morning? Why wasn’t I wide eyed and excited at every opportunity that passes my way? Did I actually… hate my job?

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14563389_10210110528977686_3535930607066612221_nI am not sure if it was Confucius, or if it was this Princeton professor or maybe it was the motivational poster cat, who said “Choose a job you love, and you never have to work a day for your entire life”

Back in high school, when people when still thinking of what course to take, I was pretty set on the career path I wanted. Friends told me I was lucky I didn’t have to think too much on one of the most crucial decision of our lives. I really did feel fortunate because I’ve seen so many people be stuck in jobs they didn’t love – and be miserable while doing it.

While me? Damn it was gonna be a doctor – and I was gonna love it.

Fast forward into my clerkship year when we had to start working shifts at the hospital – I was anxious, but mostly excited because here it was – the “being a doctor” part of medicine. This was my job.

But what the bloody hell Confucius. I THOUGHT THIS WASN’T SUPPOSED TO FEEL LIKE WORK??

I was far closer than I ever was to becoming a doctor – why wasn’t I jumping up out of bed every morning? Why wasn’t I wide eyed and excited at every opportunity that passes my way? Did I actually… hate my job?

What scared me most was that maybe this wasn’t where I was supposed to be. Maybe this wasn’t the dream. Maybe I was just another one of those people stuck with jobs they’re miserable in. Working for the money, living for the weekends.

Or maybe I just believed too much in the motivational poster cat.

It was hard to wake up every morning to be at work because who wants to work for 7 days a week? For 30+ hours a shift? Who the hell enjoys missing lunch or dinner or even your bathroom breaks because there’s just so much to do? Or missing out on special occasions with loved ones because you hae to be at the hospital. Whatever the motivational poster cat tells you, it is gonna FEEL like work – but it doesn’t mean you hate it. Just like in any other loving relationship, there are things you do not like – probably even hate, but it shouldn’t make you feel like you love it any less.

Falling in love with Medicine is not just sunshine and daisies. Falling in love with this profession is the real deal, and man is Medicine an uptight high maintenance thing to be in a relationship with. It feels like hell sometimes (a lot of times? most of the time?) but it does gives you rewards. It’s worth it when your patients thank you for your hard work, when they trust your judgement. It’s worth it when you finally understand how a disease works and how you stop it. It’s worth it when you go home every day (well… not every day because of duties lols) feeling a little less clueless than you were before. Feeling less of a sham doctor and more deserving of that white coat you are wearing. A little less ate – a lot more doktora.

For now most days feel like a struggle and everything feels like a chore. But that’s just my body telling me that I want more sleep. But sorry Confucius, sorry Motivational Poster Cat – this is what loving your job is like. I’m not stuck. I’m not miserable. I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Love in the Time of Skype

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Top: Setting up my Skype just before he left Bottom: First Skype date!

My boyfriend and I have been doing this long distance thing for over three years. It’s something we both knew was coming even before we entered our relationship. I have always dreaded him moving to Canada even back when we were just friends (BECAUSE THEN WHO WILL I BE SECRETLY FLIRTING WITH, HUH loljk) and it was something we really considered before we decided to go serious with whatever we had.

It wasn’t a hard decision to make. People would often ask me why we didn’t choose to break up before he left for Canada and that would always leave me confused. I understand the rationale behind it, and I get it why some people choose to go that route but I guess it’s something I can never teach my heart to understand. To me there was never a choice to make and that breaking up was never an option.

It wasn’t always easy, when Carlo left for Canada I was a wreck. I was crying all night every night and waking up with puffy eyes. I couldn’t even be bothered to put my makeup on properly (which is a big thing if you guys know me). I wasn’t studying, and I didn’t feel like listening to class. I did really bad my first few months in medschool because if it. Eventually I set up a secret journal because I didn’t want to bother anyone with my feelings, especially not my boyfriend who was having to deal with settling in a new country and looking for work.

As the months turned into years, it got a little easier to deal with. Perhaps the best thing this long distance relationship has taught me is to be patient and to take the time to look at things from my partner’s perspective rather than just my own. The younger me had a quick temper, was selfish and was ultra clingy. When we started having a 12 hour time zone difference, i would often find myself being angry right before one of us slept which would afford me the time to realize how bitchy (and wrong) I have been.

Today, 3 years later, I can say that most days are really good days. The secret emo journal has been abandoned. There are still off days when I feel sick of the distance, like today, Valentine’s Day when I just want to claw at my skin and punch all the couples on dates at the mall. But most days it feels as if we are just like any other couple, and the things we have to face and the issues we have to deal with are exactly what we had to deal with if we were together. The distance, that’s just another dimension that makes up our relationship, but it doesn’t make it any different or any less real.

What you have to realize, I guess, when you go into a long distance relationship is that this, what you have TODAY – is your relationship. It is not a relationship that is put on hold until you guys see each other again.Your skype dates are actual dates, your virtual hugs and virtual kisses should feel like real ones. Don’t look too far ahead into the future that you forget to place importance on what you have today. 25 years into the future, it will be sad to realize that you have nothing to look back on because you waited for the right moment. At the risk of sounding like a Hallmark card – make every moment your moment and live the most out of what you have for today.

I am all over the place in writing this – but I guess I will leave it at this: A good friend of mine, a few days before Carlo left for Canada told me: “Tandaan mo, kahit gaano pa kahirap yan. Ang isipin mo nalang mas malaki pa rin ang pagmamahal mo sa kanya” It’s something I really took to heart and something that has sustained me especially during the first few months. Perhaps to some people love isn’t always enough but to me, it is. No matter how much tears I shed or how many movies I watch alone (but tbh I actually enjoy this haha), or how many times I feel distant because one of us is busy with work, the fact that I love this man leaves no more room for question – I’m sticking by him. End of.