God. I Hate Hospitals.

The day I dread has come. Came.

It was a fine time to cry over a Chicken McDo meal not because I was eating it despite the boycott online. But because, “If the doctors can’t figure out why your mother has shivers, how can your pea-sized brain that can’t even write a proper case study at work know?!”

I hate hospitals not because I am afraid of the doctors. It’s because I hate it when they were late during our visits when I was accompanying granny. When Nanay had to come home late at night, almost 7 p.m., when she arrived at the clinic in the morning. I hate that I feel I have no right to be angry at them because people say they have valid reasons for being late. They do their rounds, they jump from one office to another, and because they are “endangered species” in the Philippines as their service is a favor to the country’s fucked up health system.

I hate hospitals because I don’t know what to do when I’m inside them. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to ask. I don’t know how the process works. Well, I didn’t.

We rushed Nanay to the Emergency last Sunday. Few hours before the clock welcomes Monday. Her shivers weren’t stopping. They only do after a few minutes of taking paracetamol. She has been taking them like candies, one every two hours. Prior to the ER, we’ve already been to two doctors: an outpatient consult and then to her main doctor.

Consult. Aching left shoulder. Labs. Results. Results reading. UTI and frozen shoulder.

Antibiotics and PT sessions, here we go.

No. We’re not going there. Yet.

I thought everything would already stop after taking the medicine. That the fatigue and chills will be gone. But they didn’t. She still vomited twice after two antibiotics. My anxiety was over the top. If there’s a place higher than north, you’ll find my anxiety having anxieties, sitting in a corner up there. Up until now we’re already out of the hospital. Heck. People commented they were confused. UTI can be cured at home. Why were we confined for almost a week? Nanay has regular quarterly check-ups, as pointed out by a neighbor. Again, why were we confined for almost a week? It was my first time to admit someone to a hospital. It was my first time to stay in a hospital.

My guess was right. Her body was resisting the initially prescribed antibiotics.

I wished my anxiety was dancing joyfully. But it wasn’t. It was stuck, yet it was thinking of so many things. It was dizzying to be confined in the emergency ward that’s just double my arm span, sitting on a cold chair, surrounded by green curtains that suddenly open without any warnings so the nurse could put an IV through your mother’s arm, as you wait for a room — which you don’t even know when will it be available.

How long will we stay here? (I don’t know, sweetheart. Don’t cry. Not here. Not yet.)

Did I do the right thing, rushing to the ER? Should I have been more patient and just waited for what happens tomorrow? (Of course, baby. You always do the right thing. Althea Cahayag is always right, 90% of the time, right?)

How will I work? (Use your data. Use your phone first. Get your laptop when you and Noel have discussed how to do the rounds. You can go on-site without your laptop. You’ll do it here in the hospital, too. Thank God, the hospital offers Wi-Fi.)

What will happen to the laundry? Our food when we’re out of here? (You know how to use the machine. You’ve done a whole round already. There’s a laundry shop four to five houses away. Lots of neighbors sell food. You’ll live.)

How will I sleep? (Don’t worry. You don’t sleep much anyway.)

What if the recovery takes time and if our bill balloons? (Let’s pray they won’t.)

Monday night, the first night I went back home, as Noel took his shift, I prayed too loud and cried too hard. It’s been just a day, and I’ve been too exhausted. Mentally. Physically was fine. I can still run if you’ll make me.

Ayoko na, Lord. Can you make it stop? It’s one thing to have a complicated UTI, it’s another to have a frozen shoulder. Why does it have to be both? I just want these to end. How much do I have to beg? Do I have to barter another again? I'm tired of thinking I always need to give something in exchange for you to grant my extreme prayers. But don't get me wrong. I'm always grateful for the others I've prayed for that You've given me. But for these extreme ones, which aren’t even for me, do I have to commit and give up something in return again? 

Every time I ask this question, I feel guilty because I think You'll get angry at me for questioning if I still should. And as a punishment for doubting, You won't grant it. Am I just being impatient?

I hate not knowing. I hate not knowing what to do. I hate not knowing the answers. I hate not knowing what I did or didn't do to feel this way or deserve this. I hate feeling bad after knowing I did the right thing but the world shows me things aren’t going my way.

It's one thing to have a complicated UTI. It's another to have a frozen shoulder.

Now that we’re home, thank God a million times, I still have my worries. They just don’t go away. And most of all, I am still tired.

I worry, what if the chills come back? The fever? The vomiting? What if we max out the HMO coverage?

Just when we’ve gotten inside the house, I already had an argument with Nanay. When I got back from buying her medicines, we had another argument. I’ve been shouting and fighting for my life for a week. Telling her how tired I was, how traumatized I was, and asking her if she wanted to stay longer in the hospital (or go back). If only I could escape all these and not think about even a tiny detail at all.

I just wish she would listen to me and Noel. I threw all the supplements and coffee she had in her compartments. She questioned me why when she was there when I asked about them to her assigned doctor.

I’ve been so frustrated since last week. I feel her life choices ushered us to doom (despite UTIs being commonly caused by bacteria).

My company’s HMO paid for her bill. (Thank you, TaskUs. So much. Our stay spent more than half of the benefit limit. I didn’t cash out anything except for the take-home prescriptions.) I paid the majority for her medicines (even those she won’t be using anymore from the first list). All I was asking for her in the hospital was to drink 210 cc of water every hour. She won’t; it was as if you were asking her to drink acid (Glad she came to her senses because she needed to be cleared for another urinalysis).

The water, urine, and our numbers.

All I was asking for was for her to eat her meals, yet she would say she didn’t want to eat or finish them. She wants something sweet or salty. Her diet on the board screams low salt, law fat.

I was trying to be a good daughter (I know I am not), yet I felt I was being punished over and over again for doing the right thing. I don’t intend to count, but I am as this sounds because it felt so shitty that it seemed she didn’t even see or care that I wasn’t even eating any proper meals during our first few days in the hospital. All I ate were biscuits. And all those days and worries were just being put to waste as they were disregarded. What if all of these take a toll on me and Noel and even Jazz-Jazz?

I kept asking myself if she doesn’t even see my sacrifices for her just to get better. I hope the waves of the sea continue to differ tomorrow. May they be peaceful.

Apart from not paying for the hospital bills, I’m grateful to Noel, my officemates who supported me at work, and to relatives and friends who visited or accompanied us. Jazz-Jazz (my future sister-in-law, thank you for the adobo and rice. I was finally able to eat a proper meal), Auntie Babes and Kara, Raquel who talked to Nanay more than I did, and Nanay’s Aunties who took their time.

If there’s one thing I felt OK about that unwanted staycation, it’s my thought that my tummy got smaller for a while. But still, no abs that I’ve been wishing for came.

For now, it’s me and Noel against the laundry.