Thanksgiving
ANGIOGRAM. This word has been floating around the house since August when my dad’s doctor said that his weakened heart may be caused by blocked arteries. The doctor said he needed an angiogram “semi-urgently” but was then quick to add that “your dad might have a heart attack”. Oh, great. So that’s why it was semi-urgent. If he had said “your dad WILL have a heart attack” then it would be super-urgent.
But there was the problem of money — mostly the lack of it. Some doctors quoted 20k, some 50k, we went through this crazy dance with probably three or four doctors, one imbecile even said we simplye couldn’t afford it and we should try his alternative medicine involving lasers. (Don’t trust quack doctors, people. It’s easy to spot them.)
Am I broke? Well, no. But does anyone really keep money for the occasional angiogram? Fine, I save very little. But I still could shell out the dough, but it would entail certain processes (e.g. loans)
It has become such a problem that my mom worried about it so much that she ended up in the hospital before my dad did, having been confined for hypertension shortly before my birthday.
When we finally settled on the doctor and the hospital and the amount, we still had the problem of what’s going to happen next? Doctors, bless their souls, they probably mean well, but they scare the crap out of you to push you into action. “He’s going to need either an angioplasty (Price Tag: P100,000) or a bypass (Price Tag: P500,000)“. And it still wouldn’t guarantee that he would be better.
Today, we finally faced the scary angiogram monster. As the two (flirty male) nurses wheeled my dad into the operating room, I walked back towards the elevator, wiping away tears, trying to be strong for when I face my mother who was left in his room. My dad’s always been superman — the big man of the house, who could lift anything, fix anything, fight with anyone, solve anything. And now his body parts need an overhaul.
I left to fix some school stuff for Cojie while my mother texted me about the developments. After an hour, I called my mother. My dad had been wheeled back in.
“Wala, walang bara” my mom said “Hindi kailangan ng angioplasty (Price Tag: P100,000) o bypass (Price Tag: P500,000)”. My dad apparently cried in delight. I should probably cry about his crying, but not right now, I suppose. Maybe later tonight when it overwhelms me.
And then I opened today’s newspaper, and an ad for a mall read “Happy Thanksgiving. Count your blessings.” Today’s thanksgiving. I totally forgot about that.
Isn’t that apt? That’s all I’ve been doing all day.
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Thank you for my family and my friends who even through something as simple as texts, I am comforted through the ordeal of this week. Exag ba ko? Angiogram lang, e! But honestly, I hate hospitals. Which is ironic because when I’m in the hospital (meaning I’m the one confined) I absolutely love it, with the constant parade of nurses every hour, attention whore that I am. (Yes! Somebody has called me that. Charming, ain’t it?). But when it’s my parents or my kid, GADAMIT, my world just crumbles. And i’m ten times needier than usual (which is ten times needier than a normal person) for my friends’ comforting.
So I’m thankful for that, too. For those whose sincere affection never wanes, despite obstacles — like their own work issues, family shite, distance — thank you so, so much.
