Alright, This Could Be True... But Then...Why, On Earth, Am I In Medicine?

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well. An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly. You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view. A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary. You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

If I Were A Rock, I'd Be, Like, A Diamond?!

Your Personality is Very Rare (IITJ)

Your personality type is logical, uncompromising, independent, and nonconformist. Only about 3% of all people have your personality, including 2% of all women and 4% of all men. You are Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking, and Judging.

How Rare Is Your Personality?

Mommy

God looked around His Garden and found an empty place.
He then looked down upon His earth and saw your loving face.
He put His arms around you and lifted you to rest.
His Garden must be beautiful, He always takes the best.
He knew that you were suffering, He knew you were in pain.
And knew that you would never get well on earth again.
He saw your path was difficult, He closed your tired eyes,
He whispered to you "Peace be thine," and gave you wings to fly.
When we saw you sleeping so calm and free of pain,
We would not wish you back to earth to suffer once again.
You’ve left us precious memories, your love will be our guide,
You live on through your children, you’re always by our side.
It broke our hearts to lose you, but you did not go alone.
For part of us went with you on the day God called you home.

- Anonymous

I lost my mom two days before her 66th birthday... Just saying these words is very cathartic for me. For the past four years, our family had to deal with a lot of fear and uncertainty over my mom’s frail health. I clearly remember that day, four years ago… My mom had been in and out of the hospital many times. She even had to spend her 62nd birthday in the admitting unit for what my dad and sister thought was a usual pulmonary infection. I was on duty in another hospital in Manila, taking care of patients I hardly even knew from Adam while my mom was being cared for by another doctor. I got the text message from my sister telling me mom was admitted for pneumonia. That text message baffled me because, other than hypertension which had been plaguing her since she was in her mid-40’s, there had never been a reason for her to be rushed to the hospital, much less for a pulmonary condition. So I told my sister I’d try to wrap up my rounds at soon as I could and go home immediately. I even got to talk to her and my mom on my mobile phone. Mom assured me that it was nothing, that she just felt a little under the weather, and that the doctors just wanted to be sure that’s why they had her admitted. But I knew her so well. I knew then that what she was feeling troubled her in a way only a son could sense. She was a nurse, and being medically-oriented herself, when it came to health conditions, she was the kind of person who saw a glass as half-empty rather than half-full. But after spending four days in the hospital, she was given a clean bill of health and was sent home. I was about to complete my training as a physician in a few days so after her discharge, I went back to my usual routine, shuttling from Laguna to Manila every single day, thinking mom was already fine. March came, I became a full-fledged Nephrologist, and mom went into the hospital again, her second admission in less than a month. This time, she stayed much longer, and had to undergo biopsy of a lump that grew right above her left collar bone. When she first told me about it, I panicked. Supraclavicular lymphadenopathy. To an ordinary person, it probably was gibberish. But to a doctor like my self, it sent shivers down my spine. My mom had supraclavicular lymphadenopathy. I wanted her to have it biopsied immediately. My older sister flew in from the United Kingdom where she was based to be with my oldest niece, her daughter, for her 12th birthday, and also to check on mom who, by then, was feeling much better. Mom was sent home a few days after her biopsy was done. And for less than a week, with my older sister back, everything was all roses for us. Everyone was happy. And in that brief period, there was contentment. As it turned out, it was the calm before the storm. The day came. We attended my niece’s graduation ceremony, spent a good part of that Saturday morning having fun, enjoying being a whole family again. I would throw knowing glances at my mom, who mustered enough strength to look fine, even when I had a feeling she was still not a hundred percent alright. She smiled back at me, trying to assuage the fear she probably knew was welling in my heart. Her biopsy result would come out that same day, in the afternoon. I can only imagine what it must have felt like for her. The proverbial last meal before the execution. We all headed for home right after lunch, and waited for word from my older brother who had to stay behind in the hospital because my sister-in-law, who was then on the family way, was admitted herself. When we got home, mom and dad went straight to their room, while my sisters, nieces and I watched Saturday afternoon television. Then at half-past-three in the afternoon, my mobile phone rang. It was my brother. Dreading the worst, I turned it on. My brother’s voice sounded tentative and confused. He already had mom’s biopsy result. I couldn’t remember exactly what his exact words were, nor could I even remember most of what he said. He read “metastatic adenocarcinoma,” and upon hearing those words, I broke down. My mom had cancer. Although I knew it even before the diagnosis was confirmed, I guess I was on denial. A part of me believed that God wouldn’t strike my mom that way, she being the epitome of goodness and God’s grace to every person who had been fortunate enough to have known her. No, it would be unfair for Him to bring her down like that, not after all the good she had done for a lot of people. And yet, the evidence stared at me the first time she asked me to feel that hard lump on the base of her neck. Time stood still for a few seconds and I couldn’t move. How could I tell my sisters? How could I break the news to them without shocking them as a hot prong would a herd of cattle? I sat on my bed. Everything seemed surreal. My older sister walked past my room and saw me through the half-open door. She could sense something was wrong, and all she needed was to look into my forlorn and worried eyes and she started to cry. Pretty soon, most everyone in the house, with the exception of my nieces and the maid, already knew about mom’s illness. We didn’t know how to tell her. We had always known her to be a strong woman, steadfast in her faith, and firm in her convictions. But how were we to tell her to brace herself for the greatest battle she had to fight?

That day marked the end of innocence for me. I was in my mid-20’s, but in every aspect, I was a child. My mom had always been my wellspring of strength and comfort. I knew that even if the world around me fell apart, I would always have her for my shelter. I was a child, forever looking up to her as the parent who would make everything all right. She could fix anything, from the tiniest booboos on my pinky finger, to the most devastated and shattered heart. The roles had now been reversed. I knew I had to be the man who would fight for her and fight with her. I had to be the strong arms that would carry her just as she carried me, gently and tenderly for most of my childhood years. The grief that enveloped me was a testament to the love she had so generously showered on me, sans conditions. Her fight was our fight. Her triumphs elated us. Her setbacks broke our hearts in a million pieces. For the next four years, I would be her strength. For the next four years, I would cry with her, comfort her, and be her source of inspiration, even when I myself wasn’t certain about what the future held for her. I was desperately lost, a beacon of light standing on a very fragile harbor. And yet, in those four years, she drew strength from me, just as my own faith was replenished by the hope and love I saw every time I looked into her eyes. Mom had always been a beautiful, regal woman, but I had never seen her look more beautiful than when she would sadly look at my face and, with eyes full of affection, gently reassure me that God would be watching over her just as I had been taking care of her. We would talk about years past, when she would fight with me and I with her over the most trivial and petty matters, and how we’d make up soon after as if nothing happened at all. She always had a lot of patience when it came to me. She taught me never to compromise my values. From her I learned the value of standing up for myself, and never allowing anyone to mock or ridicule my convictions. It was this same feistiness that brought the two of us into frequent clashes with each other. She was very democratic, and yet I knew where the boundary was. She was still my mother, and I was still her son. We would laugh at the times I would refuse to talk to her, and the times I would snuggle up to her. She could read me like a book. With her, I never had to pretend. We reminisced about the “good ol’ days” as if we were trying to conjure the times when everything could be solved by a popsicle and a sticky wet kiss on the cheek. I guess, maybe, there was the need for her to reconnect with the past to forget, even fleetingly, the uncertainties of tomorrow. We had the present and she knew how to savor every second of it. I saw her on her good and bad days, as she went on to fight the greatest battle she ever fought in her life. And during those times, her spirit was at its strongest, even when her body was at its frailest. I was so proud of her. She was the strongest, bravest, greatest woman I have ever known in my life. The tragedy that her illness was, proved to be a blessing… I was blessed with the chance to come full circle and give back to her what she had given me. The four years I spent taking care of her were not wasted years. They were golden, precious and priceless. She gave me a chance to be the man she had envisioned me to be. The man who had to make a choice, and, I knew then as I know now, the choices I made were the ones I could live with and the ones that made her proud. She raised me well.

Mom left us too soon. She would have turned 66 on the 22nd of February. But two days before that, she graciously ascended to a place where pain and suffering would never hound her anymore. And while we, her family and friends, paid our respects and offered her our prayers, those who lovingly remembered her for her humanity and generosity of spirit celebrated her birthday in simple ceremonies that left most everyone speechless. The tribute accorded to my mom was grand in its simplicity, and it left everyone, including myself, reduced to tears... Tears of grief, for we lost the very reason why waking up everyday had been a blessing for everyone in our family. Yet, they were also tears of gratitude at the outpouring of love and support from thousands of people who had been touched by mom's magnanimity. I remember saying thank you to everyone who grieved with us. I also remember saying how grief-stricken I was at the loss of my anchor and my inspiration. There are a lot of things I realize now I should have said then, but just as the mouth speaks out of the fullness of the heart, so can tears convey what the lips are incapable of expressing. I just wished those present that afternoon understood that I was not just a son who lost his mother. I was speaking as a man who lost the very essence of his life... My mom had been a central figure in my life. Much of who I am, much of who I want to be was anchored on her. She was my sound board when all I needed was someone who would just sit back and listen to me whine. She was my echo, magnifying my thoughts and actions until I appeared bigger and stronger than I actually was. She was my cushion, bravely absorbing life's unfair blows for me with a smile, and nary a complaint. She was the nagging voice in my head, always reminding me to follow the right path, no matter how difficult or narrow it seemed to be. She was the ray of light that shone on me in my triumphs, the very same ray of light that warmed my soul in my failure and despair. I was the moon, she was the sun... And if I shone brightly, I was simply basking on reflected glory, the glory that emanated from her. She was everything to me, and she made me feel that I was everything to her as well.

Mom, mommy, I will truly miss you. And in solitude, in the quiet comfort of a home that has lost its warmth, I shall always look back with sad fondness to the days when I could freely walk into your room and spill everything, for you allowed me to open my floodgates of emotion without judgment or ridicule. I will look at the rocking chair where you usually spent your mornings reading the paper, and wish for just one more chance to see you smiling back at me while we talk about anything and everything over a glass of milk and a bowl of breakfast cereals. I will sit on the computer chair, and still feel the warmth of a woman who spent hours writing, and playing solitaire, free cell or hearts. The vacant seat on the dining table will always carry the memory of a mother who loved so much and gave so much. But in these moments of sweet, silent thoughts, I shall look inside me, in my heart, for the love you so generously showered on me will live and shine brightly long after you're gone. You are always here inside me. I am a better man because of you. The legacy you left will live on through me. I love you, mommy. Sleep well and rest in God's loving embrace. I love you. I love you. I love you...

* The photo is of a framed cross-stitched patch painstakingly and lovingly crafted by Mom for my 25th birthday... It will always remain on the wall of my bedroom...