Just like the ones I used to know..."
And so goes the song. Well, in my Christmas book, white does not seem to be the best color for the holiday season this year...and a white Christmas is not exactly the Christmas I have come to know.
On my way home from the airport, I found myself in the middle of what appeared to be the Filipino version of a white Christmas. My home province was one of the places ravaged by Typhoon Frank in the middle of 2008 and though our house was among the few which remained untouched by the flood, a huge part of the city and the outlying towns were practically under water. After the flood, mud caked the streets and eventually, the mud dried to become dust. And now, as cars and jeepneys sped past the streets, dust would be stirred up into tropical versions of snowflakes.
As I stared at the specks of dust which clouded my windowsill, I began dreading what could possibly be my first white Christmas.
Normally, my parents took on the tradition of fetching me or my sister from the airport and driving either of us home. This time around, my cousin Ramboy and my grandparents' driver Tok did the fetching and that was not the only thing differen about coming home this time of the year. Instead of being driven home, I was to land myself - and my luggage - in the hospital.
So there I found myself taking the elevator (good thing Tok volunteered to bring my luggage home for me) with an elevator operator in his white pants, doctors in their white coats, nurses in their white uniforms and caps and a stretcher with white linen. And as if the sight of white were not enough as I walked the whitewashed walls, I was greeted by my grandfather as he lay huddled underneath his white blankie. I couldn't stand the white blinds so I pulled them up and was at least comforted by the sunlight streaming through the windows.
My gwampa had been in the hospital for about four days prior to my arrival because of complications due to urinary tract infection. He was also bugged relentlessly by pain somewhere in his back which the doctors had difficulty diagnosing. Their theories ranged from fusion of his vertebral bones to hydronephrosis and even "rayuma." The pain pretty much came and went like Santa Claus down a chimney - at any given time. It was difficult watching him jerk his legs because of the pain. My gwampa has a very high, almost superhuman tolerance (believe it or not) for anything painful or uncomfortable so once he starts complaining that something hurts...it really does hurt a whole lot. Throughout his stay, I began to wonder how Sue endured through a number Christmases in a hospital room with her grandfather before he passed away. I made a mental reminder to ask her next time.
Throughout his almost two week stay in the company of the white walls, white linen, white-uniformed people and white tiled floors, it wasn't all bad though. We watched "Eagle Eye" and "Pirates of the Caribbean" and he laughed his socks off whenever Johnny Depp came up onscreen. Sometimes he'd sing and once gave his physical therapist a fright when he feigned an injury during a rehab session. He particularly got a kick out of teasing everybody, especially playing matchmaker with his nurse and the office messenger who came in daily to give him reports to sign. We also thoroughly enjoyed praying with him in the morning and reading my old, "NIV for teenagers" Bible together which, according to him, was nice because the print was huge.
It was not just the prospect of spending Christmas in a hospital which I was not particularly looking forward to. I could spend Christmas in Timbuktu without really caring as long as I had my family with me. It was just that I was not used to having someone sick and the rest of the family worrying to bits during the happiest time of the year. It would be all right to have a different Christmas every so often but a change as drastic as this was just right about unwelcome.
The white Christmas I so dreaded never came though. Lolo was discharged on the 23rd under the conditions that he keep his catheter on, that he should be confined to his wheelchair and that if he does want to walk, he should do so with crutches. That was enough for us and for Lolo who was itching to get out of his hospital room. I guess white Christmases, for now, are not really in our palettes for the colors of the season. But then again, the same thought must have run through the minds of the people left behind in the company of those white-washed walls, white linen, white uniformed people and white tiled floors.
My gwampa's looking all too happy to have
his IV off and his discharge slip signed right
before Christmas Eve.
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