PTSD

 

Bella, my sibling's youngest daughter began with a runny nose last week. Unchecked, the sipon progressed into a yellowish mucous blocking her nostrils, which needed to be treated with antibiotics. It would have been a classic case of the seasonal flu, but given our health condition, my panic-stricken sibling believes it is Covid. Our doctor aunt had already reassured her that it wasn't the dreaded virus as I have left the house the day after showing symptoms, and the children had no exposure from me. Besides, my niece started with a runny nose long after I was gone. This didn't convince my sibling, so she sought the opinion of her daughter's pediatrician who prescribed her medicines for a respiratory ailment. 

Like the doctor-aunt, she ruled out Covid.

Two days later, I was told the sipon had progressed into infrequent coughing. This has raised my Covid-obsessed sibling's anxiety beyond the roof, especially since his third son, Castro, exhibits cold-like symptoms as well. Today, even Diego, my sister's second is also said to be having sipon too that she told my mom, "hindi ko na alam ang gagawin ko."

I wouldn't blame my sister for her anxieties, but even the doctor-aunt said that it is not healthy anymore. If it were Covid, the matriarch should have been the first to experience the symptoms (and it is likely to progress swiftly) as she was exposed to me. But all indicators (her body temperature is being checked twice during the first seven days after her exposure) point to a healthy senior. No other person at home (asymptomatic or otherwise) also complains of a malady so it is safe to assume that all is well - except for the sibling who would likely continue to cradle worst-case scenarios inside her head.

Credit

As for me, the lingering effects of Covid would likely persist long after the government considers me a recovered patient. The cold climate of my quarantine house in Cavite and the gloomy weather these past few days somehow aggravate whatever discomfort I feel in my chest. The occasional coughing bouts brought by sticky phlegm and renewed feverish spells worry me, but it is the situation at home that leaves me disconsolate. 

I sometimes wonder when this would all end.

Tomorrow would be my last day of quarantine. If I were in a government isolation facility, the staff would have already asked me to pack my bags so other Covid patients could be accommodated. Technically, I should have already been out of the woods and on my way home. But I have been asked by the doctor-aunt to extend my self-imposed banishment for another week and rather suffer the insanity, indignity, and chilly reception I would likely receive at home - from the sibling - better stay far away for as long as needed. 

I have already caused others enough sleepless nights and disappointments.

Playroom

Consider this a "mema" entry; a flexing of the mind while contemplating the narratives to publish. Unplanned, but written with thoughtful consideration, I am left grappling for words to collect the contents of my head while Diego, now a seven-year-old boy, decides to bring his wooden bricks into my quarters and make it his temporary playroom for this evening. 

Of the four kids we are now raising, he would persistently make attempts to extend his zone of control into my room. In fact, earlier today, he was knocking at the door and calling for the Weatherman's name hoping he would be let it. I didn't pay attention, and instead, trailed my gaze on the petty fights and wokeness hell that is happening on Twitter. 

This evening, he succeeded. Maybe, I was just too unbothered while he made those incoherent play sounds, such as "woooooahhhhh ahhh ahhh," or "tshhhh, tsshhhh," while tapping the wooden cabinet beside him to make louder noises. On normal days, I would just tell him to play elsewhere, but I don't know why there's a sudden relaxing of the rules this time.

All I know is that I was meant to write about another story, but here I am writing about the most mundane stuff while admiring my nephew's gift to recreate scenes only he could appreciate.

And as I lay down on my bed while trying to shun the garbled words and the incessant "shhhsss... shhhhhsss..." out of my head, Diego continues with his bricks play. I then come to a realization that this sudden decision to let him take his toys and play with very little restrictions (he cannot put his wooden bricks on my bed), must be drawn out from a very early memory, when it was I, doing those silly sounds and recreating my imaginary worlds in someone else's room. 

There's comfort in remembering. 

I have the entire night to toil for money, and anytime soon, another distraction (or dinner call) will put this child's play to rest. This pause, however, while purely accidental, is much deserved.

Our Maximo Oliveros

When my younger nephew's nanny decided to leave one day, the house was thrown in disarray as we cannot run as a .holding with just a single maid.

There was no time to assess the situation, and within days, a new maid was dispatched from Iloilo care of my sister's mother-in-law.

The house breathed a sigh of relief.

But the new maid is no ordinary housekeeper. She's a he, and puts on makeup, and wears skimpy short pants that attract attention. Had it not for the fact that he was my brother-in-law's distant relative, he would never set foot inside the house.

And there was reason to be weary sharing spaces with the effeminate man.

--

We have two young boys in the family, and mean stereotypes tell that men wearing ladies' accessories "corrupt" young children. They are not to be trusted with valuables and information too as they are masters of deception. The latter statement came from my mom's beautician, a female hairstylist, who has probably a lot of gay friends of her own.

These doubts were brushed aside when I reminded the Left-leaning members of the family of their socialist agenda. 

How can we achieve labor equality if we can't even give this man a chance.

"Malay natin," I said. "Okay naman siya."

"Who knows" I told myself. "He might lead the way for me to finally leave the confines of my closet."

He was generally met with ambivalence in the first weeks after his arrival. Arielle, as we call him, can cook well, (his vegetable dishes are divine) and ever since he took charge of the laundry, never did my clothes leave a foul smell again.

But the nonchalant attitude didn't last long. The head maid, who calls him "bakla" eventually lost patience. His refusal to finish household chores earned him the ire of my sister. I would describe him as someone who needs to be winded, like a machine, to do his job. For when he does nothing, and receives no tasks, he was out of the house, in the company of other men who are tambays in the neighborhood. 

Twice, I spotted him talking to them and this too I shared with urgency with the matriarch during one of our late night conversations.

The small offenses piled up until it became clear that he is bound to be replaced. My sister, his direct employer dislikes him. The matriarch worries about the kids getting confused of his gender. Soon, instructions were sent to my relatives' helpers to look for a new nanny, a female, who can actually be relied on to look after the kids.

--

The search ends weeks later, and a new maid was found. It was the Favorite Aunt who arranged for her travel. I woke up one afternoon to find her in the kitchen. And I knew, with one glance, that someone has to go.

Just when he had finally stopped talking to the tambays who did nothing but ask favors.

We could have looked for a replacement job for him. A relative who lives a street away has a beauty parlor. There might be a job opening for a new stylist. I could have asked friends too on Facebook and Twitter if they needed a helper. While both ideas were plausible, they didn't convince the women of the house to set forth and initiate the search. They simply wanted him back in the province for reasons of safety. 

Given Arielle's curiosity of urban folks and his mediocre work habits, we cannot guarantee he would be treated well by other employers. 

He simply has to do it on his own.

And so he left a day before my birthday, a week after he helped my mom de-clutter the Master's bedroom, and after receiving a simple "Thank you card" from me. Had he been someone else, someone who would tirelessly work day and night to put the house in order; someone, who would not court trouble by associating with people we naturally distrust; and had he won the Alpha females' favor by becoming one himself, like I did, to prove I am no pushover, he would have stayed, and his wages will directly come from me.

After all, it has been my fantasy to have a flamboyant guy dressed in French maid costume serve my needs. That, of course, belongs to my future.

Minsan Lang Ikaw Bata

One day, I walked inside the Toy Kingdom for reasons no longer I can recall. It might have been one of those random visits, whose pretext was to buy a toy for my nephews. I did buy something at the store - a die cast jeep from Hotwheels - which I bought for the kids. But i kept the toy in my room for so long, that i was inching towards owning the die cast myself.

Toy cars.

I had plenty when i was a little boy. I used to simulate traffic jams on the floor complete with cardboard boxes in place of buildings. I had so many die cast toy cars and so many of them got lost and broken. I have managed to save a few. They now make up the cache of trinkets and mementos that occupy the upper shelves of my dresser.

To this day, they remain hidden from our little boys. The thought of turning them over still terrifies to no end.

Returning to the die cast toy jeep i have subconsciously possessed, the act, which slowly manifest every time i find some painted metal object with wheels lying around the house reawaken the kid within. Maybe it was the collector in me who springs into action, it might even be the hoarder taking over.

As far as i know - and it happened to me many times over -  when a die cast toy car gets into the shelves, it's time to invoke the conscience and remind myself.

"Minsan lang ikaw bata."

---

"Bigyan mo din ako ng ganyan sa birthday ko ha?" Lenin pointed at the miniature Chrysler jeep inside the loot bag. Its contents are among the first presents I would give away this Christmas.

"O sige next time." I was supposed to say. The toy was actually meant for his younger brother, who like him, has fascination with die cast vehicles.

"Wait"

"Kunin mo na yung toy." He then slid his hand to claim, that object he's been eyeing since last month.

"Happy Birthday..." I said, as he walked away to show his mom his on-the-spot present. 

Written for the Round Table Challenge

Mga Bagay-Bagay Na Dapat Ipasalamat

I.

Baby Diego had to be confined at the hospital once more last week. It was his second this year after spending the first chilly sunrises of February with an elastic tube inserted down his forearm. It was the day after his second birthday. He suddenly showed symptoms that were unusual for two-year old boys. After his body temperature shot above 40, and when the food, that barely went down his tummy got expelled every time he had to be forced-fed, we brought him to the emergency room only to emerge in top form days later after taking antibiotics, and going through batteries of medical tests.

II.

The cause of his sickness remains a mystery to this very day. His pediatrician said it was a stomach ailment, and yet he had cough and flu. Whatever the malady was, we were relieved that it was all over; that it was one of those infrequent struggles we had to endure as a family. Now two months later, after spending a day submerged in an inflatable tub at the in-laws place in the highlands, baby Diego returned to the city with cough and fever.

The paracetamol didn't work this time, and after waking up with violent chills one weekend, he had to be rushed to the hospital again. 

III.

The unplanned stay-ins at the pediatrics ward are already part of Baby Diego's growing up pains. After all, long we have accepted that he will have to spend a lifetime with a disability brought by his congenital disorder. We still feel anxious from time to time - especially in the absence of a diagnosis, and without the doctor grand aunt who personally speaks to the medical experts attending to my nephew, life will be hell to both my sister and  my brother-in-law.

Words and deeds are not enough to show how grateful we are to her presence.

Also, there is my mom, whose is always ready to lend a hand to Lenin's parents. In their absence, she becomes Lenin's (Diego's big brother) surrogate mother. She also serves as the House's nerve center when attendants had to be dispatched to the hospital and deliver the family's personal effects. God knows the money she had to give up because of my sister's lack of resources - and the matriarch hardly complained of her dwindling wealth. I don't know what goes inside her head, given that she never visits when her grandson gets confined. What I do know is that she turns to piety. It is during these difficult times, the thoughts of the Creator keep her fears at bay.

IV.

One week. Three delivery runs at the hospital. Two personal pleads of intercession to the Almighty in behalf of the beloved kid, and one enduring daydream that one day, I'd still be the best uncle to our two boys, and things went well. The medical tests revealed that the toddler has Pneumonia and Primary Complex - a type of tuberculosis that affects children. The hospital bill, which was sourced from loans will take time before Diego's parents would be able to pay in full. But we are all relieved that its over. That we can resume our waking days with peace of mind, and respite from unseen troubles luring us into sleeplessness. 

Kiddie Instinct

Mother instructed me to buy a toy for her youngest grandson. It will be her Christmas present to Diego, aside from the milk formula she already committed upon my sister's request. The matriarch gave no specific instructions. As long as it fits her budget, an amount I didn't bother to clarify, I have free reign to do the acquisition.

So off I went to Toy Kingdom, don Santa Claus' hat and choose what toy I'd like my mom to give. It has to be made of plastic, has wheels, and is painted in sunshiny colors. The kiddie item has to endure being trashed, slammed and being pulled apart without getting broken. Getting it for my nephews (note that it is in the plural form because the elder would also regard the toy as his) is a destruction warrant for the poor object. Unless, its creators designed it to take brutal punishments.

The thing is, I don't have a toy in mind.

Enter the store assistant and her suggestion when I spoke the contents of my head. The brand preference was actually at the tip of my tongue, something I wasn't able to speak until the miniature backhoe from CAT was already in front of me. 

"Matibay ito sir." She assured. "Kahit ibato bato ng mga bata hindi masisira." I held the toy in my hand and its feel assured me of its sturdy built.

"Magkano?" Before she could give an answer, I already glanced at the piece of paper with a bar code. Pretty expensive, if a sweet and tempting discount did not apply.

I was meaning to look around and check for a much cheaper toy when an onlooker took notice of the backhoe and decided to get it or not. He too was having second thoughts. The difference is that he will give it to a godchild when I intend to gift it to our bundle of joy.

"Hello Ma," I made a phone call to my patron to inform her of my decision. Understanding that she could not see the toy and know only of its price tag was already a hard sell. But I already made up my mind. I'd be taking risk with the construction vehicle, for it is the kind of toy that is meant to grow with its owner.

If the owner didn't misplace it or give it to another kid.

Christmas day and the presents wrapped in fancy paper were torn to shreds. When the little boys saw the big yellow plastic tractor for the first time, it was love at first sight.

Fifteen days later and it's still the same backhoe I see everywhere, when I get out of my room to check where the tykes have been.

Gratitude

Na-confess ko minsan kay Panda na sa dalas kong magsabi sa mga kaibigan na "everything will be alright" sa tuwing may mga pagsubok silang hinaharap, minsan, nangarap rin ako na someone would tell the same words to me, at a time when it mattered the most.

One of my nephews fell off the stairs this evening. Yung bunso sa magkapatid. Dahil mabilis ang mga pangyayari, at hindi kaagad ako naka-recover sa shock, siya ang hiningan ko ng advice kung ano ang gagawin. Bilang nasa medical field na naghahandle ng mga cases ng bata, ang mabilisan niyang tugon ang nagpakalma sa akin.

Bukod sa nagdugong ngipin at dalawang bukol sa ulo, ang kinatatakutang pagsusuka ng dugo ay hindi nangyari. For that, I am deeply grateful. Tomorrow, he will visit the doctor to make sure no bone fractures or internal hemorrhage of the organs happened.

Situation at home is back to normal, with the 2-year old kid who just rolled down the stairs earlier smiling again. The shock is still there, with the screams of my mom and my sister still feeding terror to my ears.

But it will pass. Sana.

In the end, what will nest in the heart are those four words I didn't expect to read when I was on the verge of panic: when irrational decisions will result in a trip to the emergency room only to find that it wasn't necessary. Ang sarap lang basahin at i-internalize. It makes you believe you're not alone, and that somebody's watching your back.

No wonder, I am twice as brave when I am next to him; that guy who keeps telling me that things will be alright. Deep down I feel, not only has he become my strength. Slowly, steadily, he is the reason there's something within that ceases to be broken.

Somehow, there is something to look forward to the days again. 

Patient Diego (Last Part)

Previously on Souljacker

Allow me to recount the events of the hospital confinement. For in remembering, we will know vigilance. The couple and their baby stayed in a semi-private ward for five days. Not leaving his bedside, taking turns watching the sick child, the parents drowning in sorrow and dread as the battery of laboratory tests failed to identify the cause of the baby's illness; the hardships of having a loved one in a hospital is a learning and humbling experience.


Monday

Shift ends at 2 in the afternoon. After work is done, I accompanied my mom and the kid's older brother to the hospital. They went to visit. 

I had to shell out 8 thousand for the down payment. Doctors were still unable to figure what illness struck the little tyke.

Tuesday

I went straight to the hospital after leaving the office. Task was to deliver extra clothes and blankets for the couple. It took me a G-Liner bus from my place in Santa Mesa to reach the corner of Taft Avenue and Ayala Boulevard. From there, it's a stroll all the way to T.M. Kalaw and into Manila Doctors.

Avoiding the noise and air pollution of Taft, I made a detour at Luneta. 

Little red spots began to appear on the patient's back and tummy. Doctors suspect Measles.

Wednesday

Restday. The matriarch had to go to work and Baby Lenin cannot be left alone with the kasambahay. I had to stay home and help with the babysitting.

When my mom returned in the evening, I went to the hospital to deliver water and meals. Baby Diego was sound asleep when I arrived. 

Red spots had already spread on his ears, face, chest and legs. Fever has disappeared.

Thursday

Last day of my break. Returned to the hospital for a visit. Baby Diego's health has improved. However, he still had a hard time eating because of a viral infection of the throat. It pains to swallow. Since it was almost dusk, I went to the famed bay to catch the sunset. 

When I returned to the hospital, I was told that the baby can go home the next day.

Friday

I was on my way to the office when my mom sent an SMS.

"Uuwi na si Diego," the message read. "Patulong naman sa kanila."

I got off the FX and returned home at once.

The instructions from my mother was simple and clear. I will take the car and the driver with me to the bank and withdraw money. It will be used to pay for the hospital bill. I will then help the couple move out of the semi-private ward.

After returning home, only then can I go to work.

What is supposed to be an hour-long business with the cashier took an entire afternoon to finish. The hospital's collection department demanded that we pay the outstanding balance from previous boarding and medical services. The balance dated back from the time Baby Diego was born, and which, my sister continues to pay at that time.

We tried to negotiate with the hospital - even at one point, invoking the name of the Favorite Aunt - to let us continue with the old arrangement. Manila Doctors refused. The head of the collections department even said that our relative had already abused some hospital privileges to accommodate us.

"Until you haven't paid the balance in full," the lady administrator said. "Parking stickers won't be issued to your aunt."

"Nakakahiya naman diba?"

A cold spray of shame - of knowing who really suffered from our convenience - forced me to access the secret family stash. Hidden from my sister, (out of fear that its presence will give her a notion of a sheltered life) the money - or what's left of it - can only be used in dire situations.

After consultations with my mom, a sizable sum was withdrawn from my bank account. I made it appear that a friend works across the street and he decided to lend his money so we can bring my nephew home.

In the days of confinement, I became a foster parent to my older nephew, Lenin. His toy cars became my playthings. His little plastic food bowl I held below his face (he needs to learn to eat vegetables) and at one time, after coming from the hospital to visit his brother, I held him in my arms until he fell asleep.

I did these while also packing the bags with provisions and deliver them to the weary couple. There were days I would bring toys to Baby Diego. Seeing him smile and giggle was enough assurance that everything will turn okay.

And he did.

Final diagnosis was measles and a viral infection of the throat. Baby Diego stayed in the hospital at the cost of an Apple Ipad 2. I would foot half the bill, lose a day at work and suffer those little panic spells knowing another hospital confinement will wipe away my savings.

With the taste of mortality comes a deeper gratitude for the things we value. Like family togetherness, the beauty of self sacrifice, and the understanding that life belongs to the universe. Diego has fully recovered and went on to celebrate his first birthday two weeks later. The terrible needle scars and faint dark spots, already gone on the surface of his skin. 

Patient Diego (First Part)

A slight, barely noticeable fever lasted for days. My sister began to worry. Her son is barely a year old. But her hesitation forced my mother to intervene. On a cloudy Sunday a week ago, the couple had to bring baby Diego to a medical clinic. My mother's instruction.

Within the day, the blood test results came in. Doctors ordered immediate confinement. The baby's blood platelet count dropped below 100. Possible cause: Dengue Fever. I was at work when the news broke out. Coming from a crisis after our network had been hacked, the family emergency had me telling the boss that I would go half-day. Understanding my situation since he too had gone through such ordeal with his son, he let me go.

Grim images ran through my head as the taxi sped to Manila Doctors. Where did the mosquito come from? What about the dozen kids who live in our compound? Was it the dirty driveway? Was it because of my plants? Between the empty streets and cluttered thoughts, I didn't notice that I was already approaching the Emergency Room. There, inside the Pedia quarters, screams of a baby boy can be heard. A huge needle had pierced through his underfoot for the intravenous fluid to flow. His body temperature shot to 40 degrees an hour before I came in.   

"Kuya pupunta ka ba dito?" I read the message on my phone. "Nawiwindang na ako."

I was doing my report but the thought of Baby Diego, smiling, showing off his tongue, leaping from one side of the bed to the edges of the mattress kept me from accomplishing anything. I was beset with gloom. 

On the phone, my mom tried to down play the situation, but you can sense her alarm by the sound of her voice. Knowing what's need to be done, I was already on my way when she asked for assistance. "They might need a down payment before admission." I thought. And knowing it will take ages before the matriarch can prepare, (she looks after Baby Lenin) my timely arrival eased the young couples' trouble.

The Favorite Aunt soon followed to make sure the patient is well attended. Being the only doctor in the family (and a caring relative who's always been there every time there is a medical emergency) her presence had wiped away every fear clung to my skin. 

"Hindi ko na pinapunta si Ate para hindi na siya mahirapan." She was referring to my mom. I saw her gently touching Baby Diego's forehead before a hunky nurse told us that the semi-private ward is ready for occupancy.

My nephew showed signs of improvement soon after we moved in. He began to smile again, crawl across the bed, stick his tongue out and even mimic the baby sounds we did. It felt like he had no illness at all. Our best guess was that he regained his strength after being re-hydrated.

The Favorite Aunt left at the same time provisions from home began arriving. After carting the bags and baby stuff from the lobby to the room upstairs, I told my sister that I'd be leaving as well. I have work at six the next morning, and our mother was eagerly awaiting news.

"Get well soon," I kissed my nephew goodbye. He smiled at me.

That night, my sister sent a text message.

"Please pray for Baby Diego," the message read. "Mataas ulit ang lagnat niya."

- tobecontinued-

For The Future

Previously: Literary Bedrock 

The trend is to lay claim to the overhead cabinets, before they too fall victim to the hoarders looking for space to dump their keepsakes. These wooden storage boxes, while already being used as repository of useless things, don't make the most of the available space. Given proper attention, the old stuff they hold can be thrown away, allowing the essentials littering the ground and at the mercy of the elements to be kept instead. 

For this urgency, I volunteered to occupy the overhead cabinet opposite my room. It has never been used since it was put there, and the handful of bags and other small items it holds could be passed on to new owners who might have better use for them.

My idea was to squeeze in the comforters my mother bought when chill weather used to pay a visit. It's been ages since they were taken out of their dust-coated plastic bags, and their old spot not only blocks the passage along the narrow corridor, their ugly presence tell that we don't have a place to keep them. 

Using a borrowed ladder, the ledges of the overhead box were wiped clean. The material excesses, including the motorcycle helmet which I never used when I had a bike - were carted away. After turning the cabinet into an empty shell, I shoved the comforters in, but only my sister's sheet could fit. I still have to find a place for my comforter, or I might sneak the over-sized blanket out of the house and give it to someone who needs it.

But as I descend the steps of the ladder, I chanced upon a stack of carton boxes that are also blocking the path. And then I remembered the man-sized book case that used to occupy half the space of the corridor before it was towed away to the master's bedroom. The encyclopedias and information tomes were hastily put inside the carton boxes before they were abandoned.

Meanwhile, I craned my head up to where the overhead cabinet was and thought of a better use for the space.

The fate of those books and my plans to share the knowledge before their hard-bound sources become obsolete has always been a thorny issue between me and the matriarch. 

My mom insists that we should keep them "for the children." But I would counter that my nephews would be using tablets once they step foot in grade school. Mother would brush off my vision, while I secretly grumbled in protest. But between sowing discord and embracing world peace, I never dared touch those tomes out of fear that I might fall into temptation

And give away those books without her permission.

But as I take out the volumes of Collier's Encyclopedia, and the non-fiction sagas out of the carton boxes, I cannot help but recognize the matriarch's line of thinking. Those books not only nourished me, they were part of my growing up years along with Nintendo, Voltron and Bioman.

Those precious gems of knowledge may have lost their charm in today's world. Nevertheless they have played a role I can never deny. Letting the less fortunate gain from these books is the most prudent move. But what about our own children - our bundles of joy, whose minds are now beginning to search for answers about their world? And what about the memory? Would I drop my sentimental leanings knowing there's a path to remembrance?

The stuff I tried to fit in were suddenly seen flying out of the storage cabinet. When the ledges were cleared, the atlases, almanacs and children's fairy tales were carefully arranged so that they could fit together and leave a gentle afterthought that they were put there on purpose.

I may not know what the future holds, but following my mom's ardent faith that books are timeless pieces, I may have unknowingly passed on the wisdom I have gathered, like fireflies, to lead the way for those who will one day follow our footsteps.

"For the future," I said, before closing the sliding door. In my head, I could almost hear the squeaky voices of my slightly older nephews asking to be read a book. 

  

Diego

He was an accident, like his older brother. Unplanned. Maybe his parents had a fight and to make up for the hurtful words; hurled to each other like crumbling bricks picked on the floor, they resealed the bond with an intimate kiss; an earthly copulation that lead to his creation. He was already a peacemaker long before he was attached to the womb, and for that, he is already accomplished. 

Signs of his presence were there, like when I heard his mother throw up in the toilet. I paid no heed to the sounds, and instead asserted that it might be a casual regurgitation. A few weeks later, my mom posited a question. 

"What would be my reaction should my sister gets pregnant... again?"

The hypothetical inquiry was met with strong and violent reaction. After all, the couple had no stable job and the elder alone already draws so much of our resources. How could we cope with another mouth to feed? I returned the question and tried to squeeze the truth.

The matriarch downplayed my speculation.

I would like to think that it was all just a dream; that there's a choice to wake up to another reality when my mother finally said the truth. It was a month later, when the mood swings became intolerable and the cravings, more noticeable. My mom said it in a calm voice, and measured words, that my rage had no place in the revelation. I'd like to blame the couple for their carelessness; their stupidity; and tell it to their faces. But at the back of my head, the blame game is over. What was left is to recognize the child.

And be accepted by the entire family.

Months passed. The bump grew into a ball. The family was told and it was a relief their reaction was more affable than mine. Even the Favorite Aunt - the lioness of the pride - resigned to the idea. I guess it was inevitable, and the fact that it would take years before another of our generation decides to conceive her own child. So better for her niece to make babies, rather than let our blood run out.

The pregnancy went into full swing. Mounting pressure for the dad to shape up lead to his near breakdown. The sister's ferocity reared its ugly head, and clashes between her and the matriarch became a regular feature. There were days when the full attention of everyone stayed anchored with the eldest; like the second one wasn't coming. Sometimes it felt like the couple didn't take the pregnancy quite seriously, a few months before childbirth and the younger didn't even have his own set of clothes yet.

I kept my observations to myself, except when its bonding time with my mom.

"Oy baka mag-playing favorites ka ha! Dalawa na apo mo."

"Nako hindi, I'll give them equal attention."

"Promise?"

"Prom..." but before she could finish her word, Baby Lenin throws his weight around, like he himself doesn't want a rival.

As the day of his coming drew near, we paid less and less attention to his arrival. Sadly, even memory seem to evade the events of the final days. Except for the premature drive to the emergency room on the eve of my birthday. When we thought he would come out weeks short from my sister's tummy. It was a close call, a result of strife between the couple. Lessons were learned and the flare-ups didn't happen again. After all, such costly bickering leaves everyone with less cash to prepare for the actual childbirth.



Months after he was born, and I still can't get over the thought of comparison. Of how the elder's coming was seen as a stellar event while his, received less fan fare. To be fair, the attention is there, and so is the care. He might have even benefited from his parents' experience in raising his big brother.

But the difference is just too glaring to remain unnoticed. Of how nobody seem to care to remember the months after his cries were first heard in the delivery room. Of how, I fail to dedicate a single blog entry except for this (which took months to write before it gets published)

I do not know the dynamics between siblings with small age difference. Much more, if they were born a year after another. Perhaps it's usual for parents to be complacent with their second baby, to pay less attention to details unlike when they are having their first infant. As for me, this is my way of atonement; to let him have a piece of history long before he could understand the world around him.

And if there is one thing we didn't miss. One decisive action he could brag for all time, when he gets to read his story one day; this were the timeline of his last few minutes before the boy finally said his first hello to the world:

In solitude, my fingers pressed the beads of the wooden rosary. At the same chapel where a year before, my mom and I retreated to find solace as my sister pushed her first-born out of her womb. Back then, we feared a Cesarean delivery might become an option should her childbirth becomes unpredictably, complicated.

This time, the prayers became my strength. The matriarch had decided to return home to take care of her elder grandson. I was left alone to look after everyone's welfare - until the in-laws arrive and take over my duties. 

Minutes before the nurses say the traditional "baby out," as they frantically moved from one room to the other, perhaps to attend to other mothers expecting childbirth, I was at the reception area, barely unnoticed, anticipating. waiting. 

The fear is gone, for I have already surrendered the child's fate when I left the chapel. With my heart at peace, certain that everything will turn out fine. The favorite aunt showed up with a battalion of attendants. In a plastic, transparent tray in front of her was a baby boy wrapped in white blanket.

At long last, the newborn has arrived.

"So what's his name?" A nurse asked his father.

"We're not sure yet, but my wife likes the name Diego."