Posts Tagged ‘doctor’

I hate my photograph,

it is not me-who stare

at you behind the mirror.

That false reflection

with curved lips,

chinkee-eyed to greet

a hello. To whom?


I don’t want witnesses

to frame me in that split-second

prison cell of disguise.

I buckle down, and sweating

my bones, electrocuted,

dead nervous of strangers’

gaze into my inner being.


I hate questions.

I hate it when you whitewash

a harsh reality with a soft answer.

It’s a scalpel dissecting

an organ, trying to find

hidden tumor that metastasized

blood flowing a river

and then you drowned

along with drowning the negative

until it sinked in.


Please,  tell the doctor.

He is not welcome here.

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What if I finally embark on a mission to indigenous lands? How can I accept their way of life? Will I accept their culture as superior than I have born with and satisfied with? Will I ever change my way of life and draw some inspiration and become like them-unwary of the stress of the modern life, which to them is unknown?

What if  I am old enough to witness the First Quarter Storm, would I become a community organizer? Would I then be able to stand up for the right of the masses during those dictatorial times or I would rather clam up under the weight of fear and apathy? Would I be willing to be put into prison, or die in a firing squad like a martyr and become one of those missing persons that until now that their whereabouts cannot be found?

What if I become a priest? Can I be able to resist the temptation to marry and forever become celibate?  Would I be able to help others to know God better and make some positive impacts on their spiritual life?

What if I become a social worker? How could I keep the orphans, the old men and women and the widows from seeing life as still beautiful brimming with hope without them thinking of their circumstances? Would I be able to bear not to cry when I am so emotionally attached to their sentiments, their anguish and their fears?

What if I become a nurse or a doctor? How could I be able to be numb on seeing death everyday?  How could I try not to think of pain?  How could I not try to think about the families who lost their loved ones to sickness or a tragic accident? How could I not sleep enduring the hours spent caring and hoping for the  patients would ever live for one more day?

There are just so many individuals whose life are exemplary. Those who are still living or have departed from this world, whose life they have given unselfishly to the best that they can without thinking about personal gain or fame.  They have lived an uncommon life away from their comfort zones. 

The nameless and faceless strangers whom we might meet across the street. Or your neighbor. Or a friend.  We never know, until we came closer seeing their true light. These are the breed of people who dedicated themselves for a cause of uplifting humanity.  The kind of people who is not afraid of being different and dared to be what they are destined to be.

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It started during the last year of my high school, when father has decided that I would be going home to our province with my mother.  He had decided that I will be studying there, for the reason that he cannot afford to sustain me through college if I will be bent on pursuing medicine. Besides, my brother and sister will be forced to stop their schooling just to give way for me.

You must know how my world crashed like a domino at that time.  It has been my life-long dream to pursue medicine since I was a kid.  I have prepared for this for such a long time. And I am in utter disbelief that even if I had to avail a scholarship, my father imperiously zeroed all my options.  I was so distraught.  I am in complete shambles.

Before, I have made myself to believe that becoming a doctor is so near to becoming a reality.  That no amount of circumstances and obstacles can stop me from making it happen. But no, I never had the chance. If only if father is a little braver to let me pursue it. But father didn’t take his chance on me, and I think he didn’t gamble enough for my destiny. Because of this, the cycle of blame is cast. 

I would always blame him for my depression. For this shrinking self-esteem. For this sickening moral degeneration.  For this career stagnation. Whatever case of bad luck that had befallen on me, the blame would surely go to him. And a zillion of regrets would suddenly shoot up like splayed bullets on my head.

After all these years,  I have tried to abide all his rules.  Like a sheep. Who cannot shout in retaliation.  Who cannot raise a fist in objection.  Instead, I internalize this as something of a sacrifice and a demonstration of unselfishness.  An understanding of our family’s situation and circumstances of poverty.

I have endured the pain of not pursuing medicine.  And I have come to many battles I have continuously pitted silently against father. For controlling my life as if he is a demi-God.  I have used the weapon of silence to kill my compassion and concern towards him.  I have build a fortress of reclusivity around me to shield me from further hurt.  And I have created a moat of indifference to keep him away from manipulating me.

I don’t want this feeling.  But what can I do? (pause) For now I should stop pointing fingers to him. I don’t want to wallow in this pain forever.

Maybe he had some valid reasons for not letting me pursue my passion of becoming a doctor.  Maybe I don’t know how hard he lived during his adulthood.  Maybe he too, is learning the way and I cannot expect him to know the future. Maybe it is much harder than mine, how in his married life, did he manage to feed us and make us to live decent.  Besides,  no one said it would be easy to be a father anyway.  After all,  he have tried his best to give us what he can truly afford. Oh, how limited is my grasp on his circumstances.  Father must have been overridden too by fear because of poverty.  His fear of not being able to cope from pressures of keeping us through college. Can I blame him all that much? I need to accept that in this lifetime, battles will have to be fought hard.  And the ultimate surrender is not yet called for.

I guess, I need to move on.  I have felt that I am so immature, now that I have breezed through Architecture and made a good outcome out of it.  I should be thanking father enough that even though I didn’t like my course of study,  I was able to survive it somehow.  Thankful of the way things have turned out to be. For that, I will be raising another white flag as a sign of my complete surrender.  And I am crying my hearts out.

Father is growing old, and is about to retire.  Father must have silently ask forgiveness for this lapse in judgement.  I know, he must have accorded to me his pride and joy when I triumph after all, though not in words.  His life is no different with mine. 

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