“When
he has regarded the prayer of the destitute, and not despised their prayer.” –
Psalm 102:18
We
had cocooned ourselves as best we could from the dreaded virus. Our family
strictly followed the quarantine rules. In the beginning, only my niece, the
holder of the quarantine pass or more popularly known as the “alay”,
would go out to buy essentials. I would ferry her to and from the village gate
and, as the CQ eased, would drive her around. I hardly ever got out of the car
except to go to the bank. My son and my father NEVER EVER stepped out beyond
our gate for 4 and a half months.
It
was a peaceful, secure lockdown. My son worked from home while I used the time
to grow. I learned iPhone photography and how to pray the rosary in Italian. I
took up painting again and revived my blogs. My family must have gained a few
pounds because I had time to learn new recipes and even tried my hand at
baking. I was blooming where I was planted and even sowed a few seeds as I was
invited to speak on solo parenting at two online gatherings. I thought that was
my pandemic story. But I was so wrong.
On
July 28, our cocoon was ripped apart. My almost 90-year-old Papa suffered a
stroke. We rushed him to the emergency room. The nearby hospital triaged him
inside our car in their driveway despite his life-threatening condition. We
were told he was 5th in line for the ICU and will not be admitted
unless there was a room available. Since it was critical that medicine be
administered immediately to Papa, my cousin’s husband told us to bring him to the
hospital where he was holding clinic at the time.
By
God’s grace and the help of my cousin’s doctor-husband, Papa was given
life-saving treatment. But there was still no ICU room available. I thought he
was 6th in line but apparently, I misheard that. He was 26th
in line and people ahead of him had been in the ER for about a week already!!!
Papa had to stay in the ER until a room was available – not in a cubicle but right
smack in the center of the critical care room in front of the nurses’ station.
From our cocoon safe from the virus, we were thrown into a place teeming with
Covid patients. The passage from the Apostles’ Creed “descended into hell”
became a reality for us.
My
cousin Jong, a doctor in the U.S., told me not to stay in the ER as much as
possible for my own safety. But I had to keep looking in on Papa because he was
being a handful to the ER staff who were overwhelmed by the volume of patients
already. Added to the threat of Covid infection was the discomfort. Chairs with
butt-unfriendly seats were the only ones available to sleep on in the ER.
Occasionally, I would sneak out to the hospital lobby where there were
cushioned benches and the calming image of Our Lady of Guadalupe to grab some
sleep at night.
On
the third day, we ascended…not out of ER hell yet but, by God’s grace…to a
curtained cubicle. Every time I would enter the critical care room to go to
Papa’s cubicle, I’d hold my breath for fear of inhaling the virus. The curtain
separating us from the Covid patient (just my suspicion because of the plastic
tent on the bed) in the next cubicle was not very reassuring. I watched in
horror as the other bed partly pushed through the curtain and into our cubicle
as they were moving the patient out. That fear combined with the hard chair was
enough to keep me sleepless that night.
In
one of the Breakthrough modules for handling anxiety and depression, Bro Arun
Gogna told the story about a sick man who puts a chair beside his bed where he
“seats” Jesus to have a conversation with Him every day. I thought of doing the
same thing since I couldn’t sleep. Taking the other chair that I use to prop up
my feet, I asked Jesus to sit and talk to me. I was surprised by how easy that
conversation began. It was like I had a close friend sitting right there beside
me. I would ask a question or say something, and He would answer right back. I
can’t remember everything that we talked about. All I remember was His
comforting presence. When I told her about it, my cousin and bff Belle said
maybe it was because most of the conversation was just meant for me.
There
was only one part of our conversation I do recall. At one point, I lamented,
“But Lord, why do I have to go through this hell? Does it have to be this
scary, this difficult, this dark?” Then He answered, “Remember that painting of
the cactus bud you just finished? Remember how the whiteness of the bud only
stood out when you got the dark background right? IT IS ONLY IN CONTRAST WITH
THE DARKNESS THAT THE GLORY OF MY LIGHT CAN BE FULLY APPRECIATED.”
I
was stunned! That painting was the hardest to make in my paintography series.
It was based on this beautiful photo taken by Paolo Salanguit, son of my caring
group head Myrna. Myrna had sent it to our group chat with a very inspiring caption that moved me to immortalize it with a painting.
 |
| “First time ever that this old hopeless cactus plant bloomed. Pao and I were amazed. Truly God’s promises never fail even when we feel hopeless at times.” - Myrna |
But
it was so hard to paint! First, the pressure. The photograph was so skillfully
taken, so much better than any of my amateurish efforts. I needed to give it
justice. Next was my skill level. I had only taken up painting again during the
lockdown after decades of non-practice and there was so much I had to re-learn.
It took four attempts with different media and a whole lot of research before I
could get the effect I wanted.
 |
| First attempt using wet on wet technique with
watercolor |
I
failed miserably and didn’t even have the heart to finish it.
 |
Second attempt using watercolor pencil
|
Please
note from my other paintings that I hardly put a background. That’s because I’m
not confident with my skills yet. I’m afraid of botching up the painting when
I’ve gotten the flower to my satisfaction already. I was unhappy with the light
background of this one.
 |
| Third attempt: watercolor-ed paper sculpture on handmade paper |
My
son Jaffy suggested I try doing it in mix media. Since I had this handmade
paper in the right color, I cut out the flower from the second attempt, did
some paper sculpture on it and proceeded to assemble it. I was still dissatisfied
as the delicate play of colors on the left side of the background was lost.
 |
The finished painting using watercolor pencil
|
Perseverance
is a virtue – I finally got it on the fourth try. The lightness of the bud stood
out when I made the background dark enough.
Truly,
God’s glory becomes more brilliant when it is placed in stark contrast to the
darkness of our trials.
The
darkness:
Papa
stayed in the ER for 5 days surrounded by Covid patients. He was swabbed
because the hospital assumes everybody is a suspect. If you were admitted for
some other ailment, then being confined in the same room with positive cases surely upped your
chances of making their suspicion true. The scary thing was sometimes I would
catch him with his face mask off. I, too, was barely protected with just a face
mask and face shield as compared to the medical staff in complete PPE.
Just
as he was about to be discharged, he had a fever and was swabbed for a second
time. The wait for the result was agonizing as I feared for my own condition as
well and for my family at home who might have been exposed with my comings and
goings from the hospital. Tests showed he contracted pneumonia and was infected
by bacteria that was resistant to regular antibiotics (one of the residents
described it as a super bug). These could have been hospital-acquired which can
happen with prolonged confinement.
There
I was, again, feeling barely protected from the virus and the bacteria when all
the medical staff were required to enter Papa’s room in PPE. My trauma was
intensified by the fact that my husband’s final cause of death was
hospital-acquired sepsis and not the injuries he got from his accident.
To
make matters worse, I was locked down in the hospital for a whole week without
a reliever because of the MECQ that was re-imposed after the medical community
called for it.
The
light:
Despite
the exposure, Papa tested negative for Covid twice. After 14 days of
self-quarantine from the time Papa was discharged, I also did not exhibit any
symptoms; neither did my son, our designated driver to and from the hospital,
and my niece who attended to us at home.
Despite
being 26th in line for a room, he was moved out of the ER after 5
days. Furthermore, he was not moved to the ICU (expensive!) because his
condition had improved or to a private isolation room (more expensive!!)
because he was Covid-negative. It was a miracle that a small private room
(affordable and just what we were praying for!!!) became available.
Despite
the odds because of his age, Papa survived the stroke and is ambulant with the
help of a walker (lent by Oying Isidoro, a brother from our Feast family whose recovery
from his illness is an amazing and inspiring story). Added to that is his speech
which is no longer slurred. Instead of continuing his speech therapy, we make
him lead in praying the rosary every day.
God’s
grace was evident in the overwhelming moral and spiritual support from family,
friends and my Feast community even if they were given mostly online. I could
sense heaven caving in under the barrage of prayers when the miracles came one
after the other.
God
hears the prayer of the destitute. In these trying times, never forget that.
His glory will shine through this darkness.
