You already know that I’m the self-named, self-confessed, self-admitted B.I.T.C.H. I might just be the only person who has no problem being called a bitch. I’m the personification of the old Alma Moreno joke, who when called out, “Hey, BITCH!”, would reply with much annoyance, “Don’t you dare call me ‘Hey’!” So, as the Bitch, it is appropriate that I find my bastard. And I found my bastard.
He’s young. He’s short. He’s dark. He’s hairy. He loves to nibble. He’s jumpy and very excitable. He loves me unconditionally. He hates taking baths. He’s one hot dawg. Oh... what? I really was talking about a dog... as in he walks on all fours.
A colleague at work had puppies that she needed to give away... to anyone who was willing to give them a good home. Four puppies each needed a home. Easy a decision as it should’ve been, I had to think about it seriously.
I’ve always been a pet lover. I’ve had fish, turtles, fortune lobsters, cats, dogs and even a monkey. And my last pets, and I could say my favorite species, were rabbits. But it’s been 2 years since my last rabbit died. Almost perfectly timed with finding out I was HIV positive. I guess it gave me time to take care of myself first.
But it was time. I took a chance. Let’s give him a codename. Let’s call him mah little Bastard. Because he is... he is Bitch’s little Bastard. Just in case he’s in any way covered by R.A. 8504, let’s keep his real identity for him to disclose for himself.
And August 21st, the little Bastard came into my life. He was born June 10th, making him around two and a half months when I got him. He’s a mini-pinscher, with a little mix of shitzu. So in the question whether he’s a pure breed or not, he isn’t. But that don’t mean he ain’t the cutest.
He doesn’t exactly look like a mini-pinscher or a shitzu. People have said he looks like a Yorkshire terrier. He actually reminds me of Tintin’s dog, Snowy, just tinier and in a different color. He’s black, with brown bits on his legs, his snout and his eyebrows. He’s not exactly classy looking. I would actually use the word “scrappy” to describe him. He really looks scrappy. But just right. I’m not classy myself. I’m scrappy, too.
So there. Officially, this is my first dog. My own dog. A dog who I’ll be bringing up, my own style.
So for the first time ever in my pet history, this dog stays inside the house and sleeps in my room. He ain’t gonna be eating bones and just leftovers either. But most importantly, health-wise, karir kung karir.
Well, it was partly a condition laid upon me by my colleague who gave me the little Bastard. But more importantly, I cannot overlook the fact that I am now immuno-compromised. So the little Bastard’s health can and will directly affect my own.
So, two weeks ago, I brought the little Bastard to the veterinarian, luckily just a couple of blocks from where I live. It wasn’t his first trip to the vet, as he’d began his shots even before he was given to me, but it was mine. He had a little booklet that was a record of the vaccines he’s gotten... funnily similar to the booklet I have for my ARVs.
The poor little thing got the second dose of his vaccines, which the doctor said was a 5-in-1 thing, all with a little whimper. It was a combination of vaccines for DHLP - short for Distemper, Hepatitis, Leptospirosis, and Parvovirus - plus Corona Virus, if I‘m not mistaken.
Interesting. I never knew dogs could get hepatitis. I’m sure it’s different from the hepatitis I have, but I could’ve truly said that I can sort of relate.
By next week, he’ll get his next shots, which the vet says will be a 6- or 7-in-1. I’m not exactly sure what six or seven those are. Also soon, he’ll get a follow-up for his deworming, and start on his rabies shots. I’ll probably have to get a rabies vaccine as well, just to make sure. I’ll ask RITM about it.
I really wasn’t sure how my mom would take the little Bastard. But thankfully, she’s fallen in love with him. She’s been able to whip out her grandmothering skills, probably seeing him as the first ever grandchild she’s been longing for. She loves feeding him, keeps him company during the day while I’m at work, telling me all about his antics while they’re home alone, and even going online to research on dog care. And mind you, my mom isn’t exactly all that techie, so that’s a real effort for her.
It’s really not hard to fall in love with the little Bastard. He lives by little bundles of energy, and is a sleepy, lazy pup in between... quite like myself. He’s also extremely perky and pesky, in an adorable way. And he’s extremely smart. It took just over a week to potty-train him, although he does still have the occasional accidents every once in a while. He also knows this early how to “sit” and “come”, and he has this funny way of putting his toys away by his little bed, which my mom says takes after my obsessive-compulsive side. Hehe.
I guess the worst part of it is that the little Bastard is really taking up my time. I can’t just stay out all the time knowing that he’s home waiting for me. And my mom is taking advantage of that fact as well, using him as a way of convincing me to come home early every time I have plans. Argh. But he’s not exactly cramping my style completely. I am still able to stay out late or go out on weekends, either for yoga or the occasional dates.
He’s not keeping me up late either. Mostly, he’s sleeping when I am. Or if he is awake, I don’t know what else he’s doing... he’s really quiet and doesn’t disturb my sleep. Though he is becoming my third alarm clock, as he now knows the morning routine. My cellphone rings, my wristwatch rings shortly after, and soon he starts licking whatever body part I have hanging off the bed, trying to wake me up to let him out of the room. Even on holidays. Hahaha.
So there, this is my little Bastard. Just over four months old, and barely a month under my care, the little Bastard right now has earned his special place in my heart. One other reason to try to stay healthy and live longer. Yes, this Bitch has found his Bastard.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Bitch Finds a Bastard
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Everybody Happy
Out of the house before 8:00 am, early for a Saturday, I trekked out to EDSA to get picked up. Picked up?! Yeah. I was sitting at the local Ministop when I got a call that he was about to drive by. I told him what I’d be wearing while walking out to wait up front. When he drove by, he waved me over and I stepped into his car and we drove off. This was bound to be a happy day.
Okay, before you start making conclusions, I was picked up by a friend who’d been reading my blog and wanted to help and visit Baby Nathan. I already had a box of Alactagrow with me, which E asked me pick up yesterday from someone near where I work. I half-blame E for my having to think up an excuse at work, for having powdered milk on hand. I just joked that it’s part of my weight gain program. Argh. Okay back to my pick-up story.
It was the first time we actually met – and no, he does not have HIV – so we had a lot to talk about during the long drive to Alabang. It was the first time I’d be going to the area not walking or in public transport, so I honestly had difficulty navigating us through Filinvest. I may as well have walked in front of the car to figure out where we were.
We had breakfast at Starbucks in Festival Mall, before walking to Shopwise, where we did our shopping. We only got a couple of boxes of milk, not being able to find cheaper brands of diapers available. We also got some food to split between Baby Nathan’s parents and Steve. My friend would’ve bought the Heraclene Baby Nathan needed at the Emilene’s Pharmacy nearby but it was out of stock. Darn! It would’ve cost less there, just PhP 15.85 each, compared to Mercury Drug’s PhP 16.10. So we looked for Watsons, where we got it for PhP 16.00 each. Good enough. We also got the Ferrous Sulfate that E mentioned Steve needed. The generic brand was good enough, costing PhP 75.00 for a hundred pieces.
From there, it was another case of the blind leading the blind, until we asked our way out to Civic Road, where I finally recognized where we were and figured out the right way to the RITM. The guard at the RITM gate at first wouldn’t let us in, asking us for the patient’s surname, which I really didn’t know. He finally gave way when I mentioned the magic word, which was Ate’s name. I think he understood.
At the ward, the nurse led us into the kid’s room, where he was awake in his dad’s lap. We put the bag of stuff for them in a corner, and I handed the nurse the stash of Heraclene. She tore off a piece and gave it to Nathan’s dad, keeping the rest with her. Apparently, the Heraclene capsule is split open and mixed with the baby’s milk for feeding. I also handed the nurse the stuff for Steve, who was still in isolation. She mentioned he was doing better, but felt the need to squeal on how Steve always puts up an attitude with whoever was attending to him, mentioning his special demands of Hansel, juice or candy, before heading off to deliver our goodies. She peeped in a few minutes later sending us Steve’s thanks, which for me, was both unexpected and unnecessary.
Baby Nathan’s senses were up and about, and he had his eyes glued to us newcomers almost the whole time. He was staring at me in particular, which worried me because he’d be letting out occasional whimpers, threatening to cry. The dad said it was probably because I was in a white shirt, which the kid was now extremely familiar with, thanks to his doctors and nurses. The kid was probably thinking I was one of those beings in white who came to give injections or take blood. Poor kiddo. Note to self: It’s a kid. Wear something colorful next time.
My friend had a million questions to ask Nathan’s dad, some of which I honestly was too shy to ask myself, so we both got to know more about the family. The dad worked as a waiter, and the mom in a videoke bar, but of course both had to stop since the kid got sick. They had to battle with being in another medical institution in Quezon City, before being referred to the RITM, where they finally found the proper care for the baby. Trust me it was a long story, which fast forwarded to today, where Baby Nathan was recovering from hitting almost rock bottom.
Baby Nathan’s condition is definitely improving, and his cheeks are filling up. Though still far from the ideal, he’s on his way. He is able to sit upright in his dad’s lap, and his legs are able to support his weight with some assistance from dad. Unlike the last time I saw him, where his hands were just clasped together and hardly moving, he is now giving out high-fives, and playfully slapping his dads face. Excellent.
His dad was even telling us how Baby Nathan now sort of knew when it was close to 8:00 am or 8:00 pm, his daily ARV schedule. So much so, that the Baby was working up a talent of trying to seal his lips, in protest of the impending dosage of probably not-so-yummy syrups. It had me giggling, because of the pilyo factor, and smiling, because that alertness was still a good sign.
His dad was also telling us about the Baby’s regular fevers, which I said might be caused by the ARVs, but I held off on pointing out how the same meds can make a grown man, as myself, running to the doctor for help. Fortunately, I don’t think Baby Nathan minded the fevers, because as his dad said, the kid could easily sleep through the spikes. He was the one kept up keeping an eye on the kid’s temperature, though, and reporting it to the nurses.
When asked what else they needed there, the dad didn’t really have much to ask for. He did point out how EQ diapers fit better than Pampers, which were just sliding off what was left of the kid’s butt. He also said the Baby was on some new medicine, which my friend said was an anti-bacterial. I’ll ask Ate about that the next time I talk to her. Other than that, they were good and happy. My friend did say that we should’ve brought some colorful toys for the baby, since all he had was a plastic airplane, which his dad said had already made several flights off the bed, thanks to the kid’s newfound strength. Great idea, don’t you think?
After more than an hour there, we bade them goodbye. He thanked us sincerely. I think it was a relief for the dad to have someone to talk to, while the mom was out. She’d been attending the regular activities of one of the so-called HIV advocacy groups, which came in the form of videoke sessions. I do hope that these groups are helping out in ways beyond that. Anyways...
From there, my friend treated me to lunch back in Festival Mall, which left me thinking that I had mistakenly included myself in Baby Nathan’s weight gain program. I love pasta and hate left-overs, so I was stuffed! We then faced the traffic back north, where I was dropped off at the bus stop while my friend headed off to work. It was a good day, and I dropped by the weekend sale at Landmark, and was super proud to get myself a number of nice shirts for just over PhP 100.00 each. Imagine that?! My early Christmas gift to myself I guess. I headed home to rest a bit, and even found energy to get myself a long-deserved haircut.
A lot of happiness today but... anything for mom? Okay, I’ll admit to being a schmuck. I offered to take her back to Landmark for the midnight sale after dinner, which she’d been hinting on since last week. It wasn’t so bad, I did some more shopping myself for some of my new godchildren, and… okay, okay, I got a couple of pairs of shorts for myself. I’d blown my Christmas budget on Baby Nathan already, so I decided to go all out. Hehehe. Eventually, I had to sneak off to the foodcourt to take my ARVs, after which I tried my best to convince my mom that we were done, before I started feeling the effects of the meds. So we walked home, and that was that.
As you can see from this long post, it was a looooong day. But I checked my list, and other than the three guys who I had to blow off having sex with today, I think everybody was happy.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
House, Not Home
It was Wednesday night. I had spent ten hours at the office, making money to pay the bills. I took an hour-long bus ride home, standing in the aisle the whole way. Instead of taking a tricycle in, I took the ten-minute walk home, meaning to save fifteen pesos, which could buy me two cups of rice for lunch the next day. And all this for what?
I walked into the house, and changed from my work clothes. I hadn’t even eaten dinner, or sat down at all, when my mom started bombarding me with things she needed me to do. Things that weren’t really urgent. Things that could wait till I at least sat down.
Peace and quiet helps an introvert like me recover from a long day. And it was clear she didn’t care enough to give it to me. So I raised my talk-to-the-hand hand to shush her, and went on to have my dinner.
Then it started. She started sighing, and clutching her stomach in alleged pain. She told me that if I’d come home one day and she wasn’t there, I’d probably find her in the hospital. Then she asked me if I had medicines. Mylanta. I shook my head.
And what did I do after all this? Absolutely nothing. It was happening again. She was acting up again. Craving for attention. The attention that’s been lacking since her favorite son left the country. The same attention I was deprived of since childhood.
She’d done this before, lying in bed, claiming she “almost had a stroke”. Complaining that half her body was numb. I’m not stupid. You don’t almost have a stroke. It’s either you do, or you don’t. That time, I turned my back for two minutes, and the next thing I know, she was out of bed, all dressed up, ready to go to the mall. Retrogression at its finest. Imagine how my eyes rolled.
So this time around, I was already in The-Boy-Who-Cried-Wolf mode. I was eating dinner, not giving her even a glance. I had my eyes glued to the television and was letting everything from her go in one ear and out the other.
Hospital? I don’t know what psychic powers she used to see that coming. I knew she was acting when she asked me if I had medicines. I never stocked medicines and she knows it. At least not until I started on ARVs, and that she doesn’t know. And of all medicines, Mylanta? What for? Gas? Indigestion? Hell.
I admit I was so tempted to shoot her bad act down by telling her, “I have HIV, and you’re complaining about gas?” But like always, I just put my poker face on and kept quiet, making sure I locked myself in my room as quickly as possible, safe from the attention-starved monster. It reminded me why she doesn’t deserve to know I have HIV. Because she doesn’t really care.
In times like these, I usually call my sister. Because no one else would believe my story. Because only she knows my mom and the craziness she’s capable of.
Good thing she was home, and I was able to vent. We share the same wavelength, and vent as we do to each other, we never fail to find humor in all the insanity that life throws at us. By the end of it all, I was laughing again, smiling again.
I slept soundly through the night, and rushed through my morning routine so I could leave for work and escape any residual craziness at the house. Yes. This is my house, but it is not home. My room is my home. My bed is my home. My friends are my home. My sister is my home. My solitude is my home.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Alert
I’ve been on heightened health alert since Sunday. Yes, health. I had to take careful note of what I’ve been feeling. Some supposedly usual things for anyone, but possibly alarming for someone with HIV.
Hello, rainy season. The weather finally got to me. I got the sniffles over the weekend. A bit unusual for me. I mean I do usually have a stuffy nose waking up in the morning, but I’ve been sneezing, sniffing and snorting since Sunday.
I’ve noticed ever since that I don’t catch colds that easily but when I do, I don’t get well easily. I don’t know if things will be worse now that I have HIV. So when I caught a cold this weekend, I took notice. No fever, though, which is good. And I’m still up and about.
I’m not medicating, just taking a lot of water, resting more and staying warm. I’m feeling a bit better now. Still a bit of phlegm in the mornings especially, the hard and sticky kind. Fortunately, the color still seems normal, and I’m able to expel it somehow, by blowing my nose. An interesting fact, I do not know how to spit. I know. Weird. So I have to resort to blowing my nose in situations like these.
Add to that, diarrhea. Just soft stool. I still had my bowel movement in control, and was still able to work yesterday. But definitely something I should be looking out for. By yesterday night, my stool was forming more, so I don’t think this is anything bad. I’m suspecting the creamy pasta I ate for lunch and dinner. My tummy doesn’t do too well with cream. Good thing I ate the last of it yesterday night. By this morning, I felt much better.
Not for long. The scrambled eggs I found on the table for breakfast… were bad. I’m not sure how much of it I had ingested, but when I realized it tasted funny, off to the trash I went. I can’t readily complain to my mom that she should be more careful that the food doesn’t spoil. Of course she doesn’t know yet that I have HIV or how bad it can be for people like me. It’s just a bit frustrating because, well, no one should eat spoilt food. Oh well, another lesson learned, to be more careful next time.
So there. Not a very good end to the first half of the year. Still manageable for now. But if it was any worse, I’d be on my way to the San Lazaro Hospital in a jiffy. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Time Flies
I just got back from a loooong weekend. After last Thursday spent at San Lazaro, Friday morning signaled the start of a big family weekend. From my dad’s side of the family, aunts, uncles and cousins already based in the US came home to the Philippines. Some of them I hadn’t seen in twenty-plus years. Add to that most of the clan based in the Philippines, most of whom I haven’t met or don’t even know. We all headed to the southeastern part of Luzon, to go home to our province in Bicol.
My mom and I were fetched at home Friday morning, and picked up some of my dad’s cousins and their families in the area. We totaled 16 in the van, including 4 kids, just right for the size of the vehicle. By about 8:00 in the morning, we were on our way out of the city. So how far away is it? Eight to ten hours. Loooong trip. I had planned to sleep through the whole trip, but with all the yakking and cackling of everyone else there, plus a special mention to the cousin I had beside me who kept tapping my shoulder telling me to listen to her, and slapping my back everytime she laughed, I hardly snuck a wink in.
So needless to say, we were there in no time. We got there before 5:00 that evening. Tired. I’m sure I wondered if this was HIV-related fatigue, but really it was just such a long trip.
I honestly had been dreading meeting all the relatives I haven’t seen or didn’t know. I’d much rather blend into the wallpaper. I sort of got used to being “just the other child”, but my brother and sister weren’t there at the time to grab all the attention. I don’t really have much to be proud of, at least not to the levels of my siblings. It’s all just same old, same old for me. But really, it wasn’t that bad. Save for a number who just wouldn’t stop asking if I was married or had a girlfriend or what, everyone seemed glad to meet me. I still half hate everytime people say I’m a carbon-copy of my father. But no permanent damage.
So what’s the big occasion anyways? It’s my grandmother’s birthday. Not just any. It’s her 100th. One hundred years. That’s like a double gold, or a silver-diamond. Wow. I know. She’s hard of hearing, almost blind, bedridden most of the time, but noticeably, her mind, wit and humor are still there. I know I inherited those from her.
Apparently women in our family have longer lifespans. My grandfathers on both my dad’s and mom’s sides are already gone, while both grandmothers are still around. My dad didn’t even make it to 60. And as for me, I can only be happy that I’ve gotten to 30. The odds of me even reaching 50 are grim. But that’s all me, my genes are not to blame.
I thought this would be a good time to pull my sister aside and tell her about my condition. But I never got the chance, not to mention I doubt if I’d have the guts to tell her. But all in all, it was not bad. I loved seeing my cousins from the US. Even the one I accidentally dropped from a flight of stairs when I was a kid. Even the one who used to tag team with my brother to bully me. I loved meeting the at least 200 of my relatives, thinking to myself that this might be the last chance they’d get to meet me.
I tend to wonder if this many people will show up when my time comes. And it honestly makes me sad that I can’t say for certain. So I need to change the topic.
So anyway, home by Sunday morning after taking the night trip by public transport, I’m happy. I’m proud, because I faced what was sort of my fear of facing people. Facing family. But this is only the beginning. They’ll find out about me eventually. And I realize that this is something that I should begin facing now, before time runs out.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Mothers' Day
Mothers’ Day came and went without a stir. I know I’ve not talked much about my mom, or my family even. Just so happened we don’t have the perfect relationship.
Apparently, being the youngest child doesn’t automatically mean you are the favorite and the most pampered. I’ve always been under pressure to live up to my parents’ expectations, not to mention reach the achievements of my older siblings. Something I’ve failed terribly at.
Growing up, I would willingly do chores around the house. But nothing good came from this. My mom would just end up scolding me for doing things wrong, or just not good enough. I’d be left wondering why that was the thanks I’d get for my effort, when my older brother who hardly helped got all the praises.
Conversations at home would be me saying something and getting ignored, and my brother saying the exact same thing and getting commended for his good idea. This forced me to become more passive, less opinionated, and more introspective. It made me a loner, but it made me stronger.
In primary school, I never got any awards, unlike my older brother and sister’s handfuls of medals and certificates during their graduation. I took my secondary education in the premiere science high school in the Philippines, getting into which was an achievement in itself. But my mom would only point out that though I was passing all my subjects, I wasn’t doing as well as my sister did when she was there.
I was never one to take that against them, but I could not deny that it was changing me. I had given up trying to please my mom, and ended up being an underachiever. I had accepted that I was expected to fail.
By the time I was in college, I had turned to extracurricular activities instead, where I earned some respect from my peers for my talents and leadership. My mom never knew about any of my achievements in that field, as I chose not to let her know. I was just happy to get praises from somebody. From anybody. Though my grades suffered and I went beyond the term of the course I took, I finished anyways. And I was proud of that. Maybe because I was no longer expected to graduate, and I surpassed that expectation.
I’ve mentioned that I came out to my mom when I was 21. And I did that at that time, because I knew my relationship with my mom could not possibly get any worse. It came to a point where I was wishing she would tell me I was adopted, just so I had some reason as to why she didn’t love me like my siblings. Just so I didn’t have to think that she hated me for being me.
It’s only this year that I’ve had her to myself, as my dad passed away some years ago, my sister has been married and on her own for several years now, and my brother just left the country to pursue a job abroad. She has decided to turn her attention to me finally, but as my sister says, too late the hero. It’s uncomfortable. I don’t need it. I matured early on in life because I had no choice but to. I learned too soon that I could not count on anyone but myself. That I could please no one but myself. The wall has been built. The damage has been done.
At this critical turn in my life, I have no urge to tell my mom that I have HIV. Because she wouldn’t understand. Because she’d just be disappointed… again. Because she’d just feel obligated to care for me. I don’t want her to love me because of pity. I don’t know if and when I’ll tell her of my condition, but most probably, it will be just an FYI.
How she brought me up made me what I am now. I’m quiet, because I was taught my opinion didn’t count. I’m a loner because I knew only I could accept and love who I am. I love to write, because I had no voice. I’m strong, because I learned I could only count on myself. I’m happy, because I am content with myself… I’m proud of myself.
So thank you, Mom. I just want you to be happy. Happy Mothers’ Day!
