I am Mae German. 34 years old. Born in Mangatarem, province of Pangasinan. I was taught and trained by 
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The Writer Within Grandma, where are you?
The Writer Within Grandma, where are you? | Grandma, where are you? |
| Friday, 19 June 2009 | |
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She wears her sweat shirt as she roams around the hospital. I know she is a patient there. She has a tag and a small peripheral venous catheter (PVC) on her wrist. "Are you a patient here?" someone asked her. She said she's not. I looked at her and smiled. I was actually looking forward to seeing her each time I visit the hospital. She's one witty grandma. Although I know she does not remember me (she keeps on telling me the same lines), still I loved talking to her. "Are you waiting for your meal?" she asked me one lunch time when I was at the lounge reading a book. I said no. "Yesterday, they asked me what I want to have for today's meals. Problem is, my appetite yesterday is different from my appetite today." I know what she meant, I told her, then I asked her what she's having. "Alpo!" she replied. I see her everywhere. At the lounge, at the nurses' station, sometimes just walking along the hallway. No one seems to be bothered by her presence. In fact, no one seems to notice her. I told her one time that it's good that they allow her to just wander like that when she's supposed to be in her room, resting and recuperating from whatever illness she has. "Oh! They don't know I am a patient here. Or maybe they just don't care. People here don't even say hello. Nobody seems to care nowadays. Not like the old days. In here, you're lucky if they change your bedding every week! I walk around because I am trying to find my way to escape." She said. Not just once that she's told me that she tried going to the other floor to check on the vending machine. She loves popcorn but it's always out of stock. Not just once that I thought of bringing her a bag of popcorn but I hesitated. What if she's allergic to that? I dismissed the idea and fought back the urge to give her anything every time I see her holding a cup of... "Ice." she said as she nibbled on the last piece of ice from her cup. Then she opened a room and got her supply of ice. She's not supposed to go in there but she's right, no one seems to care. "Be careful nowadays. People are generous especially those with the flu. They're willing to give it to you." she told me and Ate Pam one time. "When I got here it was like a party. A Halloween party! Everyone in the ER is wearing a mask. That's funny. I had to join them of course." She was admitted for some blood transfusion on a Thursday. "People here want me to take some pills. Hey! I said don't give me pills. I am trying to stay alive!" She said she hates pills. She said she was brought there by his son and that she told her children not to visit her. "They have their own lives. What are they gonna do here?" she told me when I asked her if any of her relatives visit her. "It's good that your friend got here on Monday. Doctors don't come here on weekends." she said so I asked her how her weekends are if that is the case. "I just stare at the window and wonder where the doctors are!" Our conversation became constant but as I have said, she couldn't remember me. There are days that she'd think I was a patient there, and there are days that she'd think right, that I am just a visitor. "So, who did the procedure to your friend? The chef?" she was kidding when I told her about Kuya Cris. She's a cool grandma. She has a dog, some 12-year-old yellow Labrador. She said, one time her dog-walker brought the yellow lab home, drunk! "They gave my dog, beer!" We were both enjoying that conversation when Rev. Fr. Melchor F. found me. We were both talking about her dog and waiting for Oprah. She left when I had to entertain the priest. And that was the last time that I saw her. She never came back for Oprah. I guess she was discharged on Thursday. During our last few days at the hospital, I've missed her. Whenever I sit at my favorite sofa in the waiting room, where she complains about how cold in there, I wander my eyes and check if she's just there walking, bothering the nurses who hate to be bothered. I was tempted to ask the nurses there about her whereabout, but I know that'll be weird. Among the people that I have spoken with during the past week, the 6-yr old kid, the priest, the retired military man, it is her that stood out. I enjoyed watching her every move. I loved listening to her voice. We'll probably never remember each other (definitely she'll never remember me). Who knows? I'll probably see her again but I won't really remember how she looks like. One thing is for sure though, I will always remember those short times, short talks that I had with her. "Did you know that someone jumped over one of the windows here a few years ago? That's why all the windows here are locked now," she told me one time. Sometimes I think meeting her is surreal. She was just right there, ready to make anyone smile and show everyone how simple life should be. Why do people ignore her? Or should the question be, why doesn't everyone sees her? |
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