I’MPOSSIBLE — the story behind “I was shot in the face, what’s your excuse?” INTRO 2/3
TONDO HOSPITAL
I had already made arrangements to move in a month to the business district of Makati but only because it finally made sense logistically. My accommodations for the last few months was in Tondo, one of the poorer areas of Manila. Rent was cheap. Food was available 24 hours a day. People were friendly. I enjoyed the simplicity of life there and my relative anonymity.
Being intubated was the cause of my eventual loss of consciousness. I finally awaken, finding no change in my mobility, staring at a hospital ceiling. Very quickly I discovered, much to my disappointment but not to my surprise, the level of care and equipment at Tondo’s hospital was on par with the area’s economic health. Laying on a thin hospital mattress, my head is stabilized and sandwiched between two sandbags. My throat is extremely sore. Based on the piece protruding past my lips, I assumed I was intubated. I’ve seen it done on TV and can honestly say, it feels a lot worse than it looks. But breathing is a bonus at this point, so no complaints on my end. As I become more conscious of my surroundings, shooting pains in my biceps are starting to grab my attention. Alternating from one side to the other every 5 seconds. It feels like what I’d imagine being stabbed would have felt like. Repeatedly. Left. Then right. A slight panic overcomes me as I replay the sequences of events since I woke up to an otherwise regular, beautiful day of sunshine.
An older gentleman approaches me. I see his face briefly but I do not recognize him immediately. He whispers, “your mom is on her way.” It’s Mr. Lim. He was in the same graduating group that took the Canadian citizenship oath with my mother. At her encouragement, we had met just once, 5 months prior. We spoke extensively about his business background over lunch, and I had hoped to have him mentor me in the future. I pictured our second meeting quite differently. Regardless, it was comforting to see a familiar face.
My mother just happened to be visiting relatives nearby in Brunei. It was a trip she deserved and had planned for years. I was looking forward to taking a break after closing this deal and visiting her. She had received a text and call from a business associate. He had received the same text and call from my landlady who was alerted by my neighbors. It simply read, “Reg has been shot.”
Immediately looking to get on the next flight out, she remembers Mr. Lim and reached out to him. She calls my father, a logistics engineer based in Qatar, and he arranges to meet her in Manila.
The shooting pains intensify. I begin playing pong in my mind. Bouncing the ball of pain from one bicep to the other. It made me feel like I was in control of the pain. It seems to be working, temporarily at least.
Daylight is replaced by fluorescent lights again. The room is buzzing with activity. My thoughts turn to delirium. Fatigue turns to fear. I wasn’t prepared for what had happened. I hadn’t even had the time to give much thought to the events that led me to where I was.
My grandmother had passed away in 2004. I can only imagine my mother’s state of mind. It was only 3 years ago, that she found herself looking after my grandmother, who was diagnosed with cancer and watched her rapidly deteriorate right before her very eyes. My mother spent every possible moment taking care of my grandmother’s needs, often found sleeping beside her hospital bed. Now here I was in need of the very same care. Being hospitalized for months prior, I recalled the morphine pump my grandmother had access to. I distinctly remembered that she never used the morphine pump herself. I’d like to think I drew from her strength and soldiered on. Realistically, being immobile and having no movement from my neck down also gave me no other option.
I think I hear my name being called. My mom’s face hovers above me. I can see her holding back her tears. I try hard to be brave for her but the first word out of my mouth was “morphine.”
Subconsciously, I must have made a connection as it never entered my mind until then. Despite my mother’s efforts, I was offered no relief for my pain. And to make matters worse, she was ushered out and told to return in the morning. Visiting hours were over.
Despite that, the room was filled with staff oblivious to my existence. The room became a meeting place for the night staff. Laughter and chatter filled the room. Not to be left out, my game of pong continued through the night until sheer exhaustion finally allowed me to pass out.
