In Pain

As I type this, let it be known that my left arm still hurts from the 3-day torture that it had to undergo because of my lingering illness. I am both cursing in all the languages that I can remember curse words of, at the same time calling on all the saints that I can think of. These must be the effects of both the drug which was passing through my veins very painfully while I read Noli Me Tangere, whose words seeped into my brain quite pleasurably I must say. At one point, I did not know whether I was weeping for the lot of poor Sisa as she waited for her sons to come home, or I was weeping for my poor wretched vein which was about ready to burst judging from the degree of pain it had to suffer. Yes, it is still very very painful. It wasn't this painful yesterday or the other day. My vein must have reached its limit. It says, enough! Enough or I will revolt!

I started to feel pain when swallowing on Friday. As how I usually deal with my illnesses, I ignored it and expected it to go away. It became increasingly painful though. By Sunday, my birthday, people in school had found out that I was sick and offered all sorts of medicines which I gratefully accepted. I was also brought to a clinic to buy a montrous-looking vitamin in two bottles enclosed in a big box to help me "be healthier". (Pictures on 'my images') I felt a slight fever by night time and started taking antibiotics, ones that I brought from the Philippines, along with various Chinese pills and whatnots. For a couple of days, I felt a little better as my throat did not seem to hurt as much but I also felt that my fever was not going away. By Wednesday, I'd run out of antibiotics. I asked Wendy how to say 'antibiotics' in Chinese and told her that I'd call her and let her talk to the salespeople in the drugstore once I get there. She, in turn, convinced me to take the lethal injection. Yes, it sounded like the death penalty to me.

Earlier in my stay in this country, I had in many different occasions expressed my absolute fear of this procedure. I did so again that Wednesday morning. I said no, begged, more precisely. "No Wendy, please don't make me do this." She laughed! "It will only hurt a little." "Ha! I've heard that before. I won't be fooled." "You've been sick for a long time now. The medicines you're taking are useless." She did have a point. As I seriously began to consider voluntarily subjecting myself to the pain of the needle, images flashed through my mind. The first and only time I saw this being done was on a little boy of about seven. He did not seem in pain. I was here less than two weeks and was having my hair dyed and permed and this little guy, the hairdresser's son, was in a corner looking bored as he had to stay still for maybe an hour or two. He seemed okay. I remember wondering if he was seriously sick though. Why did he have to have a needle attached to him, for crying out loud. Later on, I learned that it was/is a common practice. The drug goes straight to one's bloodstream therefore one gets well sooner. Okay, I'd rather be sick longer then. Then I thought of my friend Sunrise. He would come to dinner countless of times with his hand covered in little swabs of cotton. Sometimes he would even show me the little holes, ok wounds, the needles made while I had goosebumps. He had always seemed okay too. On the way to the clinic, Wendy tried to comfort me by saying that Rain, the other foreign teacher, would always have injections when he was sick. "Rain is a big man!" I wailed. I did not tell her about the seven-year-old kid. I have my pride.

And so we reached the clinic. It looked more like a prison cell. Or maybe a clinic in a prison. The first day was fun. I took pictures while Wendy had to explain to them that that was the first time that I was getting an injection, therefore I was very scared and that yes, I would like to have pictures to show for it. It also did not hurt so bad that day, I don't know why. While I brought my MP3 player and a book, I never was able to listen to music nor read because the nurse promptly had her nine-year-old daughter talk to me in what little English she knew. She also brought her English book and had me correct the kid's pronunciation. No wonder I was exhausted after that session. The next day was better in terms of catching up on my reading. It hurt more though. I was able to read and enjoy the first six chapters of Noli, despite a few unexpected visitors. The headmaster came with a family whose thirteen-year-old daughter will be living with me for a couple of weeks so she can "practice her English" with me. The kid is home for the Spring Festival but will be going back to England, where she had been studying for six months now, after her little vacation with me. Our little vacation starts next week. In fairness, the kid seems nice. And then today. I was able to finish until Chapter 20 of my book because today took longer. It hurt so bad that the nurse had to make the flow of the medicine a little slower, (actually not only slower. Make that as slow as possible). And believe me, it still hurts and I've been home for a couple of hours now.

And I have class in an hour so I'll have to stop complaining. Messages of sympathy are in order. I'm waiting...