Quiet spot at the Philippine General Hospital.
The month of May has passed me by. While I charted my patients at the ward; my brother Ralph turned 30, my parents came over to visit, a friend got married, and the world moved on. I suppose I have finally adjusted to the Life in Training, a tough road that began with the acceptance that I cannot do it alone. Apart from God's strength, I am nothing.
I didn't realize the time would come when I would consider the hospital my home, literally and figuratively. I've been blessed to have a made a family out of my colleagues who share the same frustrations and joys as I do.
Early mornings at the call room are marked by smells of buttered toast fresh from the oven, or of reheated meals from the microwave. At the dining table are meaningful chats about how to deal with a difficult watcher or whether this antibiotic should be stepped up to cover for MRSA. There are anecdotes about Roger's latest booboos, about how he answered the phone and a nurse from the ward asked who it was and he said, “Ako po ito,” leaving the ward nurse dumbfounded. We, all together, like a gang of superheroes about to heal the world one patient at a time, would then leave the mezzanine, find our charts for half an hour, and make sure the antibiotics were given on time.
This is our daily routine, although no day is ever exactly the same.
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