Bottled ※ Brain

Tom Coates of PlasticBag.org on his excuses for not blogging, and his reasons for coming back after seven years of silence . And hence the second answer to the question, why have I started again? Well, first up, I don’t know that I have. This could be the only new post I ever put up here. But if it is, it won’t be because I’m writing lots elsewhere. We live in a new time of isolation and fear. Twitter feels too urgent and anxious and tense right now. There’s no space to think or breathe. Facebook is filled with all the angst and pain and fury people are feeling. It’s overwhelming. Instagram is filled with people performing a perfect family lockdown experience interspersed with adverts for masks. And suddenly, I find myself hearkening back to an earlier time of self-expression and community. The crowds have gone. There are no hordes of people waiting outside for a new post to emerge. There’s little to no pressure. Everyone’s not looking. It’s just the relics from an earlier era, postin

Spent the night in Kabacan, Cotabato Province (not "North" Cotabato, as I was corrected) to visit Kuya John's family. It's a university town whose heart is the University of Southern Mindanao. Students will return for limited in-person classes on January. When we passed through, we only saw gardeners, farmers, and security guards in campus.  This is, I'm ashamed to admit, the first time I'm setting foot in North Cotabato. You'd think that North and South Cotabato (which decided to break off from the Cotabato Empire in 1966) would be beside each other, but they are not.  It's no small grace to catch up with Kuya John, now based in Sydney, and Ate Gladys, their parents, and Ate Gladys' kids. 

With some free time for myself this Christmas season, I revisited blogs I used to subscribe to. These websites flourished in the days when the internet was kinder. Most of them are now dead or dying. I was in college when I started blogging. The year was 2004. The place was an internet café past the parking lot of the UP Diliman Shopping Center. I did not own a personal computer. At 16 years old, I had many ideas. I wanted to tell the world about them. I was an English major, fresh out of high school from a quiet town most people in the big city never heard of. Realizing I could never start a newspaper column for national syndication, owning a small patch of land in the Web thrilled me. The design and coding, the posting, the linking to other websites fascinated me that I did them all for free. The process was the reward. That seems like ages ago. This blog is now 17 years old—older than my inaanaks. I am now a doctor, more mature in my faith and thinking, more circumspect in my posts

Did a lot of reading this year. Expected a higher number in my “Read” books in Goodreads, the Facebook for readers. Turns out I only finished eight books for 2021. Must be because of my reading pattern: a little bit of this and that. On a given day, have various books in rotation, mostly short story collections. Tita Mavis Gallant’s words are comforting and instructive: Stories are not chapters of novels. They should not be read one after another, as if they were meant to follow along. Read one. Shut the book. Read something else. Come back later. Stories can wait. Maybe a “currently reading” list will be more appropriate. Hope to finish two or three of these next year. Ticking them off in Goodreads helps me keep track. Piercing Heaven: Prayers of the Puritans by Robert Elmer. Perfect for days when I don’t feel like praying. For isn’t it true that, overwhelmed with the cares of this world, we must look on to Jesus. A beautiful line from a song keeps playing in my head, “And the t

Waking early on this cool Christmas morning, I had the living room all to myself. I looked out the window and saw our overfed, charming dog Paul sleeping on the cold tiled floor on the porch, just beside the potted cacti. On the dining table were sourdough chocolate chip cookies and unfinished layers of cakes, to be served for dessert later, for when my mother’s side of the family arrives. Manong Ralph and my cousin-chef Em have been hard at work in the kitchen since four days ago, checking the handwritten menu tacked on the fridge—meticulously crafted to impress and discover. How will our uncles and aunts—farm-folk, many of them, with orthodox, almost dogmatic notions of food—react to mango-turmeric chiffon cake, bibingka cheesecake à la Wildflour, coconut-basil and honey-lavender homemade ice cream? Hearing them ask for seconds, asking “ Ano ini? Kanamit! ” will be reward enough for our family cooks, sending them to bookstores and Amazon looking for recipe books. Yesterday, after l

Something came in the mail today, a book of poetry sent by a favorite poet-friend, Prof. Marj Evasco . Simeon Dumdum, Jr.'s Why Keanu Reeves Is Lonely And Why The World Goes On As It Does  (Milflores Publishing) is a wonderful addition to my growing collection of poetry. I love the title and I looked for the immediately. I love it, too. Of course, I remember the photo of Keanu Reeves  and the memes it launched. To read Prof. Marj's clean and beautiful handwriting is another source of joy.  Thank you so much, Prof. Marj! And that you, Mr. Dumdum, for your words! 

Phone in pocket buzzed in the middle of the preaching. A call from the emergency room. Excused myself quietly and answered it in the parking lot. The patient, whom I hadn't seen before, was a 20-something man who had a massive tumor in his thigh. Had a feeling this wasn't a simple case from the get-go. BP was palpatory, breathing was labored, body was cachectic. Decided to see him in the afternoon, after church, but via phone call added strong antibiotics and urgent instructions to the doctor on duty.  Normally, Sunday drives relax me. The roads are empty. The afternoon shadows cast by trees that line the highway are a thing of beauty. But that Sunday, the ER call felt like an interruption. Been looking forward to rest, you see, as if I deserved it—an afternoon nap, a quiet time with a book, a steady anticipation of my brother's announcement to the household that the cookies are ready. Asked the Lord for forgiveness at my selfishness as I drove for an hour, praying for this

December in Marbel means cooler nights in the porch after dinner. The neighborhood is lit, almost festive. Two carolers—middle-aged women from a far barangay—sang O Come All Ye Faithful (I don’t remember it, exactly) yesterday, by the red gate. Paul, refusing to bark, looked on with disinterest. Nanay asked them if caroling is allowed without permits. She gave them a generous tip. Err on the side of generosity, Tim Keller said. Be radically generous. The women seemed desperate. Time flies, I tell friends. They realize it when they can’t remember if something happened in 2020 or 2021. Memories merge and blend into homogenous months. Thankful I keep a journal, but must do so more consistently. Markedly fewer blog posts this year, but I don't have much to say. 

Pastor Tim Keller, whose sermons I listen to on the way to work , has been diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer . His essay, Growing My Faith in the Face of Death , published in the Atlantic, testifies to God's peace that surpasses all understanding.  When I got my cancer diagnosis, I had to look not only at my professed beliefs, which align with historical Protestant orthodoxy, but also at my actual understanding of God. Had it been shaped by my culture? Had I been slipping unconsciously into the supposition that God lived for me rather than I for him, that life should go well for me, that I knew better than God does how things should go? The answer was yes—to some degree. I found that to embrace God’s greatness, to say “Thy will be done,” was painful at first and then, perhaps counterintuitively, profoundly liberating. To assume that God is as small and finite as we are may feel freeing—but it offers no remedy for anger. Sorrow and rejoicing as

Woke up with discomfort at 2 am: borderline fever, a vague sense of fatigue, and some throat dryness. Side effects of Pfizer booster, 48 hours later. Queue was short in the hospital last Friday. When it was my turn, nurse Karen asked if I’d like my photo taken. I said, “Sure, as long as we’re in it together.” Dragged other people into the frame, so my small arm wouldn’t get all the attention. Can’t remember my dream tonight, but it was comforting, not apocalyptic. Turned on the lights in the kitchen to make some coffee to warm my stomach. Should do me a bit of good. Fired up my old MacAir to write this in the dining table, my workspace these days. Might do some light reading to lull myself to sleep again, in time for Sunday worship later. Paul still asleep in the porch outside. Paul, who has brought much joy and laughter to the house these past seven days. Paul, who sleeps, belly on the cold floor, most of the time. Paul, who now comes to us when we call his name—a derivative of the H

Many thanks to Auntie Jo for hosting us!

At the start of the work week: a visit to the Post Office. Saw this woman, hair still wet from a recent shower, walking along Rizal Park, Koronadal City. A dog was on a leash, enjoying the sunshine. Spoke to the dog owner, who planned to visit his relatives in Toronto as soon as travel restrictions are lifted. 

Robata, a Japanese restaurant in SM GenSan. Ramen is delicious. Order their sushi special.

Bull, the aspin (asong Pinoy, preferrable to the derogatory askal ), followed us around the farm yesterday morning. His master is Uncle Uwâ, who oversees our farm in New Antique, Surallah. Bull is kind, gentle, and quiet. They say dogs take on much of their masters' personalities. In the background are mahogany trees that Tatay himself planted. 

Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise  Thou mine Inheritance, now and always  Thou and Thou only, first in my heart  High King of Heaven, my Treasure Thou art  High King of Heaven, my Treasure Thou art

Looking at the orange skies on Sunday's sunset, I remember this beautiful song :  This is my father's world And to my listening ears All nature sings, and round me rings The music of the spheres This is my father's world The birds their carols raise The morning light, the lily white Declare their maker's praise This is my father's world I rest me in the thought Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas His hand the wonders wrought

Light rain greets us as we drive to Rizal Park this Sunday morning. Nanay buys flowers to arrange for church. Flowerless pulpits bother her. Our house tries very hard to have flower cutting; even pictures, paintings, and cross-stitch art at home have floral themes. Waiting by the road, on hazard, I listen to Charles Wesley’s “And Can It Be That I Should Gain” (1738). Light rain greets us as we drive to Rizal Park this Sunday morning. Nanay buys flowers to arrange for church. Flowerless pulpits bother her. Our house tries very hard to have flower cutting; even pictures, paintings, and cross-stitch art at home have floral themes. Waiting by the road, on hazard, I listen to Charles Wesley’s “And Can It Be That I Should Gain” (1738). No condemnation now I dread; Jesus, and all in Him is mine! Alive in Him, my living Head, And clothed in righteousness divine, Bold I approach th'eternal throne, And claim the crown, through Christ my own. A blessed

Visiting Tita Beb, Tito Henry, my cousin Matt, and my nephew Jared (son of my cousin Ate Bing) today, after lunch. Manong is coming with me. He'll get some writing done in a café in Gen San (says he needs a change of venue to keep his verbal juices coming), then I'll pick him up once I'm done with clinic and meetings. It's a wonderful excuse to visit Polomolok, where I used to spend summer breaks as a child. Praise be to God for those memories of endless games, merienda, and trips to parties and beaches with cousins who are all grown up now, with families of their own, but who remain childlike—and sometimes childish—in an endearing way.

Picked Lola up yesterday for an eye consult in Marbel and saw Moon, this beautiful cat, sleeping on a throw pillow. Lola will need a cataract surgery. Been complaining she couldn't see well with her right eye. Had many good laughs during the trip. 

Read Mavis Gallant's In the Tunnel  this morning: a short story about a young Canadian woman (Sarah) who falls in love with an older man (Roy) and stays with him in "a low building that [she] thought was an Indian lodge." Roy's friends (Tim and Meg Reeve) own the place. They are used to Roy bringing many girls around.  Started feeling irritated and angry towards Sarah for her unwise decision—why elope with an older man she hardly knows?  Tita Mavis, always gracious and respectful to her characters (and we can learn from her example of understanding and suspending judgment), writes as the story winds down: Her father would say it was all her own fault again. Why? Was it Sarah's fault that she had all this loving capital to invest? What was she supposed to do with it? Even if she always ended up sitting outside a gate somewhere, was she any the worse for it? I know several friends and family who have made wrong decisions, leaving them with fatherless children and br

John Calvin, Ch. II (“A Summary of the Christian Life. Of Self Denial”). 1:  O how great the proficiency of him who, taught that he is not his own, has withdrawn the dominion and government of himself from his own reason that he may give them to God! For as the surest source of destruction to men is to obey themselves, so the only haven of safety is to have no other will, no other wisdom, than to follow the Lord wherever he leads. Let this, then be the first step, to abandon ourselves, and devote the whole energy of our minds to the service of God. I remember the song, " I'm Abandoned to the Captain. " (Oasis Worship, Celebrate King Jesus – Praise & Worship Collection. ℗ 2012 Classic Fox Records. Released on: 1996-03-06. Music Publisher: (c) 1986 Birdwing Music). We sing in in church.  I'm abandoned to the Captain Of the mighty hosts of Heaven And I pledge Him my allegiance 'Til the earth beholds His Kingdom 

I expected my new laptop—a MacBook Air, space gray—to arrive yesterday. But the delivery man from the courier company couldn’t find my home address; I’d later learn he didn’t ask around. The website thus registered the issue as “The company named in the Company Name field on the transport label is not the entity located at the physical address.” I was supposed to “provide new or updated consignee address.” Another person reading the notice would imagine I lived somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. This morning I went to the warehouse facility in GenSan, about 200 meters from my clinic. The security guard asked me to wait outside: they have my package. The laptop was wrapped in a brown box, which was wrapped by a thick transparent plastic. I placed the package in the backseat of the car, thanked the warehouse people, and drove to another hospital to see a patient. I hadn't planned on getting a new computer. My old MacBook Air, around seven years old, remains functional. Sure, it’s a b

Mga kasimanwa ko gid ni. NBI: Natural-born Ilonggo; FBI: Full-blooded Ilonggo.

Treated myself to a Stephen King short story on this bright Sunday morning. "All That You Love Will Be Carried Away," which appears in his collection, Everything's Eventual: 14 Dark Tales. Read it first in high school. Now I have older eyes, with a fresher perspective; and I've been driving. A salesman in the American Midwest stops by a motel to kill himself then second-guesses his decision. Ending is open-ended, but I like to think it ends happily. Rained last night. Plants in Nanay's garden are refreshed. Getty hymns play in the background as the family prepares for Sunday worship. Take care, dear friends!

Car wet from last night's rain. Roads empty. Fog on the bridge connecting Marbel to Tupi, but visibility was good. Rolled down my windows twice, on the way to the hospital—first, in Polomolok and then in Gensan. Passed through without fanfare. Standard phrase I say is "Maayong aga, Sir. Doktor ako, may pasyente lang nga bisitahon." Don't care much for a putting up a sign ("Medical Frontliner") on the car window; some colleagues do. Military men saluted and wished me well, almost apologetically, for hindering my passage. "Pasensya na, Dok," they said. Overheard one young soldier said, "Daw kabáta pa sa iya ba." Didn't bother telling him I'm 34. On the way back home, noted four dogs playing in the middle of the road when I passed by Palkan. Almost mistook a brown dog for a gigantic poop, or a pile of cardboard. Sleeping on the outer lane as I passed through Judge Alba Street, it seemed satisfied with my driving. Dogs are taking over

Been working on my assignment for the Old Testament survey class taught by Pastor Allan Luciano of TMAI. This beautiful passage from Dr. Thomas Constable's commentary on Amos struck me.  If cruelty to other nations makes God angry, it is because His heart is set on kindness. If oppression stirs up His wrath, it is because He desires people to live in peace. If violations of human rights call down His judgment, it is because He longs that people experience happiness and well-being. His sovereign government always moves toward the best conditions for humanity, and He resists what disrupts those conditions. Amos closes with a picture of the world over that God desires and will bring to pass eventually. It is a picture of peace.

I'll fill the converter with distilled water for the meantime.

Just before we passed through the Silway 8 bridge, Sean woke me up. I was sleep in the backseat, and he was driving. Hannah, his girlfriend, was beside him in front. We promised Alyza (Klai, as we call her), Auntie Nanic's second daughter, that we'd treat her to new shoes and dresses after she completed her summer job of scanning old photos from the baúl . “Manong, look!”  We saw the man and his wife (presumably), trailing behind us. The wife hid her head under the otherworldly appendages flowing out of the man’s helmet. The couple rode without a care in the world. They were safe; they had helmets. And they were enjoying themselves. Naturally, I remembered this line from Matthew B. Crawford's book, "Why We Drive": Life often feels overspecified, fully modeled and determinate, but the road has a dicey quality to it. We usually have a destination in mind, but when we get behind the wheel we expose ourselves to unexpected hazards, as well as unlooked-fo

This bird's nest, outlived by its occupants, fell from the kamuning tree.  The birds visit in the morning. They sing and dance, with not a care in the world. They hide in the canopy during rains.  Birds remind me of these comforting words of Jesus: Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? (Matthew 6:26) This has been a tough week so far, but God's word sustains me.  

Letter CXXXIII—To Monsieur de Falais. Directions for his conduct towards the Emperor Charles V . Geneva, 31st May 1545. An excerpt: It matters little what we have to endure in this world, considering the shortness of our life. And if length of days should be granted us, it is well that the Son of God be glorified by our sufferings, and we be participators in his glory. Since, for the love of him, you have begun to die to the world, it will be necessary to learn henceforth what it is to be buried. For death is nothing without burial. This is the consolation which it becomes you to take, that you make not deceive yourself, but prepare to endure even unto the end. And yet the cross you bear is very easy compared with that our of Master. When it shall please him to impose a heavier burden on you, he will give you, at the same time, shoulders to bear it. John Calvin's letters are a breath of fresh air, balm for the weary soul, and encouragement to the heavy heart. 

Two years after Tatay's passing, we still receive fruits from the trees he had planted years ago in the farm. This is guyabano ( Annona muricate ), or soursop. When we were kids, Tatay would bring home  pasalubong — kakanin , fruit, snacks—each time he went out of the house. The fruit harvests remind us of him. 

Waterman rollerball inked with Pilot Iroshizuku (blue). Writing pad is Veco steno notebook, which I love!

Here's the tutorial . I used Pilot Iroshizuku, one of my favorite blue-black inks in the market. Erratum—my Waterman is a rollerball, a bit like a ballpoint, but not quite.

Peter Orner on Mavis Gallant ( via The Atlantic ): That's why "In Plain Sight" is not an easy story. It's wildly enjoyable to me, but to get to know another person, to really know them, you've got to be patient. That's why I pick up a book, after all. Fiction is one of the few ways I get that slowed-down feeling. Everything else in my life is moving so fast. But when I read, especially when I read Gallant, I pause. What I want to do is immerse myself in someone else for a while. Gallant says stories are for shutting out the world, this way, for just a moment. "Stories are not chapters of novels," she says. "They should not be read one after another, as if they were meant to follow along. Read one. Shut the book. Read something else. Come back later. Stories can wait."

Kuya Imay was one of the first people who knew that I was commissioned to record a series of podcasts about cancer. The first episode is now out in Docquity, an app for doctors.  Many years ago, at the Matulungin apartment, I recorded a few podcasts which would never see the light of day. I turned on my laptop's voice recorder app, brought it near him, and threw at him a barrage of questions in English. "Kuya, this is being recorded. What are you doing now?" He would speak in English at first, but would conclude his statements in Bisaya, and eventually, in laughter. I still have those files, Kuya, so don't you dare cross me. 

Guest speaker Been asked to speak in an online graduation ceremony of my former high school. Initial thought: what have I accomplished in life, really? Agreed to it in the hopes that I don’t get invited again. Perhaps I need to tell the kids I, too, graduated last year in an online ceremony, and I know that not everybody pays attention to his/her screens. What do I know now that I wish I had known when I was younger? Many things. Experience sucker punches youthful boasting. My years outside of high school taught me there are far smarter people than me. Listening to counsel from family and church goes a long way. Read your Bible, pray every day. Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not in your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight. Read and read and, perhaps, avoid the internet, if you can. Study hard. Invest in fountain pens. Find good friends. My message will be recorded this Wednesday, so I’d better start writing.  Sunday

I was doing chemotherapy when I heard President Noynoy Aquino has died. The television inside the chemo room was tuned to DZMM Teleradyo. My patients, young women diagnosed with breast cancer, were asleep. I asked Ma’am She, the nurse, what the cause of death was. It was hard to say if I spoke too loudly—with the mask and face shield, I could not calculate my volume accurately—but I must have stirred my patients awake from their diphenhydramine-induced stupor. They had heard about PNoy’s passing an hour ago. I am always the last to know. The 37-year old mother with metastatic disease told me, “You never know when God will take you home. At least I know I will die because of cancer.” For many months, PNoy has been out of my consciousness. I have not heard from him. I’d later learn he liked to keep to himself. His introversion was misinterpreted as coldness, nonchalance, indifference. But he was keen on details. He remembered the important numbers. He drank Coke Regular and smoked cigare

With nothing else to write about, I will tell you about the weather. Since two weeks ago, it has stared to rain in the afternoons. The clouds thicken at two o’clock. As the cumulus becomes nimbus, a soporific gloominess descends upon the Valley. The streets are quiet. A cool breeze enters the living room, already emptied of people. It is siesta, the lowest point of human activity during the daytime. The occupants are inside the bedrooms. The indoor plants sway with the wind, as in a lullaby. The tropical warmth, accumulated during the morning, is pushed out of the house. Above, the gathering of water vapor—from the southern Philippine seas many kilometers away, the Allah River that cuts through the province, the great lakes in the Upper Valley, the smaller, shallower streams that nourish the farming lands and towns—is gradual but sure. Nobody notices the God-designed chemistry of the water cycle in the atmosphere, save for people on motorcycles who realize they must find shade and

Nanay wakes up, distraught, getting hold of a memory that is becoming elusive with every second gone. As she makes her bed, she tells me, "I was telling a group of people to stop taking MX3!"

Spoke about this verse to a woman, 62, on her first chemo session. She teared up, told me about how her church family is praying for her back home. She spoke as if she were about to die tomorrow. Patients with cancer realize they can go anytime. She referred to God as her Father. "He knows what's best, though I may not understand completely," she said. Encouraged her with a line that I remember from Tim Keller's preaching—that suffering is never wasted for God's redeemed children; He always has a purpose in mind. I learn so much from my patients. Their stories wean me from my love of this world. I remember the song: "And what can this world offer / when all I desire is You?" But this world has so much suffering. Yesterday, woke up to an online thread. My high school classmate, H, has died. H was a newly minted lawyer, was married for 7 months, with a baby on the way. Hadn't spoken to him in years, except with random greetings in a Messenger group cha

Letter of John Calvin to Monsieur de Falais, Geneva (1543): ...I could not refrain from reminding you, that the benefits which God hath bestowed upon us, indeed require that we should prefer his honour to all the world besides, and that the hope of salvation which we have by his Evangel is so precious, that we ought readily to forego meaner considerations, in so far as they hinder us from reaching forward to that hope, and that we ought to have such contentment in conforming ourselves to his will, that whensoever the question arises of our displeasing the whole world, that we may obey his pleasure, it is good for us. I derive much joy and instruction from Calvin's letters.  You can betake yourself to a covering shelter from the storm—for we have no other retreat than that of our God—let us then hide ourselves there, and we shall be in security.  Amen to that.  

While I had the stamina to post something every day in 2020, I barely have the energy to sustain the habit this year. It’s not for the lack of things to write about. After the eventful beginnings of the pandemic, whose end is, at present, far beyond our line of vision, I’d much rather read and watch and think quietly. 2021 has so far been a year of introversion—a time of keeping it all in, making sense of things, praying, and meditating. This year also marks a major career transition—from medical training in Metro Manila to starting my private clinical practice in South Cotabato and General Santos City. But I’m keeping my one post a week quota, if only to get me writing again. Early this morning I finished Between Two Kingdoms: A Memoir of a Life Interrupted by Suleika Jaouad. The author writes about the experience of being diagnosed with leukemia, and how that has reshaped her life and relationships. The second part of the book is about her land trip around the US. When she wrote a c

Not much happening with the lockdowns and new COVID cases here and elsewhere. Grateful to be alive and well.  Finished Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird , started on Isaac Bashevis Singer's short story collection, received packages of books ordered from Book Depository since last year, including Piercing Heaven . Read the first prayer after dinner last Wednesday, during our weekly family prayer time. All victories against this pandemic seem short-lived. We take what we can. For instance, there's my second dose of vaccine—praise be to God. Will head over to the hospital at 8 am, drive to Gensan to see some patients, head back to Marbel for lunch, then visit a patient in another town on her final day of chemo. In oncology circles, we call it "graduation." 

The rosal delights us with its first flowers on this rainy tropical morning. Grown by Uncle Glenn in his home garden in General Santos City, its branch was transplanted onto rich soil with coconut husks from our Banga farm, and was given to my mother as a gift. The plant occupies a small, quiet space beneath the kamuning tree [(Murraya paniculata (Linn.) Jack].

Had a refreshing conversation with a medical resident a few days ago. She was also a mother, wife, and daughter who had lost her father many months ago. Told her I miss my father, too. We both agreed that suffering somehow made us empathize with patients more.  Gave her tips on doing rounds on the floors, the same ones Sir Nemie Nicodemus taught me when we checked on his referrals. He taught me and my friends to see check the medication list, the I and O, the vital signs monitoring sheet, and the latest entries before marching inside the patient's room for a full physical exam. Mentors impact trainees to a degree greater than they can imagine. I'm grateful to have met Sir Nemie and my other mentors. I'm nowhere half as brilliant, but their advice were, and I took good notes so I could share them with the younger doctors. 

Not exaggerating when I say Shtisel is simply one of the best shows I've seen in my life. It ranks alongside Breaking Bad, Veep, The Office (US), Derry Girls, and The Mandalorian. “Shtisel” is generous, lighthearted, and nostalgic—even when the origins of its nostalgia remain elusive. It is also a little old-fashioned, not only because of its subject matter but because of its situational structure. Things happen and cease to happen to the characters within a single episode: an illness, a robbery. It’s drama dressed as a sitcom. The show’s center of gravity is the father-son relationship between Shulem and Akiva, who are usually seen sitting around their cramped kitchen table, with its waxy tablecloth, eating sliced vegetables in their shirtsleeves and prayer shawls. Love the characters. So fascinated by them that I find myself reciting Old Testament verses as they pray. Enjoyment is cloaked by sadness—these people reject Jesus Christ. While Christians are awaiting the Lord's s

Marilynne Robinson on thinking highly of her reader : My main concern is to be respectful always of my reader’s intelligence. I tell my students always to assume the reader is a better person than he or she is. I tend to assume that good prose simply is accessible, and that condescending to the reader obscures meaning. Same principle applies in medical communication. Be condescending to the patient, and you lose his trust.

Teary-eyed at 9 am on a Monday, at Starbucks along Santiago Boulevard. Arrived too early for my clinic and had time to spare—the story of the young doctor starting his practice. Nobody else noticed me, the solitary man, sipping coffee, al fresco, reading a white Kindle. But who cries at 9 am on the first day of the work week? It was the book’s fault. Dave Eggers’ novel punched me in the gut. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius spoke to me the way people who’ve gone through similar suffering communicate a common language, populate the same neural network. Dave wrote about his mother, dying of gastric cancer. Feeling an emotional proximity to writers, I refer authors on a first name basis (Mavis Gallant is Tita Mavis, for instance). “While reclining on the couch most of the day and night, on her back, my mom turns her head to watch television and turns it back to spit up green fluid into a plastic receptacle.” He brings her to the hospital, despite her earlier instructions on the

  Was invited to read a piece for Ganap , a series of literary performances hosted by Likhaan: University of the Philippines Institute for Creative Writing. Thrilled to be part of this .  Tao lang din ang mga doktor. Napapagod din sila. Anong klaseng suporta ang kailangan nating ibigay para matulungan silang kalabanin ang pandemyang ito? Sapat na ba ang pagbibigay ng mga PPE, face mask, at face shield? Mayroon nang bakuna, ngunit hindi natin alam kung naipapamahagi ba ito unang-una sa mga health worker na pinakananganganib sa virus. Malalaman lamang natin ang sagot sa mga tanong na ito kung tayo ay makikinig sa kwento ng mga doktor na kumakalaban sa pandemya halos araw-araw. Sa episode na ito, matutunghayan natin ang mga pagbasa ng mga doktor na nagmula sa iba’t ibang rehiyon at disiplina. Kasama natin sila Dr. Joey Tabula, Dr. Justine Yu, Dr. Elvie Victonette Razon-Gonzalez, Dr. Lance Catedral, Dr. Maria del Carmen Castillo, at Dr. Will Liangco. Huminga muna tayo at sumama sa isa nan

Kristy and Keith Getty's song is one of my favorite modern Christian hymns. The lyrics capture God's infinite love to me, once a "distant soul" whom "he called through the night." Thirty-four years of abounding grace—thank you, Lord, for making me live this long! What grace is mine that He who dwells in endless light Called through the night to find my distant soul And from His scars poured mercy that would plead for me That I might live and in His name be known So I will go wherever He is calling me I lose my life to find my life in Him I give my all to gain the hope that never dies I bow my heart take up my cross and follow Him What grace is mine to know His breath alive in me Beneath His wings my wakened soul may soar All fear can flee for death's dark night is overcome My Savior lives and reigns for evermore So I will go wherever He is calling me I lose my life to find my life in Him I give my all to gain the hope that never dies I bow my my heart t

Paralyzed by the myriad of film choices in Netflix, I sometimes long for the early days of the nineties when video rental shops were popular. In Marbel, we rented VHS and Betamax tapes at the Notre Dame Complex, along Alunan Avenue. The store owner kept an index card for each customer. Listed were the movies rented out by each family. In those days, nobody seemed to watch films alone; it was a household affair that involved discussion and consensus. Popular films—action movies, Disney animations, and Tom and Jerry episodes—could be leased for at most three days and must be returned immediately, or there would be a fee. Less popular films, like The Bridges of Madison County, could be rented out for a week. My father would bring me, or any of my two brothers, with him to pick up the tapes. With instructions from my mother, who was partial to Harrison Ford, cowboy action, and historical drama, and generally averse to science fiction, we would visit the store, greet the owner (my father

Spoke too early about the paint fumes not affecting me . My nasal passages are sore, my mouth dry, my alveoli irritated. Everyone shares the general feeling of suffocation. Decided yesterday morning to escape the house in exchange for cooler, fresher climate. Lake Sebu. Last time I visited the town was a decade ago. The prospect of zigzagging roads excited me, a new driver only used to city roads and straight highways. Dropped Nanay off to Banga, where she could spend time with Lola. Dragged Uncle Boboy, who had no plans that morning other than to fix the broken cabinet. Other aunts and uncles weren’t around. Sean was with friends. So it was myself, Manong, and Uncle Boboy for this trip. Drive was pleasurable. Roads were lined with old but vibrant trees. The uplands reminded Manong and I of our trip to Banaue: a stark reminder of the beauty of God’s creation, and of the fact that we live in a piece of paradise in Southern Philippines. Arrived just in time for lunch at Punta Isla. Had

1 Had a memorable time as panelist in the second creative nonfiction writing workshop for doctors hosted by the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center (BNSCWC) of the De La Salle University. Extraordinary privilege to work with Prof. Marj Evasco and Dr. Joti Tabula again. They elevated the tone of the discussion. Inputs were academic but practical, laced with grace and understanding. Enjoyed close-reading the works of the other fellows: a celebration of literature and medicine. That participants could bond over Zoom meetings and get to know each other as if they had met face to face previously—it remains amazing to me. Closing remarks of Dr. Ron Baytan, poet and director of the BNSCWC, on the workshop’s final day were inspiring. He told us to be doctor-writers and writer-doctors, which sent chills down my spine. So this is what we are. 2 Some close friends in Manila have contracted COVID. Been asking them how they are, almost on a daily basis. S