Saturday

Saturday morning. Paul wakes me up with his desperate whining. Half-asleep, I listen to his cry outside the door. He’s either thirsty and wants to drink from his water bowl outdoors, or he’s heard a suspicious rustling that only creatures like him can sense. In my room, the curtains are drawn. I can’t figure out if the sun is emerging. Probably not. The sounds I can hear from the distant road are motorcycles and cars moving with urgency and carelessness—the sounds of the city at midnight. I get out of bed and open the door. Paul stops whining, looks at me, as if to say, “Ah, there he is! Finally!” and leads the way to the main door. I open it. Silence. I experience the serene nocturnal repose of my mother’s small garden. The air is cool, but there is no breeze. I step into the porch. There are nights when Paul gets into a fit and requests to be let out. But not all the time, a fact that relieves my irritation at being woken up earlier than usual. When I get back inside, the clock in the kitchen reads 1 pm. Paul returns to his bed space—beneath the couch in the living room. 

Getting back to sleep is harder than falling asleep. I twist and turn. My head creates lists of things to do, or patients to see. Can’t I be like everyone else and enjoy a lazy Saturday morning all to myself, in bed, ignorant and uncaring of errands and tasks? I can’t figure out if I should drink water, or read a book—and if I should, is it a Kindle on dark mode, or an actual printed book on paper, which requires me to turn on the lights? Finally, I fall asleep. After 30 minutes, perhaps, but I can’t really say.

Nanay’s surgery is at 10 am. Cataract. She can’t see and read properly now. She reprimanded me for the small fonts of the commentary on 2 Samuel she asks me to print a chapter for her Bible study group. “It’s too small! Who can read this?” The font was 14 pt! I knew the cataract was getting serious.

The doctor’s office required that we report to the hospital at 8:30 am to settle her paperwork and other fees. Last night I told my mother we should leave at 7:30 am.

I drive to the hospital to check on patients at 5:30 am. At 6 am, I find the gym empty except for the janitor. “Maayong aga,” I say. I can’t get the treadmill to turn on. I do upper body exercises from memory, listening to a Tim Keller preaching. I like the solitude. I heard a younger doctor-colleague say he goes to pickle ball so he can meet other people. I have the opposite tendencies. I’d much rather stay at home and curl up in bed with a book than meet new people. 

I shower and change and drive to Gensan. In the car, I pray that God bless Dr. Red’s hands, that He heal Nanay’s eyes. I tell my mother, “We’re making good with time.” I do a stopover at a gas station to urinate. I drank too much water at the gym.

The hospital ER is quiet. Nanay’s surgery proceeds without fanfare. We drive home. I rush to change into a barong Tagalog. I’m 30 minutes late for an annual gathering of the local internal medicine society. I leave the gathering to join the music ministry practice with every intention to return. We’re singing “His Mercy Is More” for the first time in church this Sunday. Nanay reminds me that I’m in charge of giving her eye drops when Neneng, our trusted housekeeper, leaves for the evening. I want to go back to the society meeting, but I fall asleep listening to Ezra Klein interview Bret Setser about the China Shock 2.0.