Love letter from a Charger

'm happy, I think.

Cause I give you life by penetrating some parts of me in holes of you, I could see you like it,too.

I love seeing you light up when we touch. Get loud without restrictions when we touch. Go all out when we touch. Get hot when we touch. And I love how it's all because of me, baby, you know we always have this spark between us.

I'm jealous, I think.

As much as I want to take as long as I could, they keep on designing our dates to be shorter. I sometimes wish your cells become old and get easily weary cause it means more time with me.

I get pissed sometimes. There are days you just want to use me, lights off and shut down. Too tired? Or all too selfish? Or maybe I expected too much from you. Im sorry. It's just because this once or twice a day affair we have is all the sunlight I could get. Then after that, I'm left in the dark. While to you I am just a rest station. A limitation, even. After all, with all the wireless prowess that you have, who would want to touch the ground again?

But then again, I'm okay. I think.

Cause I know, no matter where you go or what you do, I'm sure it is me you will come home to.

Through good days, though bad days, I'll sit with you. I'll will watch you from zero to hundred and even way, waay after, and when sometimes you needed to run before full capacity, I would understand.

Cause with you, I feel my worth. I feel powerful. All my 2.1 glorious milliamperes with adaptive capability, one-ten or two-twenty.

Because this is what Love does. I give without minding to be loved back. I give spark to those who lose it. I breathe voltage in my veins, and I won't mind doing it over and redundantly over again.

After all, I was designed to give

Here lies she

There are 2 photos in my wallet who lived inside for quite some time now. She lived there and used to light up a world and to light up a hope.

I never leave home without my wallet, so wherever I go, I always brought her with me. I always brought hope.

Days went by and receipts kept piling in, and so did movie tickets, and ang-paos and different memories and fillers and cards and toxic duties that the photos were pushed deep inside. Hiding away from daylight, like how hope drifted away from the shoreline: wobbly, back and forth, but in the end... further.

It didn’t matter how slow the tide pulled me out of the shore. What mattered is it did.

Tonight I got a new wallet. One with better compartments, cleaner, sleekier, brand new, so I have dismantled the old wallet’s contents and for the first time after a long time, the photos saw light again. I’ve been too busy drifting that I actually forgot they were there. Still pretty, but now dusty, and miraculously, it didn’t sing back the hope for us. Yes, it did draw a smile, but not the smile I got every time my heart jumped. I smiled because I didn’t need that sunlight that came from her smile anymore. That I still do hope, but not for her. I still hope. Still for the same ocean, just a different river. Still the same heart, just a different drum beat. It did draw a smile. And I know God was smiling, too.

Tonight, my old stuff moves to the new stuff. And the photos get left behind. They’ll be kept in the the cabinet of my old things beside my high school old journals and ex girlfriends and college magazines and broken things and in-between my mistakes and listed along the things-that-made-me, and never in the corner of regrets.

And there lies She.

--------

Love arrives exactly when it’s supposed to. And Love leaves exactly when love must. When Love arrives, say, “Welcome, make yourself comfortable” And when Love leaves, ask her to leave the door open behind her. Turn off the music. Listen to the quiet whisper. Thank You, for stopping by

Things you learn from pneumonia

(1) The white coat does not protect you from pathogens. 

Nor the scrubs.

and cap. 

and mask. 

Nor sometimes your prayers.

You are human just like everybody else. 

You're not as superhuman as you thought you are.

(2) Fever is your friend. 

At least that's the body's intention of shaking off, them demons.

It recruits a special group of cytokines to battle out what has passed by the first line of defense. 

We usually think fever is bad. 

Fever really is just an indicator that something's bad.

(3) Cough is your friend.

The intrathoracic cannon will try its very best to brush them all out.

The tiny hurricanes inside will howl over them no matter how clingy the sputum wanted to be.

Sometimes the abdomen gets involved. Sometimes neck chips in, too.

(4) Dyspnea, however, has a different story. 

She's there to tell you that everything's far too late, too progressed. 

That you needed extra help because coughing and fever cannot shoo it off. 

You try to gasp for air as if you're drunk in steptococcal tequila. 

The pleuritic pain is paralyzing as if the air feels like fire, seering through your lungs, 

that you'd hesitate to say something, 

or breathe something. 

Fever whom you thought was your friend, just burns you, and cooks you.
Cough whom you thought was your friend starts to get painful, and scarring, and barking.

And Dyspnea is nature's evil way of laughing.
Without the smile.  

Fever. Cough. and Dyspnea.

And the triad is complete.

A tale of two Stethoscopes

When I got my first stethoscope, I laid down at my bed, put the diaphragm at the 5th left intercostal space, mid clavicular line. 

It's where the heart shouts the loudest. 

There's something more about these beats that's so soothing and calming. 

During my Revalida, they asked me to recite the cardiac cycle and I breezed on it like ABC, and from the confidence it gave me, I knew I would pass. 

I love hearing hearts. 

They remind you that you're alive. 

That that machine was there even before you were born. 

Something more about the cardiac cycle and the Korotkoffs. 

It's baseline rhythm of what the body sings each day. 

It beat fast on the first kiss, 

jumping during remedial exams,

galloping during basketball, 

laughing with me while drunk, 

and steady while asleep. 

When I first got my steth, I slept with that thing on me. It's bell on my apex, earpiece on my ears. 

My own heart beat tucked me to bed

==

She and I were staring at the ceiling 

as if  we could see the stars beyond, 

blessing what we have, 

and the sky laid itself upon us. 

She put her ear near my chest and my heart was beating fast, 

I started to think I was already hypertensive. 

She said she will miss me. 

The way my chest throbbed was all so familiar, but louder. 

As if it was waiting for the right ears for it to listen to all the stories the heart was about to say when it was waiting. 

So I grabbed my steth, 

put it in my chest and let her listen. 

I did the same thing to her as well, 

and memorized every lub and dub and pound and beat and the calm sense of peace that it brought me, 

and how everything was right  

I told her to keep the steth 

so that everytime she'd miss me, 

she'd wear those plugs and it will bring her back to that night when she and my mediastinum talked.

That stethoscope was special. 

All the hearts it heard, 

all the grumpy bowel sounds, 

and wheezes 

and crackles, 

all the stories it gathered, 

all the music it amplified, 

I even put a rosary on it to remind me where I'm coming from. 

All those battles I grabbed it like a soldier holding his gun during duties, 

and all the nights I couldn't sleep and couldn't find peace, 

or just couldn't find a reason.

The stethoscope was special. She was special. So I let her keep it.

I asked her to keep it as long as we're together. 

Hoping she could hear my heartbeats too, 

even if it's on her chest wall. 

Because maybe, 

just maybe, 

I thought our hearts beat the same. 

Maybe it did. 

Maybe it didnt.

==

Now the old steth is back in my house again. 

When I tried listening to it now, I swear I could hear her heart pleading, 

her chest crying, gnawing as if it's the only way she could ever talk to me again. 

Echoes of 'I'm sorries' and 'I will change for the better' - 

sometimes it's loud enough to bring me back to all the days we were a heartbeat away. 

I loved that old steth, and I will always love it. 

My first mortality, my first crackle, my first code, revalida, the magic of fetal heart tones, of equal breath sounds... 

I loved her, and I thought I always will. 

But I needed to have a new set of steth to listen with. 

Not that the old one is broken, 

not that there is a change of heart it always listen to, 

but it needed a whole new perspective from soundwaves, 

one that amplifies murmurs or anything wrong, 

that loudens what's important, 

and give clarity to what I'm really looking for.

Today, I always bring with me a new and a lot better stethoscope. 

Although when I try listening to my chest walls lately all I hear is a car-alarmed heart, 

clamoring for questions 

and rumbling for answers. 

But that's more reason I know I should be thankful for. 

Because at least I know I still have a working heart,

and despite the sad song it weeps every night I try to force myself to sleep, 

I learn how to sing along. 

With this new gear, I get a better sense of hearing and feeling, 

a better pair of machine to filter out unnecessary noises 

and focus on what I needed to hear. 

And hopefully may it help find the heart it's been long looking for, 

the chest it will always lust for, 

and the beat it will always be all too familiar. 

The beat that will send me home.

==

As for you, whoever you are, I will find you. 

Hiding in between S1 and S2 and back, and maybe even S3, 

and I will Love You beyond the murmurs and arrythmias, 

as long as you could ride with my tachycardia and bounding pulses 

because you know I will never settle for anything less than that. 

I will Love You the exact way I wanted to be Loved.

I will have your cardiac cycle memorized and describe them like how I did in my Revalida. 

And we will sing our sinus rhythm, 

hum through rising pulse rates, 

through septic hypotensions, 

through slow and calm bradycardias, 

until 

the 

beating 

stops.

Borrowed Coat

I've been wearing this long blazer for almost 4 months now with my Dad's name on it.

Actually, I've been wearing this consultant's coat more than I could ever remember. I always bring it during who-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up days in school, during times I want to play doctor in school plays even if I wasn't tall enough. Unaware of the years it will take to make myself worthy of wearing one. I just wear it cause I thought I'd look handsome, I know it looks pretty good on me.

Every time I bring that coat I felt like its fibers are trying to whisper me something. But I was too distracted back then to hear them. Of course. I was too young, I was too busy pretending for the other things I wanted to be. Of course I didn't bring the coat everyday, there were far too many other clothes to wear, too many other roles I want to try, too many jerseys to play with, uniforms here and there, too many friends to meet, too many wanders to lust about, and eventually many, many, many years of chasing many dreams that lead me to only one.

...

Now, I've been wearing that same coat every day. For four months now. Actually, for as long as I could ever remember.

Now I'm tall enough. Have traveled enough years to wear some letters attached to it. I know I look overconfidently good on it.

I feel like it grants me power to walk through these walls like a ninja-in-white. After all, these are the very walls he trained as well. Where he fought his battles, slept on some, learned a lot, and made mistakes. I could feel like every pocket has a story of difficult intubations, every running cloth has an interesting case to learn from. I felt like there's a blanket of aura that tells me where the trachea is, where the clear flowing CSF will be. This is, after all, his holy ground, his battlefield, and this, I'm wearing, was his armor. His badge of honor.

...

Next month, I will get my very own long coat. White and handsome. One with my name on it, and a clean white canvass to paint with my own stories. Embroidered there would be name who also went through all these blood and sweat and tears and the setbacks - I know I am pretty damn worthy. And now, It's time I fill these pockets of my own victories. Of my own mistakes. Of glorious duties. Of boljack endorsements. Of reasearch protocols. Of shared late dinners. Of 4am conversations.

I know I'm not made yet.

I'm still quite far from where my Dad's coat gas gotten... but I'm getting by. One day at a time. Wearing my eyes, always with awe, and hands spread out to catch everything that I could, well aware that these hands will never be big enough to absorb everything that I want. I'll walk these walls well aware of how vulnerable I could also ever be, and all the more I'll be thankful for being imperfect. For being flawed. For being human. For being a resident.

...

I've been wearing this coat for all that I could ever remember. 

Come to think of it, I'm already here, but not exactly. 

I'm living my dream, but there's still more to life. 

I'm tall enough 

and I'm old enough to tell my own story, 

to wear my own coat. 

And like what my Dad always told me... 

like what every fiber of his old coat has been trying to whisper to me:

"Son, be better than me.
Make me proud."

Hippocratic Oath

It was love at first sight.

On the first day of Medical School, they flashed us the oath that was sworn upon by each and every doctor who walked this earth. I immediately fell in love with the oath: its history, its meaning, and the fact that so many people desires it yet so few have survived to get it. And as I sat in awe in front of these words, I couldn't help but wonder, "How will this school take me there?"

They immediately put our eyes in the prize. But of course, as we all know, the road to "doctor-dom" will never be easy. And indeed, it never was. Out came the rush of marathon lectures, exams, practicals. We were loaded with new terminologies, jargons, names. So many memory work for a man to use in his life. The pressure was so intense that I started to crumble and ask, "Is this really a Love worth fighting for?"

The answer came to me through a facilitator one day who told me, "The strongest people have the most problems, the hardest trials. It's not because God wants them to suffer, it's because God trusts them enough that he knows you can get through it." From then on, pain became pleasure. Yes, the subjects always kept us running, not because our professors are sadists, it's because the believe we can get by.

In Med, I've experienced staying up till morning for a report only to be overhauled in the morning. I have missed family outings just because I have a date with Katzung, Robbins, or both. The ranting could go on, but then again, it is also in this process I stood in awe of the Human Body. Our professors always say, "How did God do that?", "Can't you see how wonderful this body God made for us?" In the fast pace of med, they make it a point to stop for us to appreciate the view. UST Med pushed us so much that we are always on the edge. And they push us more, so that from that edge, we learn how to fly. We are bred to be competent

We're required to say "Hello" and "Thank You" to our patients, to be courteous and considerate. We're always challenged on what to do on crucial ethical situations. We don't hesitate to push wheelchairs, oxygen tanks, and we hold the hand of an old patient to help him walk to his bed. We are bred to be compassionate.

This school always challenge us to do more and be more. The journey into the Medical field will take us a lifetime. But this lifetime, will touch many more other lifetimes than an average life probably would. We will save lives. And whoever saves one life, saves the world entire. We are bred to be committed.

When I entered med, I have a lot of reasons: to be rich, powerful, respected, popular. But as I walk through this journey, those "impure" reasons were dissolved until there was only one reason left... the classic reason that echoes around the walls of Medschool for all time: To Help Humanity.

Now, as I get nearer to the day I will recite that oath, I can't imagine myself from any other Medschool but UST. As I will raise my hand to recite my Hippocratic Oath, in my veins will flow the blood of Rizal, and all the other great doctors who have gone through the same rite of passage as mine. My name will rank among the biggest roster of doctors in the country. I will live the life the way our mentors have lived: Competent, Committed, Compassionate.

It was Love as first sight.

And this Love, is my gift to the world.

Next in Line

For the past few years, I've always prayed and applauded the past batches of UST Medicine for consistently doing well in the board exams. They send the most number of takers in the country, and still get great passing rates. A shining 99% flash on the halls of our school, followed by the topnotchers, testimonial lunches and dinners, and parties and neverending thanks to the Alma Mater. The past years, I've waited for several friends by the net, standing by on bomboradyo or the PRC website, and hastily CTRL+F-ing their names on the list. All of them bringing good news, and I call them, and congratulate them, ask about their plans (and parties).

This time. We are next in line. After The years in medschool. The Clerkship. The Revalida. The Internship. The makeups. The papers to PRC (oops, when's the deadline again?) After the hundreds facebook posts I posted on my friends wall after they passed... This may have come several years later as planned, but this time, it is here, looming like a giant, cold, harsh, mountain, waiting for me to conquer. The Physician Licensure Exams. For that coveted oath I've set my eyes on the first day of medschool. And that license to heal that will be attached to my name for the rest of my practice.

The (serious) prep for my license to heal starts tomorrow. It will be a road full of flashbacks, of the lectures I've slept with, and the books I fondled, and the handouts I made out with. Of the jittering remedial exams I took many many times. This time, I cannot charm myself in front of tribunal. I cannot wish for an easy case anymore, because the battlefield I am yet to face is a field everybody else will. During internship, I used all my strengths to my advantage and written exams were minimal, that's why I enjoyed it so much. But here comes the long nights looming again. Of sharpening one's testmanship, and throwbacking everything I studied in medschool. But there's no turning back, It's my turn, this time. 

The preparation for my license to heal starts tomorrow.

I should not be afraid, Lord, cause I know you are with me. Ikaw na bahala. I hope I still keep everything intact. You know what I'm talking about. May everything point me to a better light and the best chances to pass. May everything be stable enough so that I could focus. May everyone be supportive enough because I'll offer this to all of humanity anyway. Lord, send all your angels and saviors, known and unknown, living and not - this is another battle we shall face together, and this, will be for your greater glory. Here we go. It's my turn. Our turn.

Karl Erjon Misa Edejer, MD

Lic No - (to follow, August 2014)

All prayers, Welcome. Highly appreciated. 

Lezdothis. #BoardReview #August2014 #BIL 

Louis Lane

Superman was Krypton's last hope,

lone survivor of a lost lineage, galaxies away

and when the last hope was thrown up to the stars,

his ship landed on our star, our planet.

and from then on, Krypton's last son was Earth's savior.

Around the world, he could go circle it in seconds,

destroy mountains like bowling pins,

shoot himself up to the sky in a simple flex,

he helped make the world a safer place which made people braver.

he could see through and through your skin and cauterize by just squinting

Most of all, his ultimate power, was Lois Lane.

he scrambles in the phone booth to dress fast just to save her,

he went through a horde of Kryptonite just for him to touch her,

Superman did things he never knew he was capable of, until She came.

it was the Love of that woman who turned a farm boy into a glimmering song of justice.

Unfortunately, I'm not born in Krypton.

I don't have Clark Kent's abs nor his shiny white teeth,

I don't have a phone booth that will magically turn me into a Justice League Icon.

But I will fight gravity for you.

I will circumnavigate the world the fastest way I could,

And it starts by beating the traffic on the way to your office.

I will convert your sad face using purely my charms and with the help of ice cream,

I don't fly,

but I could shoot ourselves up to the sky

and go everywhere we want in our conversations

I don't have X-ray vision but I will see right through you,

See beyond those porcelain skin and saccharine smell,

and read from every body language,

and microexpression, hesitations, and cues

Then I will see what even Superman can't see:

the multi-layered crazy spectrum of your personality

I know I cannot promise you a safer world,

But I could promise you, a stronger You

I'm no Superman.

But you -

- You're my Lois Lane. 

You turn me into a superhuman, Krypton would've never thought I would.

Supernova

They say supernovas spark an entire galaxy. Your smile can do that, too. Those beautiful shines of dancing radioactive sparkle could kill darkness out in an instant. They say this is what happens to a star when it dies. When it can't contain the explosion inside, it radiates out, stronger than a million nuclear bombs. Some nearby planets die out of it. Like some people get awestruck when you smile.

...

Getting near a supernova is a different story. You get overwhelmed with the sunlight that wraps not just outside you but the heat that stabs deep into your bones. This stellar explosion will burn everything that it touches given the wrong distance and bad timing. You get toasted and you have no idea what got you, what burned you. You will gasp for searing air and it will make you question why you got nearer the fire in the first place. 

But then, as you move away, further and further, that supernova of sunlight becomes smaller and smaller. What you thought the explosion at that moment would affect your life forever was now just a flicker when you're already in perspective. No matter how big that supernova claimed herself to be, she will be nothing compared to the grand plan the universe has in store for you. She's nothing compared to the labyrinth of galaxies you are yet to explore, and the constellations you are about to meet.

But as for now, let that supernova consume you. Because it will pass. Radiation will fade. Heat will tame down. Life will bloom back, You will be stronger like you've never been. Thicker skinned, fireproof, and radioimmune. And by the time you will look back at it, that star was will be just as dim as a flickering light. A mere decoration to the sky. A white twinkling dot in the darkness. One that the moon could go through the night without it.

...

Lastly, the constellation is not what you think it is. The ones we see assembled in the sky right now are a symphony of different lights emitted on different timeframes depending on how far they travelled before they touch our optic nerves. Some were given off just one lightyear ago, some travelled way back further in infinity - that makes the sky a pallete of different timezones...

...you may be looking at a star right now. Hoping it'd tell you something, or admire it of its beauty - but for all you know, maybe that star is already dead, and what you see now are the last batch of rays it has sent off.

Just like hope when hope dies.

It doesnt immediately disappear. It gives at least a lightyear of leeway, putting off a brighter show - exploding like a beautiful supernova - and then suddenly it's gone.

Primum Non Nocere

A lot of people hate hospitals.

And I understand them for doing so. For it is where you go when you're sick. It's where you run to when you've broken a bone, when you feel unbearable pain, when you want to monitor recurrence. You run to it when you're bleeding, when you're dying. When something's wrong. 

I want to let you in a secret. Sometimes, I hate the hospital, too. 

Understand me for doing so. For it is where people run to us when they're sick. We painstakingly interview patients or relatives as we extract all the details we could get, thinking of the right pill to relieve them, and we do it while they are agitated, shouting, or worse, unconscious. There are times we give them bad news, there are times they blame us for it. There are nights we pronounce deaths, there are days our hands do the pumping for other people's hearts, and sometimes we bag their lungs with oxygen for hours, we vigilanty monitor and measure their urine - sometimes we do all of them in one hour.  

And that's what just the patient sees.

The doctor who saw you a while ago might be on his 36th hour in the hospital, devoid of sleep, glucose, and a smile. The resident who just prognosed your relative with only 3 months to live might have also gone from an audit wherein she was skinned alive by her consultant, yet putting on a brave face in front of you. The intern who pushed your wheelchair who seem like he was ignoring your small talk was probably in his mind, prioritizing the list of errands he has to do after he bring you to your room. He might probably forgot that you needed to bring your oxygen tank with you - add that to the list of errands, too. The Clerk who cannot extract blood from your crying child for the Nth try probably wants to cry with your child, too. 

We have a lot of reasons to hate this setting. I mean, most people get hospitalized maybe once a decade, visits a few relatives in the hospital once a quarter and feel sad. But us? We're here every day, sometimes spend the night here on duty. Even on Sundays. Even on Rainy Days. Even on family reunions. Even on the UAAP Championship Holiday. Maybe even on the Apocalypse (nah?)

And here's the thing: Everytime we go to work, we must always be on top of our game (or at least pretend to be), because there are times we need to compete with each other. Because what we write on charts triggers a cascade of events and errands and extractions and monitoring and reassesment, and revision or continue our orders until we write "MGH". Hopefully MGH. We always need to be on game face because our seniors expect a lot from us, and as we go up the ladder of heirarchy, we realize that it's a two-way street of expectations, the juniors expect a lot from you, too. 

We need to be on top of our game, most of all, because it's life that we are handling. Not the latest promos to promote a new gadget or to up the sales of a certain product, but the clogged coronary arteries of the CEO of that company, because if he dies, the company will not just lose a CEO, but a father to his kids, a husband to his wife, and a provider for his other wife. We're not like prostitutes who just open our legs and get paid, and sometimes leave our skin out, open, bare and cold and get paid some more - we slice up skins, and open rib cages and peritoneums and skulls - and we don't get paid sometimes. We don't just handle complaining customers on 8 hour shifts while sitting in an airconditioned room. We do 24+ hour shifts, on a damp, moist ward, standing for hours of rounds or errands or taking the vital signs on a sea of patients. We handle shouting kids, vomiting grandfathers, uncooperative adolescents, demanding relatives, sometimes flirty bantays (both opposite and the same sex), patients who needed attention every hour, or 15 minutes, or bedside - and did i mention? they're sick, they're contagious. And we, despite what you think, are mere mortals, still susceptible, still vulnerable. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm not belittling other jobs. We actually sometimes want to do your job, live your life, spend your weekends, sleep your sleep, we want your sick leaves (ironically we don't have any), your social life, your wives. It's just that the process of learning how to save and preserve life, the process of being the "almighty-savior" you imagined us to be, has has become too delicate and complicated that it had branched out to so many specialties, sub specialties, and not to mention the years that passed us by. While our highschool friends are referring their kids to us, We haven't even planned your proposal yet. That is, if someone stuck up.

A lot of people hate hospitals. Sometimes, we hate it too.But we have no other choice, but to love it. Because we promised to do good, and to do no harm.

Because if we don't, who else would people run to? Where else would they get their hope, strength, and understanding? who else would explain their disease? wikipedia? As my resident said to me last year when I was a clerk, "Always stand tall, even if you're tired, don't lean, keep your head up, smile. Don't be rowdy and dirty. Look neat and tidy" - because patients need that from you. While they are not strong, you are."

How will they get better if you smell bad? Pwede parin naman, pero, mas ok pag mabango diba? Help them get better by looking good, by cheering them up, but being their pillar of strength. Make them release endorphines by your mere presence. Appreciate every progress that's happening and give hope while you fix emerging problems. 

This is the reason why doctors' coats are white, and matched with a neat looking necktie. It emanates hope, purity, and cleanliness. It improves doctor-patient relationships. It promotes better mood and faster wound healing... Nah, I just made up the last 3 sentences. Haha.

We have a lot of reasons to hate this setting. But at any day, it's trumped by the fact that one way or another, you've been a part of someone's healing, of someone's journey. You've helped save a life, and whoever saves one life saves the world entire.

Right now, I still don't get paid. But sometimes, the simple thank you warms me up better than tequila, and it hangs over until from-duty. It never fails to fascinate me seeing the heart beat in the ultrasound. I love how God uses our hands to slice up the skin and fix what's wrong inside. How I teach girls natural methods of family planning. How the first cry of a baby is music to me. How death makes me understand life more. How you send a brother home for his birthday, how you make a grandmother live to see her first grand grandchild, how I hear the voice of a young child after being extubated. 

All these, and more are the reasons why I love this job way way more than I hate it sometimes. 

I know the world doesn't owe me anything for sacrificing too much for the sake of humanity.

The years I've lost and I will lose, the stress lines on my face, and the sleep im supposed to be getting. The world doesn't owe me for that.

And I'm fine with that.

As long as I put in my heart the reasons why I'm doing this, I will put them as my headlights as I travel this uncertain, challenging, yet fullfilling profession. These lights may not be enough to beam all the way to certainty, but it's bright enough for a few meters ahead, and the rest will just unfold along the way.

Coldplay couldnt have put it any better, in terms of fixing people and being guided: 

"Lights will guide you home.

And ignite your bones.

And I will try, to fix you."

Maybe

Maybe because I didn't forward the chain emails that said I must forward them or else I will have bad luck for years, and amazingly all those bloody bad luck concentrated in one section: the heart. Maybe I have karmic debt. Probably in the past life I've adulterized a whole town and this is the Universe's way of coming back at me. Maybe, someone in my bloodline had done screaming infidelities and I was the one who was selected by karma to pay for it. To balance up the scales of to-harm VS to-get-hurt. As much I want to suck it all up, it all regurgitates back and leave a sour taste, a foul mouth and a throbbing chest.

Maybe cupid had been drunk all these years. He sends the dumbest arrows, put fire on its head, unfortunately setting more than just sparks that it intended, and ends up burning the whole place down. Drunk arrows that wiggled and wobbled to random women but did not hit them where it needed to be. Instead it hit just their arms, her feet, her mouth, her freedom, her reason, her past - and mash it with my head, my eyes, my misinterpreted tone of voice, my jealousy, my unstable circadian rhythm, my distorted logic, and my enstrangling future - these will definitley set fire.  No, cupid, I won't accept your apology. You better sober up, sharpen your arrows, master your aim, and make up for all the mistakes you did to me.

Maybe God has a plan, a decking system on who will be next and it just so happened the ones who were decked to me left more blood than bandages. Maybe God is weaving a twist that will probably explain everything and make sense to all these. Maybe he did this intentionally. Or maybe neglected this aspect when he was planning me.

Maybe that's why there's a word called 'maybe.' A word made to always keep you wondering, will always keep you asking, will always keep you thirsty. And in finding those answers, you get to find meaning, you find ones purpose, and find a new set of maybes that come along with it. 

Maybe, just maybe.