It has been one heck of a ride. After wading through knee-deep, dirty flood waters from Typhoon Maring (and thankfully not getting infected with leptospirosis or other illness), and going through the stressful ordeal of experiencing a fire, I thought life was finally going back to normal. I happily (though painfully) went on with my committed weekend workout session of muay thai at the Empire Gym along C. Palanca Street.
Something felt wrong that night, but I chose to ignore it as mere fatigue.
I was staying with a close church family who adopted me for the meantime as I worked things out with my affected residence, but I had to occasionally visit my place for some stuff. I had a minor disagreement with the landlord’s mother. My already-throbbing head hurt even more, and by the time I reported for work my headache was already hammering.
After resting a while, I finally decided to visit the office clinic. The panicky nurse confirmed I was suffering from high blood pressure [180/100] and strongly advised me to go to the doctor as soon as possible. I hate going to hospitals, especially if I am the patient. I hate spending my hard-earned money (especially from late-night/overnight overtime work) on medical matters, especially when the cause of my physical illness is probably the work itself. And especially since my company does not avail us of health cards or benefits. But this time I meekly (yet grudgingly) agreed.
Our church is currently going through the series “Healing In The Name”, and I know it’s going to take more than a visit to the doctor to get me through this. I asked for prayers. I held on to His promises. I hoped for healing, better health, longer life. I wanted to live longer more than I care to admit.
I was frankly surprised as some friends from our church, including our young senior pastor, suddenly showed up at the hospital for some moral support (Yeah contrary to what people thought — I was NOT confined, THANK GOD. And yeah, fat chance that I’d let myself be confined grrr sayang ng pera!) A good friend even lent a hand with some financial help despite her own struggles. I was touched to learn too that my surrogate family was worrying over me (aww), and our pastor’s family insisted I stay for the night (since their home was near the hospital).
I realized that I had become so afraid of depending on others, of being let down, of being forgotten, of being neglected — and had been forcing myself to be independent from others, to be stronger (or at least look stronger than I really am), that I can take care of my own self even without other people. I was surrounded by a lot of people who cared; but even though I truly cared for them as well, I was locking them out— too afraid to let them care for me. And in small voice, I know God was telling me to find His healing through this small community of loving people who are as broken inside as I am.
I still have to visit the doctor soon, as well as finish my medication. But even though I have no idea where my physical wellness will go from here, I praise God for healing me where it matters more. As Apostle Paul said, “To live is Christ, and to die is gain.” And I hope that I can also continue living for Christ, and for these wonderful people who are helping me recover, both my health and these broken pieces called my life.