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Ouch

June 30, 2007

I am walking along Tandang Sora Avenue when my eyes catch a glimpse of a large green road sign that reads: “Walang Tawiran: Nakamamatay” I stare at it for a moment, then a memory about this same place flashed into my mind. I smile to myself, almost giggling. I see a newly-constructed overpass where people, among which students, vendors, and street children pass by each other.

I then remember what happened to me at this same place no more than a year ago, almost as exactly as it have been…

The January sun had been shining mightily and dominantly, surrounded by the cotton-like cumulus clouds. It was apparently rush hour. People of different faces and dresses were in each and every place our eyes could land on; people were as busy as red ants unceasingly preparing food for an upcoming calamity.

“Yes, a disaster seems rapidly approaching us, approaching me,” I thought dreamily. As a matter of fact, a friend and I were standing on the length of Tandang Sora Avenue, just after our least-liked afternoon classes. We were preparing to cross the wide road before us (as there was obviously no nearby overpass or flyover yet that time), without a clue what consequences lie ahead.

Most suddenly and most unfortunately, before I knew it, my feet have brought my body across the street, without my slightest command; I could even be almost certain that it might have been an undiagnosed nervous system disorder of mine, or perhaps a push of the devil whatsoever. Whichever the case, it happened. There was a bright orange vehicle blocking my left-side field of vision, making it impossible for me to see or foresee any fast-approaching vehicle. It was also too late for my friend to grab my arm and to pull me back into the side street….

“AAAARGH!”

It was as if a vigorous fist of a heavyweight boxing champ mercilessly punched my left cheek. My glasses flew several feet away. I fell down instantly, semi-conscious. Still, I could feel the red-hot rough cement road behind my back through my then-white-now-I-don’t-know polo uniform. I could even hear the shrieks of horror and the mutterings of onlookers who were no doubt standing around and staring at my unconscious body, as if unwilling to help, like those in some tragic telenovelas and movie scenes. If only I could see them, I would expect their shocked and worried faces, or perhaps even an annoyed look for the traffic I had caused. When I finally opened my heavy eyelids, I found my self being carried by men whom I think were tricycle drivers. Then once again, all I could see was pitch-black darkness. I heard a roar of a tricycle’s engine; presumably, I was being brought to the nearby hospital which was, fortunately, just meters away from the incident.

After what seemed like seconds to me, the moment I opened my eyelids, flashes of bright white light momentarily blinded my sight, afterwards revealing that I was actually facing a smooth white fluorescent-lamps-lit surface, apparently a well-maintained ceiling—the emergency room’s. Suddenly, I could not recall a thing regarding to the very recent accident as if I had acquired amnesia.

“What am I doing—why am I—,” I spluttered inaudibly. All I knew, as of this moment, I was lying on a small white-cloth-covered bed, enough for my skinny body to move and rotate one-hundred-eighty-degrees on both sides. Strange it may be, all the other beds in the emergency room were unoccupied; the room itself was only filled with—more or less three men in their worn out shirts and denims, those whom I have supposed to be tricycle drivers, and it turned out that they really were; some doctors and nurses, all in clean white neatly-ironed clothes; and a traffic enforcer who was busy scrutinizing the contents of my knapsack, hopefully looking for any sign of my identity. Finally, a nurse asked my name and telephone number in her sweet girlish voice, a clipboard on her left arm.

At first thought I wanted to shout at them and bellow: “Oh can’t you see? I’m already dying here and you’re shooting such foul and impertinent questions at me! Shit!” But then, I realized; surely they would like to inform my relatives about—about—this. So I gave them my name and landline number half-heartedly.

Even though the hospital telephone and the nurse were both several feet away from the bed I was lying on, I could still hear my grandmother’s worried yet keen voice, struggling to comprehend every detail the nurse was giving. The nurse walked back carrying a blank expression on her face. However, when she came to a halt, she pointed something on my mid-face and asked where it came from; her face was now showing a trace of self-detained curiosity, as well as mine afterwards. I checked out what she was talking about and soon found out that there was blood flowing slowly from under my nose. When the nurse realized that I could not bear to answer her, she turned to the tricycle drivers who were neither bothered nor concerned in our previous conversations and were busy gazing ignorantly all over the beautifully-wallpapered room. She made a forced cough and their attention was caught at once.
“What had hit him?” she asked them simply, with a sideways glance at my still-resting body. Once more, her blank face was gradually transforming into a stunned and slightly skeptical look, mingled with horror, making her heavily-applied make-up impossible to notice at first glance.
Only then did my eardrums come back to their full function and register what the drivers had just chorused: “A full-size public utility bus.” The nurse’s visage metamorphosed again to her usual blank-as-a-paper expression as if she had not heard a response. She cleared her throat then proceeded to me to mend a number of wounds, cuts, and bruises on my elbows and head using clean cotton balls and an iodine solution.

She then inquired in her sweet girlish voice, a look of disgust sketched on her face, “Can you move your legs… your toes?” I nodded, after checking out if indeed my bones were quite fine. At the same time, one dreadful thought occurred to me that momentarily paralyzed my entire body in horror:

“What if I had a cracked cranium…or a serious blood clotting or hemorrhage…or brain damage perhaps…or—worst of all—would this cause as much as insanity?” I would lose what one of my high school teachers once called my only asset. When I checked out if these direful presuppositions were true, my mouth fell open and I almost lost my consciousness again—streaks of fresh red blood were streaming on my right-hand fingers, those which I had used to feel the back of my head. My body wanted to collapse at the terrible sight. I felt my knees quivering.

After minutes or so of striving to recall what exactly happened to me no more than two hours ago, I noticed just now that I was only wearing my undershirt and ink-black pants. Wondering where my polo uniform was, I soon spotted it streaked with mud-brown dirt over my blue Jansport backpack that was beside the closed emergency room glass door. It flew open, as suddenly as the return of the traffic enforcer who left the room about an hour ago. He was tightly clutching the arms of a skin-headed stern-faced man whose eyes were nailed on the shiny wooden floor, as though wanting to be anywhere else in the world apart from this place.
“This is the one driving the bus,” the bespectacled officer explained at once. Consequently, I eyed the man suspiciously for a second, scowled at him, and said nothing. My tongue could not find any word that would fit to express my anger and fury to the culprit of all these. In the first place, it was because of him why I was here. I was burning to burst out my anger and to exclaim all his foul and reckless actions. At the same time, strange it really was, a feeling of sorry and sympathy flashed at my insides.

“It was my very own fault why I am here, yes,” I thought with an inaudible sigh, “mine.” As if expecting that I would not be making any response, the officer dragged the man outside, after telling me that if ever I would want further information or anything regarding the case, both of them would be staying at the nearest police station.

As the glass door swung close again after they left, a familiar outline of a tall teen-aged boy emerged from it, walking closer and closer to my bed, panting slightly. It was my best friend whom I have already forgotten entirely, considering all the unusual occurrences that had just taken place lately. I have also lost track of the time; it seemed the bright orange sun was already making its beautiful setting, that is, as far as I could see, considering my bed’s distance from the room’s windowpanes.
For ten full minutes, my friend persistently narrated all the happenings just a couple of hours ago, enlightening my presuppositions.
“Oh, so it’s really my fault why I ran without myself knowing…Pretty weird; what d’you think?” I whispered. He shook his head, shrugging, with an I-don’t-know-either look depicted in his sweaty face. At one time, I took the chance to ask him whether my body was squeezed under the massive bus.
Looking unnerved, he mumbled a “no”; after a short while, seeing the unsatisfied look on my own face, “You were this close though, Pare,” he sighed, gesturing his thumb and index finger about an inch apart. He continued narrating accurately the story (well, as far as I knew), careful not to miss any important detail I was anticipating to hear, and eventually stopping at intervals whenever he noticed my disbelieving or unsatisfied look.

“I’d almost thought you were dead. You were really very lucky, you know, with that gigantic bus and everything,” he concluded gracefully, trying to grin but barely succeeded. Only then did I realize that story-telling is of no place at the moment—time was very crucial. As if he had read what was in my mind, he waved goodbye and (I was expecting a get-well-soon greeting) wished me luck.

“Yes,” I thought desperately, “I’m still in a state of danger.” Everything had once again gone pitch-black; I had obviously fallen asleep, in fact, I should really have a rest, but hopefully not in peace.

I felt a gentle tap on my right arm. I opened my eyes and saw none other than my own grandmother who was gazing sympathetically at me, real tears silently flowing from her black meaningful eyes, reflecting the bright full moon outside the windowpanes, large enough for me to see its craters. Abruptly, I felt an odd tug somewhere in my chest—inside. I have never felt this strongly before, a great feeling of compassion, not to myself, but to my grandmother. This kind of feeling and awareness—that someone was always there beside me in times of troubles—comforted me much, very much indeed.

At that time, I appreciated life’s worth; I realized how lucky I am to still be alive, able to enjoy life’s blessings. Now, I am standing at this exact place where my life was once endangered, looking forward at the horizon before me, looking forward for a bright tomorrow.

 

Written by mikodsantos · Filed Under Blogging 

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