When people say I've been brought up really well, I close my eyes and give all the praises and credit to God and my parents. But when some probe deeper and wonder why I have never gone astray, I close my eyes and think about a scar.
It's true, it's true. Much of how I have managed to grow up without ever figuring in a fight, doing drugs, abusing alcohol, mistreating other people, or harming any life I attribute to my mother's scar when she gave birth to me. It's probably the only image I have carried from my childhood, one that, wittingly or unwittingly, has turned to be my meaningful shepherd.
I was born about 12 days before Martial Law was declared in the Philippines in 1972. That time, I was told, then President Marcos was unusually strict and didn't allow any military or commercial aircraft to fly out of the capital Manila. Because of this, my birth place was likely one of the countless rural places in the Philippines which perished in undeserved lack of attention in the form of basic services like hospital care. While my mother was brought to the main town where the biggest hospital is located in my province, it wasn't a really soothing idea since it was devoid of most medical supplies anyway. The only pleasant thing about it was I would be born in an actual hospital delivery room and not in some old and wornout mattress at home. There really was no other option left for my parents and my grandparents. The hospital was their best shot. They wouldn't settle for a midwife to deliver a first child.
That day in the labor room, there was another pregnant woman set to give birth. She was in the other bed and has been there since the day before. My mother knew Mrs. Fitero because they lived just a few houses away from where my parents lived that time. Apparently, Mrs. Fitero was actually scheduled for delivery much earlier on but had problems with her blood pressure because she was really nervous and tensed. Everytime she's wheeled into the delivery room, something happens and they would decide to bring her back in the waiting room. My mother, sensing possible harm for the babies, spent time comforting Mrs. Fitero to ease her anxieties, and formed a pact with her. In order to prove that the pain is bearable and no cause for worry, my mother agreed to give birth ahead of her, something she would have gladly given second thoughts had she known better what she would endure.
It took a while for the nurses to actually find the doctor on duty that time. When he showed up, he smelled of liquor but the nurses didn't mind. They knew he needed some means to generate extraordinary gallantry in performing a simple caesarian operation, but in extraordinary circumstances.
(to be continued)
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