MOMMY J.

AT SAN VICENTE WARD

Alice M, Sun-Cua

“…it must be that I want life to go on living.. "

— Robert Frost

I clutched the small stuffed teddy bear and walked briskly along the hospital
corridors. I had just done my morning rounds, discharging two patients who delivered
normally two days ago, and looked in on another that was operated on for a ruptured
ectopic pregnancy the night before. I was on my way to Room 314 at the San Vicente
Ward in our hospital, to pay Mrs. J. a social visit. It was Valentine's Day.
Mrs. J., a 58-year-old teacher, was diagnosed to have advanced ovarian cancer two
months ago, and was referred to me by a physician friend from a southern city because
of abdominal enlargement. She was operated on in the province with removal of ail
pelvic organs when the ovarian malignancy was discovered, but the disease had
already involved other parts of her body. causing ascites(edema fluid) in the abdominal
cavity to accumulate faster than it could be drained.
The first time I saw her, she had extreme difficulty of breathing. She looked young to
be 58, her thick lustrous hair secured at the nape by a clip surrounded by fresh
sampaguita flowers. later learned that she always had someone pick fresh sampaguitas
in the morning then fashion these flowers into a fragrant bunch to be attached to her
hair clip. In spite of her breathlessness, she managed to smile and greet me when I
introduced myself, her Tagalog bearing an unmistakable, lilting Hiligaynon accent.
Taking salient points of her history I realized that she had full knowledge of what was
happening Two of her children, Rowena and Roberto, both in their twenties. updated
me with lab work-ups and medications from the previous hospital. Their father will be
flying in tomorrow, as the family business needed his close supervision.
After a formal referral to Dr. M., a gynecologic oncologist, (a gynecology specialist
who deals with cancer of the pelvic organs) I became a frequent visitor at Room 314,
not so much as an attending physician, for I had transferred Mrs. J. to the service of Dr.
MO but as a friend.
She was sitting up on bed when I went in, holding what looked like a card. It was
sent by a friend from Iloilo City, she said, greeting her on Valentine's Day Looking
around, t discovered that the room was festooned with red balloons, and a large
computer printout tacked on the wall opposite her bed with the words "Happy
Valentine's Day, Mommy!" strewn across it. There were numerous cards taped on the
wall, too, under the "streamed', colorful patches they were, which obviously made Mrs.
J. very happy.
 When I gave her the teddy bear she giggled, not unlike a teenager, and said I was
indeed spoiling her. "Mommy J." , as we learned to call her had her long hair freed from
the usual clips she wore, and her hair was framing her beaming face in a dark brown
halo. She scrutinized the stuffed toy and giggled some more when she saw the cross-
stitched message I sewed on the apron: "For A Beautiful Lady”. She held out her right
hand and I caught lt. as she pointed out the cards on the wail. One was from a school
friend in high another from a neighbor, and still another from a close friend who was
also a member of the Catholic Women's League. Ali around the room were tangible
proofs of love for this woman whose spirit was untouched by the disease that was
ravaging her, She found time to write 'to relatives and friends, and one day I found her
on her wheelchair looking at newborn babies through the huge visitors' viewing glass in
the Nursery. She was talking to one of the new mothers, apparently a first timer, as I
hoard her talk about, of all things, breastfeeding. I could almost see her now, talking
animatedly with that younger woman, relating her experiences when she was a mother
herself.
But it was not all smiles and laughter for Mommy J. One morning while doing my
usual call on her, I opened the door to her room and found it in half-darkness. The only
halo of light was found in the patient's beds focusing on Mommy J.'s pallid face, now
heaving in spurts, The hiss of the oxygen valve seemed unduly loud, it was the only
thing one heard. It was not a large room, and the shadowy outlines of the small bedside
table and settee seemed to have made it look smaller. Rowena stood in the shadows,
her face burrowed in a white handkerchief, her shoulders heaving with suppressed
sobs. A nurse was adjusting the valve of the oxygen delivery system. It was another
bout of her living nightmare these days, these episodes of what the doctors told her to
expect: her lungs could no longer expand well because of the large amount of fluid
accumulating in her abdomen, compressing the lungs. An immediate drainage of the
liquid relieved her temporarily. Two days before, a suggestion for chemotherapy was
made by Dr. M., and Mrs. J. and the family were still considering it, as the patient had
already expressed her desire to go back to the province, "The fresh air would do me
good," she said. After long discussions with the oncologist, it was decided that she be
brought home, in a week's time. The nurses in her ward took it upon themselves to
organize a send-off party for her, and it seemed that after staying for almost three
weeks in the hospital, Mommy J. had made a lot of friends.
The "party” was held in the corridor of the left wing of the ward, towards a cul-de-
sac at the far end of the hail, The nurses set up two long tables, and using clean white
bed linens as tablecloths, prepared a filling merienda of sandwiches, pansit, ensaimada,
barbecue, and cold drinks. Someone ingeniously rounded up some red paper, cut them
into ribbons and fashioned huge bows, attaching them to the tables' sides. The affair
was to be at four .in the afternoon, but as early as 2 p.m., the ward was already a-bustle
with activity. Mommy J. came out of her room in a wheelchair a little before 4 p.m., a
smile on her lips, her eyes shining in anticipation. She was in a brown printed batik
caftan, her hair done up in a bun, with the bunch of sampaguitas adorning her simple
hair style. On her feet that day were her signature footwear: what looked like Lucero
brand leather slippers apparently bought from Iloilo City, the upper portion with exquisite
multi-colored beaded embroidery against a background of plush maroon velvet called
peluz. Everyone crowded around her, talking at the same time: nurses, student nurses,
interns, resident physicians, and even a handful of consultants who came early.
The afternoon held many surprises. First of all was the appearance of Miss
Elizabeth T., the hospital's head pharmacist, who had a reputation for being stern and
unapproachable. Miss T. was over 50, thin and single, Was often cranky and who
seemingly never smiled. She ruled the pharmacy like a monarch, and her steely eyes
brought many young resident physicians' knees quivering when their written
prescriptions did not come up to "her standards" (no chicken scrawls for her, please; a
doctor's handwriting should be as clear as his/her thoughts, she always said
emphatically). That afternoon Miss surprised everyone by greeting Mommy J., offering
her a spray of white lilies, and mingling with the crowd easily. Most of the younger ones
were quite awed — or even afraid — of Miss but most of us consultants knew her quite
well, having spent most of our practicing days in the same hospital.
We found out then that Mommy became known to Miss T. because of frequent
prescriptions for pain killers, needed often because the disease had reached her bones:
the pain had become excruciating at times. So it came to be that Miss T. lost her aura of
mystery that afternoon, especially when some dance music started. It must indeed be
the spontaneous camaraderie that sprang from our common love for Mommy everyone
started dancing. Even Miss T. needed no further encouragement from us; she did a
swing number with Danny, one of the nurses who organized the affair. And Mommy J.
was all the while tapping her feet to the fast music.
This was the scene that greeted Dr. M., her gynecologic oncologist who was one
of the most revered specialists in Manila. He came in his hospital whites which were
soon discarded, and he even rolled up his long sleeves to ask one of the interns to do—
to our surprise—the cha-cha. Imagine Dr. M., then, a robust 60-year-old white-haired
gentleman shuffling on the dance floor, as we had cleared the space for him when he
started dancing, carrying his hefty weight easily, leading his partner with such grace we
couldn't help but applaud after the number. Even Mommy J. felt the exuberance of the
moment: instead of simply shaking the hand of Dr. MA who approached her after that
rousing dance, she enclosed him in a tight hug.
I was not too sure if anyone noticed, but there was another surprise that
afternoon: two of our resident physicians in Internal Medicine, Laura and Marie, who
had not been on speaking terms with each other for almost a year (because of
misunderstandings about patient care and other more private things), were talking
animatedly in one corner, I went up to them and casually mentioned (pulling rank as it
were, as a consultant) that it was good to see them together, for were they not the best
of friends before, in medical school. Both of them laughed sheepishly and said it was
the handiwork of Mommy J., who at this time was still entertaining her “guests” in one
corner of the ward. It seemed that Mommy J. got wind of Laura and Marie's situation
and talked to them separately. Whatever it was that transpired, it cleared the air
between the two friends.
Danny came up to me later and asked if we could play “Auld Lang Syne” as the
last tune, Mommy J. was showing signs of strain. I cautioned him against it, suggesting
instead something lively and “danceable”, so he played, to everyone’s glee, the
“Lambada”.
So it was with this catchy tune, with its hint of playfulness, that we remember
Mommy J. the most. We received her “thank you” card a week after she went home to
Iloilo City. When the news reached us about her passing away two months later, no one
was surprised. But we still talk about her often: her cheerfulness, her openness, her
sunny disposition. And when we sometimes caught a whiff of the scent of sampaguitas
we passed through San Vicente Ward, we again felt her presence, and almost heard
her soft voice, we whose lives where touched by her magic.