7 of 366

What is it with 7 and luck?

 

I’d rather be grateful than lucky.

Yes, I talk to the universe and all, especially when an awful fist of luck knocks me out like a domino falling, hitting me hard one blow after the other…or when nothing seems to be going my way no matter which way I go…or even when everything is dead blank and pitch dark yet and still the stars are too flicker on me…mostly, during the times I have to have something to blame and I could no longer force the blame on myself or to anyone. Yes, I do talk to the universe when I feel that I am the unluckiest earthling alive. It would seem like I am believer of luck. I may seem to be. But luck has never been kind to me. I even doubt if it ever exists.

Maybe when the universe is being less of a bitch and is starting to force a ray of good luck upon me, I am really not lucky at all.

Luck is too random to believe in and the universe is too bitchy to be nice to a random and insignificant earthling like me. But there is a stronger force, greater force behind the universe that makes me feel grateful instead. I am ever grateful, oh yes, I am, that as days fall off, I may falter but I don’t end with them.

Today marks the 7th day of my new year. With or without luck, I am grateful. With or without stars, I am grateful. I am grateful because I am alive to count up to this day that is about to end.

Tomorrow is another shot at winning fist fights with the universe.

Bring it on.

ER Diaries

“A hospital alone shows what war is.” -Erich Maria Remarque
 
Five hours. I was bored. I was impatient. But I certainly felt an inch luckier I was not the one bleeding, crying, and barely-breathing.

I was the watcher. I was supposed to watch over my patient. But I did more than that. Actually, my patient did not need much of my ‘watching’ because he slept through the entire waiting time. So what I did was quite a retaliation on my part because I did not want to be there. I did not put on a fancy black dress to pace back and forth on the tiled floors of the emergency room. All I wanted was to have a peaceful Sunday morning, have a quiet breakfast, hear mass and sleep through the entire afternoon. But I was there. I had too. I did not have a choice. That was my choice though. To be there. And so I had to make myself productive. I watched then. I watched every single drama in the emergency room. I was bored, but I was being moved by the things I was seeing out of watching.

Bleeding.

I could not imagine to be in that mother’s shoe: being blamed by her husband and her mother-in-law for missing a wink of watching over her son, and just like that, her son got hit by a tricycle and bled on the ground. She was trembling as she was trying to explain how everything that fast could happen, convincing her family, but more so herself, that she did not mean for the accident to happen. Of course, it was an accident. I saw the blood on the poor boy’s forehead. It was a sight that would have had me unconscious if that boy were my son. What a torture it is indeed to feel blameful for something you did not intend to happen. I mean the last thing you wanted to do is to hurt the one you love, but it happens and it breaks your heart why it should happen. Is it really beyond your control? You begin to question yourself. That is the thing about accidents I guess. My heart goes out to that poor mother.

Crying.

I saw half a dozen sick babies at the Paediatrics today. They were just babies, and yet they were there, crying, but not entirely understood what was causing their pain. Many times we want other’s attention for the pain we feel and yet they don’t seem to understand, and really, all we can do is cry. Like babies, we cry. And these mothers? They kept on explaining to every doctor, every nurse, every random staff attending to them, what had started the pain their babies were enduring, and yet, no one could really pinpoint what was wrong. They could only guess. Yes, guess. This pain guessing game is really complicated, right? Why can’t we just admit where and why and how we are hurt. It is not like we are babies who could not speak for ourselves. But then we are all like babies sometimes. We let other people second guess our pains, and all we receive are second-rate antidotes for our pains. Babies continued to cry. One stared back at me for a moment, stopped crying, and then started crying again. The crying might never stop.

Barely-breathing.

She looked like one of my teachers before. I smiled at her, waiting for a recognition, but maybe she just resembled her because she smiled back without the recognition I was waiting for. She was out of breath while seated on her wheel chair. She did not have anyone with her. It might have been terrible to catch your breath, alone, without a hand to hold as you try to fill your lungs with air. When we are out of breath sometimes, we yearn for somebody to breathe with us, to remind us that life goes on. But sometimes we are too busy worrying where else we can get a breath of new air and fail to notice that we have been on life-support all along by another person’s breath of air. Why do we worry so much? A sigh itself is a waste of breath, but we let go of it in despair, and complain of being out of breath. I did not know much of the lady’s case. I did not have time to talk to her. She barely had enough air to spare for herself than to engage herself with a casual conversation with a bored stranger like me.

Three stories. I have more actually. But I am too overwhelmed by all these realizations and yet, for a moment there, I thought I would really break down.

I was bleeding, crying and barely-breathing. But I must be lucky I was not on a hospital bed.

I guess I would last another day.

9 a.m. Coffee Break

Coffee is no guilty pleasure for me. It is my lifeblood.

Mondays have never been nice to me no matter how I try to fake it. Yesterday was no exception. Although I enjoyed my underachievement (soon I hope I’d be prouder of the results of what I intend to accomplish), close to believing all was well, I still ended up popping pills to relieve me from a splitting headache. Sooner then I realized I guess I did not have enough dose of coffee for the day. Sometimes I wish I owned a coffee maker that brew coffee on its own and give me a refill when I am supposed to get one.

So this is me on a Tuesday, the day I lead myself to believe that is my favorite day. But just as the normal (really?) days, I am sipping through a styro cup some instant latte in the hope that the day shall be nicer than yesterday.

The Best Thing About Mondays (Excuse my Sarcasm)

I am not a fan of Mondays. Mondays never like me back either.

In as much as I want to make the first the day of the week (although technically Sunday is) a good start, I always fall short of the energy to wake up to it at the right side of the bed. The thing is, I love mornings, but waking up to mornings I love is a struggle I put up with every single day-double the trouble waking up on a Monday.

Why are Mondays not for me?

1. Monday comes the day after a supposed to be Me-Time Day but never is. Sunday is the only time I can sleep without an alarm clock set to remind me that I have to get moving because a very busy day is ahead of me. However, with kids wanting to spend time with me and a warm cup of coffee to bribe me into it, how could I oversleep as planned? I can also be lucky if there are no family gatherings or school functions set on Sundays, but most often than not, there are, so I end up being all over town rather than reclining at the comfort of my sofa or bed, having the time of my life wandering aimlessly to some dreamland that I never visit. Then comes Monday to absorb my battered soul, and you can finish the statement what happens next.

2. Monday summarizes the week’s to-do list. No week is ever light for me. I always have something to start, catch up with or finish. I set the standard for horror on a Monday as I list down the things I have to do but I never do, or at least start doing but never sustain accomplishing. Since I am too soaked in my own miserable weekend, I create a bad mentality that makes Mondays horrifying when they are not supposed to be. Most often than not, I never get to accomplish my to-do list because I end up having several to-do lists apart from the original one because of my mindless approach to goals. I am a pro in procrastinating. Even if there is coffee to fuel the day, I still end up putting off current and important matters of the week to work on matters that are not important until next week or so. Still it can’t be considered waste of time and effort though, because I do work on things, but I am having trouble meeting the urgent. Monday is the start of a week of things to do, but I seem not to have enough days of the week to do them. Please do understand why I greet Hell-o Monday then.

3. Monday hates me. I reach out to Mondays with a clear mind. light heart and sweet smile all the time. Believe me, I really do. But each time I try to be nice, the thought of Mondays to be demanding makes me a lunatic. I have tried forgetting Mondays ever existed, skipping Mondays, being useless on a Monday, but none of which worked. I still could not hide from the monster that is Monday and I end up with a bad hair day to start with and a bad day in totality. Mondays give me untoward accidents, sudden problems, unforeseen troubles, countless worries—I can’t even imagine how many pranks of life can happen to me in one day. Although I find consolation on a cup of warm latte, still coffee turns bitter when I am reminded that I have no power over my Mondays.

 

The best thing about Mondays though, they only come once a week, and I have the other days of the week to redeem myself from the mud of jokes Monday dips me into and to prepare myself for more horrifying adventures Monday is going to challenge me by.

 

#IhateMondays

Oh Summer Solst…

Oh Summer Solstice! “Whatever is dreamed on this night, will come to pass.” William Shakespeare – Acknowledging the Magic of This Time A Mid-Summernight’s Dream

Just another lazy day. Only longer. But that it is supposed to be longer, that too, I was too lazy to recognize. For my type who is always up to finish something, be it a current task or a backlog, for my type who doesn’t get enough sleep at night and dreams of longer days to make up for that, for my type who is a wisher for slower mornings so I can have a more intimate affair with my cup of latte and not that, in most normal days, sip in coffee like it were some kind of drug or vitamins to fuel me to get going, for my type who is, for short, lazy and incompetent, I could use a longer day. And so I am a fan of summer solstice. The idea of the sun’s zenith being farthest from the equator and the day going further than the usual time the sun is supposed to set, seems like an ideal day to have an illusion that I can actually make up for all the other days I seem not to have 24 hours in a day. Even by a slight chance of illusion, I must admit I need a longer day for all the things I cannot squeeze into my normal day. But there is only one day for the summer solstice I guess, if my information is right, and I am hopeless to hope I could have more. The truth that is painfully funny is, one summer solstice day was just even enough for me to forget that the day is supposed to be longer  and I ended up spending it like another normal inadequate day for me to be both busy and lazy. Oh summer solstice, to me you are but an affair. Now let me kiss you goodbye.   ( http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/set-for-solstice/ )