Whew! What a week!

What a week it has been!

I am currently the lone communication specialist for our country office. My former boss was transferred to China. A long-time colleague migrated to Canada. A reliable consultant finished his contract. I was left to manage three big projects for the time being.

My new supervisor and a new recruit will report in mid-April. I have a new technical assistant who is still on part-time. Our program assistant fell sick on Monday and requested to go on leave.

Monday was post-Holy Week but there was no time to take things easy. I was immediately on full gear preparing for a big outdoor launch event (Children Against Violence campaign) on Tuesday. I was not worrying that much because we got an agency to help us out. But when I could not locate my agency account executive, I went into panic mode. She was stranded in Boracay and could not be reached by phone. My yellow stress ball became handy. Just when I felt doomed on Monday night, I got a call from my AE. I was saved and assured that the Tuesday event would be a blast.

Tuesday came and I was in high spirits. I went early to the site to see how things were being set up. There were minor slip-ups but I was pretty confident that the afternoon event would be again a blast. Lunch time came and I had to scurry away to a lunch meeting with Gary Valenciano, our ambassador who would perform and speak at the event.

Two hours passed and I started receiving panic calls from the event site. Things were not yet in place. I took all in stride, knowing that these things do happen. The event started and we were going smooth sailing when I learnt that a big technical boo-boo was waiting to ruin the event. The sun was so bright that afternoon that the projector could not lucidly project our stunning audio-visual presentation and TV ad. Now that is something that I could not take in stride. The faux pas ruined the event, at least by my standards. The event still went well despite the major glitch. But I was totally frustrated.

I was tired but I had to wake up early on Wednesday to go to Pampanga for a presentation about the rights of indigenous children to an audience of leaders and teachers belonging to various indigenous groups. I aced my presentation but while I was presenting, my wife, Aires, kept texting and calling because she felt something painful in her womb. When I finally read her messages, I asked my driver to go super-speed. We bridged Pampanga and Marikina in just a little over one hour.

I watched over Aires that night and spent Thursday morning with her. She may have had cramps but thankfully there wasn't any bleeding. I had to report back to the office because of all our deadlines.

Friday was a day of donor reports and work plans. I had four donor reports and 30 work plans to complete. But I had to admit to myself that I could not finish everything. So when the day ended, I finished one donor report and all work plans.

Whew! What a week it has truly been. Looking forward to our Monday's date with the ob-gyn. Here's hoping that it will jumpstart my next week into a different kind of high.

We survived

We survived.

Two months ago, our pretty normal lives went haywire when we learned that Aires was finally pregnant. On January 23, we were told that she was already on her fifth week, that we needed to fast-track our immunologic treatment, that we needed all the prayers and help we could muster to save the pregnancy.

Each trip to the gynecologist and immunologist was a date with uncertainty. We hoped for the best and braved for the worst. Aires and I prayed and asked for God’s blessings. We lived one day at a time.

We are on our 14th week, officially entering the second trimester. The ultrasound results and the immunologic findings were all okay. Our baby is hanging on for dear life. Our baby is developing properly. Our baby is out of danger.

But we are not letting our guards down. We will still be vigilant. We will do the right things. Get rest. Eat right. Exercise.

I promised Aires and our baby that I would hit the gym and get back in shape. I do want my first-born to feel safe in my arms and be consoled that I will be healthy as he or she grows up. Now, that’s another story worth telling.

In the meantime, allow us to thank all those who donated their blood, who said their prayers, and who wished us the best. To all of you, thank you very much. We are extremely glad to tell you that with your help we survived.

Believing in young men and women

“How are you, young man?”

Today I pay tribute to a man of wisdom, to a man who for the past four years have called me “Young Man”. He would offer his outstretched arm and give me a firm handshake and ask “How are you, young man?” But never with a hint of disdain or lack of confidence.

My age has never been an issue with him. He gave me tasks that demanded immediate action. He sent me to very challenging assignments. He straightened me out when I needed one. He gave me a pat on the back when deserving.

Dr. Nicholas Alipui became UNICEF Philippines’ country representative in 2003. He came from a very successful tour of duty in Kenya where he brought free education to children. In the Philippines, he became the voice of breastfeeding.

He was the voice of children and young people.

Dr. Nick was recently appointed as the Director of the Programme Division of UNICEF in New York. He assumed the think-tank post. He would help set the direction of UNICEF globally.

He will have his hands full. He will have a lot on his plate. But he will surely make a mark as our new global Programme Director. I will always remember him as the leader who believes in young men and women.

The good news

And finally the good news!

We went back to our immunologist last Friday. We again waited for over two hours for our turn. It was already 8 pm when we were ushered into his clinic. We were anxious to know what the blood test results for the week were.

Our doctor poured over the numbers in front of him and drew a big smiling face. “For a change,” he said, “I have good news for you.”

All the parameters read A-ok. No infection. No rejection. No immune system on overdrive. The baby is hanging on strongly. The placenta is strong enough to feed him or her. All we have to do is to make sure that Aires eats right. Gestational diabetes may set in and a high sugar level may pose several risks to the baby and to Aires.

Aires was given a prescription for amino acids, the stuff bodybuilders use. She needs all the proteins in the world to help our baby develop into a fine, little person. She was also put on a one-week sugar monitoring regimen.

Today, Aires is 12 week pregnant. Almost eight weeks ago, we fidgeted for every test we took, for every blood donated, for every ultrasound taken.

Every night, we whisper to our baby. Hang on tight. Just a few more days till the next week. Just a few more weeks till the next month. Just a few more months till the next trimester.

Let the good news roll one after the other!

A world of possibilities

Today, I see a world of possibilities.

It’s possible for a child from a rebel village to go to college. It’s possible for just one health worker to help wipe out measles in three barangays. It’s possible for the Kabihugs to work in farms without being exploited. It’s possible for a girl victim of incest to deal with the trauma and carve out a safer tomorrow. It’s possible for a child offender to have a second chance.

Seeing possibilities, instead of impossibilities, is one of the most important lessons I learnt as a member and program coordinator of the PETA Metropolitan Teen Theater League (MTTL) --- a group of young high school and college theater artists.

I was young, unafraid and determined. My youthfulness was not a limitation. It was a possibility.

I was only 16 when I committed to work as a young artist-teacher for high school students. I was also tasked to guide an urban poor community theater group called Tanghalang Batingaw in Bagong Barrio in Caloocan City.

I was only 20 when I became MTTL program coordinator. I taught English at a private high school in the mornings. In the afternoons, I would visit other schools talking to school principals, drama teachers, and theater guilds.

The 1990s was a time of uncertainty for the MTTL. There was little funding. Many schools that were active in the 80s dropped out from the league. But when two Palanca-winning plays, “Ambon ng Kristal”, and “June at Johnny” were staged for MTTL’s new batch of core group members, the league had its second wind. There was no turning back then.

It became possible for young theater enthusiasts to have their own brand of creative arts. To this day, the MTTL remains as PETA’s instrument in upholding the right of young people to participate critically in decision-making. PETA-MTTL offered young artists like me then the possibility to become a genuine “artista ng bayan.”

I am no longer very active with PETA. But I am not giving it up. I still see another round of possibilities for me to find my roots again and re-live my younger PETA days.

Get in line

We have a new work sked. Check in at 8:30 am and check out at 5:30 pm.

On color-coding day (Coding ako pag Tuesday… croon… croon), I checked out whether I could check in on time if I leave Marikina for Makati after 6 am.

It was only 6:30 am when I reached the commute terminal but the scramble for a shuttle ride to Makati was already unwieldy. There were already seven lanes of commuters and counting. I usually boast that patience is a personal virtue. So I waited patiently, for 30 minutes in fact. But I got giddy when the clock hit seven.

So I skipped the line and hailed a jeepney to Katipunan. I would just take the LRT to Cubao and the MRT to Makati.

Lo and behold! It was line galore that day. Get in line to get inside the station. Get in line to get a card. Get in line to wait for the train. The MRT Cubao Station was the worst. Commuters ---yuppies, hippies, and all --- ditched the line and wrestled their way through the next train.

I took the train to North Avenue just to find a spot inside the MRT cabin going back to Makati. I passed by Cubao again and saw eerily the same scene --- a lot of shoving and cursing.

Buendia Station was no different. Endless lines of people for a shuttle ride. Endless lines of people for a jeepney ride.

I remember a college professor who said that Filipinos disdain falling in line. She called it our racial memory of oppression. Deep in the recesses of our brains are imprints of the Philippines’ experiences of oppression from colonizers. Fall in line to get inside a Spanish fortress. Fall in line for a ration of porridge. The Bataan March of Death. Fall in line to die.

I don’t want to die. But I will still fall in line. Only when required.

In the meantime, I will clock in at 7:30 am and clock out at 4:30 pm.

Clenched fists in the streets

Clenched fists and all. I was in the streets when workers asked for a wage hike. I was in the streets when the U.S. bases were pulled out. I was in the streets when Erap was ousted.

I was young, unafraid, and determined. My voice and a thousand others’ were heard in the streets.

Today, the youth are again in the streets. Many of them are calling for the resignation of the President. All of them are demanding for the truth, for justice, and for change.

Last Friday, I was just a stone’s throw away from the huge crowd that gathered in Makati. But fatherhood beckoned. I had to rush home to attend to my pregnant wife. I listened to the radio about the throng of protesters who were intercepted at the express highways. I heard the news about how different sectors would come from various entry points, and at the strike of five in the afternoon, would walk toward the Ninoy Aquino statue. I heard about the No-Fly-Zone directive. I heard about a black clutch bag left unattended near the rally site. Operatives inspected and found wires and an old cellular phone inside.

I was not there at the interfaith prayer rally. But I prayed really hard that night. I prayed for a better society where my child can grow up, full of hope. I would really hate to see my child protesting in the streets 20 years from now --- clenched fists and all.

Let the fist-clenching begin and end in the womb.