Pateros Fiesta Cuisine Series #2 - Meat Rolls

For this posting, I would like to introduce you to a group of fiesta food that can be prepared days in advance. This saves the hosts some time so they can concentrate on dishes that must be prepared on the eve or the day of the fiesta itself. Considering that visitors are expected as early as around ten in the morning, these time-saving food can come in very handy.

Lumpiang Shanghai (Fried Meat Rolls)


First on my list is the ever-reliable Lumpiang Shanghai. This is a dish that is an all-time favorite in restaurants, fast food and even as a street food. For my version of this dish, the filling is a mixture of egg, ground pork, minced onion, carrot, bell pepper and kimchay. These ingredients are mixed together in a bowl and sprinkled with rock salt and ground pepper. If you want some crunch, you can add chopped water chestnuts into the mixture. Small portions are then wrapped in fresh lumpia wrappers and then fried until golden brown.

The lumpia can be chopped into bite size pieces to make it easier for the guests to munch on these yummy rolls. Dipped in either catsup or sweet and sour chili sauce, lumpiang shanghai is great both with rice or as pulutan (bar chow) while drinking.

Embotido (Meat Loaf)


Next on my list is the bigger cousin of the Lumpiang Shanghai. The Embotido has almost the same ingredients as the lumpia, except for a few differences. It is technically a meat loaf, made from finely grounded pork, chopped onion and bell pepper, minced carrots, raisins and sliced boiled eggs. For special occasions, I would pour evaporated milk into the mixture for a more creamy taste. The ingredients are mixed together until they attain a consistency that will allow it to be rolled into 6-inch logs.

For a more authentic Embotido, the log is wrapped in a membrane taken from a pig's stomach cavity. This whitish membrane is strong enough to keep the mixture together during cooking, and is edible so there is no need to unwrap the embotido before serving. Cooking the embotido is a two-step process. First, the meat logs are wrapped either in aluminum foil or the more traditional katsa (cheese cloth) and then steamed. Although it can already be eaten after being steamed, the logs can also be sliced and then fried. This dish can be dipped either in catsup or mayonnaise, or a combination of both.

Hamonado (Filipino Pineapple Ham)


Another pork dish that can be kept in the refrigerator until needed is the Hamonado. This dish does not require a lot of stuffing, in fact it can do without any. It relies mainly on the sweet-salty flavor of the meat. The lean pork is carefully cut into thin sheets that can be rolled into logs. The meat is marinated overnight in a mixture of pineapple juice, salt, sugar, and beer. And may I hasten to add, it has to be San Miguel Pale Pilsen.

When the meat is ready, it is spread out in a large flat dish and then finely sliced strips of Chorizo de Bilbao is spread out on the surface before it is rolled into a log. The log is secured by running a string around it to secure the edges. The meat logs are then arranged in a saucepan together with the remaining marinade. The meat is then boiled using the marinade until almost dry. The Hamonado is cut into medallions and served topped with the pineapple tidbits.

Morcon (Beef Rolls)


I saved the best for last. Morcon is one dish that ages gracefully. The longer I keep it in the ref, the more delicious it becomes. This is why this dish is better prepared the day before it is to be served. Like the Hamonado, this is a rolled meat but using beef instead of pork. The meat is marinated overnight in soy sauce and calamansi. For special occasions, red wine can be added into the marinade.

When the meat is ready, strips of carrots, celery and red pepper are spread over the meat - and then topped with slices of Chorizo De Bilbao, olives and boiled eggs. Then the meat is rolled into a log and secured by running a string around it. The meat logs are put into a pressure cooker with the marinade and tomato sauce added to it. Water may also added so that all the meat logs are submerged into the mixture. Laurel leaves can also be added for an exquisite flavor. The meat is then boiled until tender and the sauce becomes thick. Chopped carrots, bell pepper, celery and olives can be added to the sauce for added flavor. Like the hamonado, the meat log is sliced into medallions before the sauce is poured over it.

These meat dishes are my so called "after-fiesta" food because they can be kept in the ref, then heated or fried as needed. Totally not recommended for those with hypertension!

Sapientia Edificat?

We were in 4th year college when St. Louis University (SLU) celebrated its 75th founding anniversary during the school year 1985-86. Young as we were then, it was one celebration that we were mighty proud of. Twenty five years after we left SLU to face life in the real world, we were beckoned again to relive those happy memories - this time to celebrate the SLU Centennial. One hundred years is definitely worth a grand celebration, and I would not miss it for the world.

So off to Baguio I went together with 4 other college friends. I have not been to the SLU campus since I graduated 25 years ago, even if I have been back to Baguio a couple of times after graduation. The organizers did a good job in hyping up the event. It was supposed to be a grand celebration – after all, we would have to wait another 100 years to be able to have a celebration of such grand scale again. I was excited to see my former teachers and schoolmates. I wanted to see what had changed, what had the seeds of activism and reawakening we sowed during the waning years of martial law had grown into. We were looking at almost 300 kilometers of grueling land travel, trekking through dark winding roads enveloped in fog and mist. But we were undaunted.

We left rain-soaked Manila around 9 in the evening of Friday, and it was almost 3 in the morning of Saturday when we arrived at the guest house where we stayed. We knew we had to be up early so we can join the morning activities, but we can’t seem to sleep at all. We were conjuring up images of thousands of SLU alumni crowding Session Road, of hotels and inns enjoying brisk business with the influx of visitors. We felt lucky to have traveled at the most unholy hour so we can avoid the traffic. It will be a grand celebration just as they said it will be.

Disappointed - that is the most charitable word that I can think of to describe how it felt when we finally went to SLU early Saturday morning for what was supposed to be the first day of the 2-day Grand SLU Centennial Alumni Homecoming. It was anything but grand. Where were the happy, excited alumni who would fill the streets leading to SLU? We were late for the first event, the Centennial Mass at the SLU Chapel, so we parked at the Baguio Cathedral thinking that the campus grounds would be full of cars as there must be thousands of alumni coming for this once-in-a-hundred-years event. We would not want to be stuck in traffic and be late for the events.

We then walked through the Boys High compound and exited to Assumption Road so we can enter the SLU Campus through the Sacred Heart Hospital. This was our regular route when we were young students on a shoestring budget. It was therefore so strange to see very few people on the road and on the campus itself. People were going about their business as if there was nothing special happening that day. I was even joking with my friends that maybe we got the dates wrong. Surely, there should have been a more festive atmosphere. We went to the chapel and caught the tail-end of the Centennial Mass - where only a handful of people attended. I felt bad, but consoled myself with the thought that people might have traveled far like us and they will be late. Or maybe they skipped the Mass and were already waiting in the gym for the program to start so they can get better seats. Maybe... hopefully...

After the Mass, we went up to the Burgos Gym, passing the grandstand by the parking lot where we held many protest actions which eventually led to the rebirth of the Student Council and an independent student publication in the early 80's. It felt good standing on those historical steps, reliving the days when there was more idealism, when we were willing to risk our dreams and aspirations to fight for what we believe was right and just. Unfortunately, when we reached the homecoming venue, our elation and nostalgic trip back to our younger days easily turned into disappointment and frustration. There were very few people in the cavernous hall of the gym, and not a few people were turning away and leaving. Where were the alumni? The Facebook site said almost 600 have signed up. I was pretty sure there are a lot of SLU faculty and employees who are alumni themselves. Baguio City and Northern Luzon is SLU country, so where were the Louisians?

When I first heard that the registration fee was ONE THOUSAND PESOS, I thought it was a big joke. Surely, the organizers would want to have as many alumni to be able to attend this momentous event. They would not keep them away with such an expensive registration fee. When it dawned upon us that we would really have to cough out 2-days worth of minimum wage to be able to become part of this important milestone, it became clear to us why there were so very few alumni who actually came despite the historical significance of this event. Yes, all 5 of us may be able to afford the thousand-peso registration fee – but it was just so WRONG. It simply means that those who cannot part with their hard-earned thousand bucks are not welcome. Obviously, the event was meant for those who have the money to spare. The 2-day Centennial feast that the organizers prepared for the Alumni requires a P1,000.00 fee on the first day, and another P2,500.00 fee if you want to play golf on the 2nd day. Only the Centennial Mass did not involve a fee - and we missed it. We decided to skip the event altogether and joined the others who left disappointed.

What did the organizers hope to achieve with this event? Isn’t it to gather the alumni to commemorate this historical and momentous milestone, regardless of what had become of them since they left SLU? Or is it to raise funds even if it means the exclusion of those who will not be able to afford to shell out the registration fees? And since the election of the officers was done during this exclusive event, what happened to the principles of democratic participation when only those who can afford the one thousand pesos registration fee were able to cast their votes? This is like saying only those who pay their taxes can vote during elections. Would it have been better to have an Alumni Homecoming that welcomes everyone, and then have a separate fund-raising event for those who can afford and who want to help the association’s projects?

The Organizers squandered a golden opportunity to gather together the school’s alumni wherever they may be now, or whatever they may have achieved in life. The homecoming should not have been just for those who have succeeded and made good in life and can afford to financially help the Alumni Association in its projects. SLU was established so that it can be the light that shines for all those who would otherwise find it hard to attain higher education in Manila and other centers of education. SLU provided the golden opportunity for the youth of the Cordilleras and Northern Luzon to have access to quality education. The elitist centennial homecoming was everything that SLU NEVER stood for.

It could have been a defining moment for the Alumni Association, when it could have been the instrument by which SLU can gather as many alumni as possible to celebrate our school’s legacy of education that transforms and builds. It could have been the spark, the catalyst that will inspire the alumni to participate more actively in future activities and projects. We let go of that once in a hundred years chance. But all is not lost. Louisians from all walks of life must come together and reclaim the proud legacy that our Alma Mater has entrusted to us. We are the Alumni of SLU. We are the light that can transform. Let us build again.

Resurrection

Mea culpa.

I have not been writing on this blog as often as I should. I have been preoccupied with so many things – mostly work and, well, sleeping and just simply daydreaming. Honestly, I have been too lazy to really go out like I used to do. The comfort of my room has been my refuge and my Shangri-la of late. I can cocoon myself in my room the entire weekend and feel not having lost anything.

Maybe I should blame it on my weight gain. I read it somewhere that people who gain weight tend to be more sluggish. Seems to me lately that sleep is the most precious thing in the whole wide world, and my bed is the best thing that was ever invented by man. Sleep, sleep, sleep. That’s all I look forward to when weekend comes around.

Or maybe I should also blame it on Facebook. Almost like a ritual, I find myself online on my netbook and logging into FB whenever I am home. A comfy bedroom with temperature control, a housekeeper who dotes on me and brings anything and everything I need right into my bedroom, and DSL that keeps me connected to my online friends – definitely a sure-fire combination to ensure that I stay oblivious to what is happening outside the four corners of my bedroom.

I need to get a life.

Maybe change is what I need - a change that can really make a difference in my life. I have always preached about change that is dynamic, innovative, edgy and life-changing. It is a mantra that I never fail to use as a springboard of discussions with colleagues and clients. Maybe somewhere along the way, I grew tired of dreaming about change. Maybe I stopped hoping that meaningful change can happen in my lifetime.

I stopped being angry at the undisciplined drivers who make driving through our little town's puny main road a stress-busting daily struggle. I stopped being mad at how our government seems so helpless with the daily chaos we go through. I stopped at waiting for the traffic aides in red to do something about the mayhem on the street. I ceased to be incensed at how Pasig, Makati and Taguig bully our little town and treat it as their garbage dump, end-of-the-road garage and cheap bed space for its workforce.

I simply lost the appetite and will for change. The longing stopped when the anger ceased.

But I am fighting back, getting angry once more. And my pen, or my keyboard to be more precise, will help me on as it always did in the past. And so I am back again, writing and blogging. I need to see more of the world again through my little town, so I can write about what I see, what I hear, what I feel. I need to walk the streets. I need to smell the stench of the river, savour the taste of fishball and crispy fried chicken skin, and feel the heat of people as they bump into each other on the cramped sidewalks.

This is the real deal. This is life - Redux.

The Nanay Chronicles #1 - Maria Went to the Market

One of my earliest memories of my childhood were my frequent trips to the market with Nanay. Although already busy with her small home business, she was hands-on when it comes to going to the market - be it in Pasig for our food, or in Divisoria to buy materials for her garments business or to deliver finished products. I remember only very few instances when she would tag me along to Divisoria, but I have many vivid memories of market trips to the public markets of Pasig.

Divisoria was a long trip back then, when the only way to go there in comfort was the TPT bus. Comfort then means sitting on wooden benches, with no aircon, and inhaling all the smoke and dust along the way. But who's complaining? If the conductor happens to be Mang Itoy, or anyone who knows Nanay, we get a free ride. It was always a long ride - TPT was not known as Takbong Pagong Transit for nothing.

The market in Divisoria, then and now, was a maze of stalls and stores. Nanay would navigate through the maze in a breeze - she knows its ins and outs like the back oh her hand. She walks fast, makes sure she gets the seller's attention and bargains hard. She was a real pro! As for the little pesky kid she had in tow, when I could not keep up the pace anymore, she would leave me with an Indian couple (or at least that's how they looked to me) who owns a stall, and then come back for me when she's done. So while other children would shudder in fear when old folks tell them to behave or otherwise be given to Indians (called Bombays in olden days) carrying sacks where they put misbehaving children, I was happily playing with them in Divisoria.

Other than a few occasions, I do not have much memories of Divisoria - much unlike the many happy, although sometimes embarrassing, memories of Nanay in the Pasig Public Market. I used to dread Saturdays, when Nanay would drag me out of bed early in morning to go to the Pasig public market. Pateros folks, for some strange reason, prefer to take the jeepney ride all the way to Pasig instead of going to the small market by the river. Well, maybe that's the reason - there are more choices in Pasig compared to the almost empty stalls in the Pateros market.

Nanay would always ask me to sit on her lap on the jeepney, even when there was enough space for me to sit on, so that we only have to pay for one seat. Nanay calls everyone in the Pasig Market "Suki", be it the meat, fish, vegetable or dry goods vendor. Much later when I was older and understood better, I learned that calling them "Suki" gave her the license to ask for embarrassinly huge discounts. I always cringed when she would ask the vendors to sell to her at more than half the price. But as a testament to her bargaining prowess, she would almost always get her way anyway. She even perfected the art of pretending to walk away from a deal if she did not get her discount, with the vendor almost always calling her back and giving in to her price.

In fact I learned my first business lesson from her right in the market. When I would tell her that "kawawa naman yung tindera, baka nalulugi na", she would assure me that vendors will not sell anything without at least a decent profit, if not from her, then from someone else. That made an impression on me. and had always been in my mind when dealing with contractors and suppliers, or with clients if I happen to be the one selling. Business is always give and take - you give to some, you take from the others but always leave something for yourself.

Me and Nanay would hie off to the market at least once a week for many more years until I went to Baguio for college. She would always have the week's menu in mind, and would methodically and systematically comb through the huge market - starting with the meat section, then chicken, fish and vegetables. When she and Tatay finally decided to settle in the US, I would go to the same market on my own. As I pass from one stall to the next, the vendors would ask me where Nanay was, and how she was doing. It was then that I realized that she really did cultivate real relationships with the people in the market. She knew each one of them personally, and her relationship with them went beyond the bargains.

Looking back now, little did I know that those market trips to Divisoria and the Pasig would have a lasting and significant effect on how I now deal with my business associates and clients. Nanay was my first and most influential business mentor, and whatever business lessons I put into good use all started in those trips to the market.

The Nanay Chronicles

On 08 November 2008, our family will commemorate the 10th year of the passing of our dearly missed mother, Maria Enriquez Concepcion. Nanay, as she was fondly called by everyone, including her grandchildren and friends of her children, was a woman of fortitude, courage and grit. Her simple life left extra-ordinary marks on people whose lives she had touched.

In honor of this extra-ordinary human being, I am running a series of personal recollection and reflection on my beloved Nanay. I may never be able to do justice to her life's achievements, but hopefully through this series of reflections, I can perpetuate her memory and the lessons of her life for generations of my family.

To my dearest Nanay, wherever you are now, allow me to indulge you on this humble tribute. For my Tatay and the rest of the family, thank you for always keeping Nanay's memory alive in our hearts and our lives. Her presence in our lives keeps this family together, even as we faced the many challenges in life.

Dying Young

This will be a quick post. I have actually started a couple of other posts the past months, but all have remained as drafts. Some were on the early stages, a few need only a paragraph or two to wrap up. Much as I wanted to, I could not bring myself to put the final touches and publish them. Perhaps my muse had left me?

I sit in front of my computer today, a Muslim holiday marking the end of Ramadan. I am thinking, maybe I should also stop my abstinence from writing on my blog and start anew. Maybe I should go back to the drafts of my unpublished entries and finish them once and for all. Or maybe I should write about something new on my mind?

In a month's time, my family from the US will be descending on our little town for my mother's 10th death anniversary. We will also celebrate my father's 83rd birthday, and my brother's 50th. Throw in the November 1/2 observance of All Souls and All Saints, and it will indeed be a celebration of life and death - the inevitable cycle for all of us.

So why the melodramatic title of this post?

A little over a week ago, I got a text message from a good friend from San Francisco, in sunny California. He was using his Philippine number, which made me suspect that he was actually in the Philippines. Well, turned out he really was. He came home, rather abruptly, to attend to a very sick sister. He did not see her alive anymore. She died one day before his scheduled flight, and she was only 44 years old.

If you asked me twenty years ago, I would say that would be a good age to pass on - in fact a bit too late. In my younger years, I would fancy dying before the age of forty. I thought there's just too many problems in the world, and by the time I reached that age I would have achieved what I needed to accomplish, plus some more - good or bad. There is no need to plod on and see my skin all wrinkled. That would not have looked good on me as I lay on an open casket. All those movies about dying young and leaving everyone bereaved and devastated had the hopeless romantic in me all fired up. I imagined myself in the peak of my life, shining brightly in a firmament full of stars dimmed by my brilliance - and then suddenly disappearing in a burst of luminous shower in the sky. Talk about drama!

But here I am, all of 43 years old and looking forward to growing old gracefully - never mind the wrinkles and aching joints. Well, it helped that the Church is now more open to cremation, and I do not have to worry about people talking about my wrinkles as they view my remains. They would be raving about my Photoshopped portrait instead! I have seen the light.

Over recent years, I have grown fond of reading through the obituaries and found special interest on people who died young. When I am in the memorial park, or when I had to attend wakes in chapels or funeral parlors, I would look around and check for people who died young. I would imagine how they died, and what could have been of the people they left behind. Did they die of accidents? Or did they die of lingering illnesses? Could there have been foul play? Or maybe they took their own lives?

How did those they left behind cope with their early departure? What if they have a young family, with kids deprived of a parent? As the youngest in the brood, if fate would take its natural course, I will have the unpleasant task of burying my parents and my siblings. I already went through burying my mother 10 years ago, and it was such a painful experience that the melancholy still lingers up to this time. I dread the day of the inevitable.

Maybe that was partly the reason for my fascination for dying young. Subconsciously, I may have wanted to escape that dreadful task. I want people to cry for me, to pine for my presence, to wax eloquent about my worthy life in a heartfelt eulogy during my memorial service. My fate is otherwise. If I would be blessed with a long life, I would be standing by the coffins of all those dear to me, crying for them, pining for them and feeling all alone. Dying young would have been more dramatic - romantic even.

But the years weave its magic on weary souls like mine. Warts and all, life has been good to me. As we add numbers and digits to our ages, we acquire a different appreciation for our lives. As we mature, we start looking at mistakes as lessons, challenges as opportunities and failures as just another reason to try harder next time. Love gained and lost through the many colorful episodes of our lives give a different dimension to the endless cycle of sleeping and waking up. The days when we look forward to waking up to a new day, and the forlorn days when we hope the morning never comes - all these makes life such a wonderful and joyful journey into the unknown. And it can all end in a snap.

I always say yes whenever people ask me if I am ready to go. But the truth is, I am not. Not that I am not ready, but its just that I do not want to go. Not yet anyway. In fact, I am enjoying life so much I want to live forever if I can. Maybe God designed it that way, that our lives can be taken from us at anytime - even at the least expected time, so we can learn to appreciate each day and each moment. So we can take time to look at the scenery as we travel through life, talk to people, love them - even hate them if we must. Each day, each experience, each person bring lessons that enrich our own lives, and each new day is more exciting than the previous day - if only for the fact that you are still alive. Who would want to die young?

Like power, life is addictive the longer we have it.

Bite Me!

Some pleasant surprises.

Today, I had my last shot of anti-rabies vaccine. I had to leave a conference call at a little past three in the afternoon to catch my 4:30PM appointment at the RITM in Alabang. There was traffic near Magallanes, as usual, and it was almost four when I got into the SLEX. Surprise, surprise... there was no traffic all the way to Alabang and I made it to my appointment with the last needle.

So off to Window Number 2 again, to see Ms. Grouchy Nurse. She was all smiles today, and even managed a jolly "Good afternoon!". I smiled back, returned the greeting and handed her my Orange Card. She wrote down the usual stuff on the prescription paper.

"You will pay only the consultation fee of fifty pesos. The vaccine is free.", and with the sweetest smile she asked me to proceed to the cashier, and then to the pharmacy.

After paying and submitting the prescription, I returned to the now transformed Ms. Sweet Nurse of Window Number 2. She handed me my number card. I was Patient Number 75. And so the final wait officially commenced.

In less than a few minutes, the voice on the loudspeaker blurted out, "Number 75!" I, Dennis E. Concepcion, nearing 43 years old, had become but a number in this facility. I surrendered my number card and entered the injection room for the last time. Another surprise await me. There were quite a few more doctors around, with nameplates saying "Participant" dangling from their necks.

"Wow, am I now Specimen Number 75?" I must have looked at them with curious stares, so Ms. Alpha Nurse offered an explanation.

"You are so lucky. There is a seminar today and your vaccines are free. Doc here is going to set up a bite center in their place." That explains the discounted fees. And I thought Ms. Grouchy Nurse turned Ms. Sweet Nurse was just glad to send me off after my last shot, never to be seen again in that facility.

I glanced at the middle-aged man with old-fashioned eyeglasses, checkered shirt and perma-pressed pants. I wanted to ask Ms. Alpha Nurse if she was sure Dr. Checkered Shirt was a real doctor and not a veterinarian. I crossed my fingers and prayed he learned enough in the seminar not to prick me in the wrong places.

First needle on the left arm, the second on the right. It was all over in a couple of minutes. Ms. Alpha Nurse told me not to lose my Orange Card, as if it was a badge of honor - or a Purple Heart for being wounded in combat.

"Your vaccination is good for three years. You can have yourself bitten by dogs as much as you want!". With that, she sent me off, reminding me to hang around for a while to make sure there will be no allergic reaction.

Three years of immunity. I felt like a Survivor castaway earning the immunity talisman for winning the challenges. Over a month of regular shots, no alcohol, and driving all the way to Alabang to catch my late afternoon appointments - all because of a tinnie-winnie dog bite gone awful. But all that is behind me now, and I can look forward to three years of worry-free dealings with dogs. I wonder if they have similar vaccines for annoying people?

So bite me. I'm 100% rabies-free.

Of Dog Bites And A Boy Named Kelly - Chapter 2

Our little story continues.

Kelly is a six-year old boy I met at the Research Institute for Tropical Medicine (RITM) in Alabang, where I went to for my anti-rabies and anti-tetanus injections. I came in a little past ten on a Monday morning, and the place was simply chaotic. The amiable guard at the front entrance explained that people may not be aware that the facility is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for new patients, thus people who got bitten by animals during the weekend tend to wait until Monday to go there.

It was already past the 11AM cut-off time when I got through the initial registration process. There were three of us - me, Kelly with his grandmother and a little girl with her mommy, daddy, auntie and grandmother. We were told to take our lunch and get back before 2PM. Since RITM sits on an isolated hill, we have no other choice but to wait it out in the facility's spacious compound. Not a bad option after all, as it overlooks the Ayala-Alabang Golf Course and the sprawling Filinvest City.

That was when I met Kelly and his Lola. We filled out and submitted our patient's registration at just about the same time. When we were told that it was already cut-off time, I and his Lola tried to convince the nurse to accommodate us before they close for lunch, but to no avail. This common predicament started off our conversation.

Kelly, I found out, was bitten by his own pet dog. He was staying up late at night playing computer games when he went out of the room to take a pee. Unfortunately, he stepped on his sleeping dog, a huge Labrador, and the startled dog bit him on reflex, with it's fangs lodging on his back side. According to their story, the dog quickly withdrew when it realized that it was Kelly he had attacked. Moral of the story: even pets can be dangerous.

We decided to take our lunch together at the canteen in the adjacent building. It was a huge hall overlooking rolling hills and the golf course - not bad for a government hospital canteen. The food was not bad either, and considering the cost, it's a good bargain. It was during lunch, with the magnificent view of the rolling hills and the gentle breeze on our hair, that I got to know more of Kelly's story through his Lola.

Kelly's mother was her eldest child, the pride and joy of her parents - a school achiever who graduated with a degree of Foreign Service. She got married early though, with her childhood sweetheart. When Kelly was barely a year old, she progressively lost her eyesight. After hopping from one hospital to another, their world came crumbling down when it was confirmed that both her kidneys were deteriorating abnormally fast.

The failing eyesight, it turned out, was because her high blood pressure had burst the blood vessels of her retina. Both her kidneys soon stopped functioning. From then on, she had been in and out of the hospital, with blood transfusion and hemo dialysis becoming a daily routine. Their story was all too familiar for someone whose own mother had to contend with kidney problems.

She spoke about how she had to learn how to administer peritoneal dialysis, how her daughter slips in and out coma, of the endless wait for a kidney donor. She spoke of the emotional distress, of not knowing how it will all end, of just wanting to do anything - try anything to save her daughter's young life. Tears fell from her eyes when she spoke of their final surrender, when her child, her frail body on the verge of giving up, asked that she be allowed to go and rest.

She was tired and guilty that she had caused so much distress and suffering - emotionally and financially, to her family. Kelly was there anyway, he will take her place. She just wanted to give up the fight. It was a valiant fight - but one they could never hope to win. Even if as a daughter and a young mother, she was not ready, she surrendered everything to God's will, and asked that her parents do the same.

Suddenly, there was a connection between me and the woman across the table. As she was telling me her story, her daughter's story, I recalled my own mother's struggle with diabetes and all its complications. She was telling my own story from another perspective! If I were devastated with losing my mother, there is nothing more heartbreaking than a mother burying the child she bore in her womb and nurtured through the years.

I remembered our own struggles as a family when our dear Nanay was admitted to the hospital for the last time. Sometimes, in our desire to hold on to our love ones for as long as we can, we tend to overlook the pain and suffering that they have to go through. When Kelly's mother died, it took years for those she left behind to recover and accept the fact that she is gone. I remember my own struggles, the many regrets for lost opportunities to express love and gratitude, the many "if only" that kept playing in my mind.

We found ourselves sharing our experiences during those difficult days after the passing of loved ones. Hers was a firsthand experience of a mother seeing her daughter slip away right before her very eyes. Mine was of a son, many miles and oceans away, trying to hold unto a fading hope of recovery for a mother who gave so much for her family. The scene was surreal, with both of us looking far into the horizon even as we spoke with tears streaming down from our eyes. I had tried to hold back the tears, but eventually had to let it go.

But it felt so good. I felt a certain lightness in my being just talking with her - a total stranger who shares a common experience of loss. It was only after five years that she was able to bring out again the pictures of her daughter, and she had come to accept her untimely departure. After all, she has two other children, and Kelly, to take care of. Kelly's father had gone abroad and started a new family, although he still keeps in touch. She had no ill-feelings about his decision. He is still young, and she does not take it against him to find happiness of his own. She said she makes it a point to explain to Kelly why his grandparents have to raise him as their own son. He seemed to understand, even at a very young age.

At a little past 1PM, we went back together to the Animal Bite Center. There were already many people waiting at the reception area, even more than there were in the morning when we first came in. Kelly's name and mine were called one after the other at around 3PM. We sat across each other while waiting for the nurses to prepare the syringes to be used for the skin test, two each for both of us.

He asked me, quite nonchalantly, "Are you afraid?"

Wanting to be honest and to somehow assuage his fear, I replied to him, "A little bit. Are you?"

"No, not all. My Lola said it will just be like the bite of a little ant." Enough of assuaging the fears of a little kid. I had clearly underestimated his guts.

We were both secretly throwing glances at each other when the nurses finally pricked the skins on our arms and injected the serum. If it was supposed to be like an ant's bite, as Kelly's Lola had claimed, it sure was an ant the size of a dog. The serum was painful! But Kelly stood his ground and his face was without any trace of fear or hurt.

What choice do a grown up man have against such a show of grit? I have to step up to the plate and pretend as if I did not feel any pain myself. The skin tests produced two small humps on our arms, and the nurses drew circles around them with labels and the time we have to come back to have it examined prior to the actual injections. We went out of the room together, and decided to wait out the time outside the building.

While his Lola busied herself with talking with another woman who accompanied a neighbor's rather unkempt kid, Kelly sat down with me on the porch by the building's driveway. We compared the needle pricks on our arms and he asked me what the labels were for. I told him it was to determine if we will have any allergic reactions to the injections that will come later.

Fear. I finally saw a glimpse of fear on his face. He thought the two test injections were just about it, and then he can go. He called for his Lola and asked if they can just go home. He said he is tired and sleepy, and besides, the wound has healed. His Lola prevailed upon him to stay put, assuring him that the injections will be less painful that the skin tests. When his Lola left to resume her conversation with the other woman, Kelly turned to me again.

"You know, my dog had vaccines. And the wound is already healing. I'm okay now. Do you think I still need to get injections? Can I go home now?" Kelly, the little brave boy, was betrayed by fear in his eyes.

"Are you afraid now? You were a brave boy a while ago. You did not cry like the others."

Looking down on his slippers, he said softly, "It actually hurt a lot, a lot more than the dog bite itself. I did not cry because I told you I will not. And you did not cry either, so I just pretended it did not hurt."

"It is okay to cry if it really hurts. You do not have to worry about me or the others. Did you see the other kids? They were all crying and shouting like pigs being slaughtered." He then lifted up his face, looked at me, then let out a faint smile.

"Are you rich? You have a car, you must be rich." I told him I am not, that I need the car for my work and to get around.

"My Lola said I should study hard so I can get rich and buy my own car. I am an honor student! Maybe I can be like you when I grow up?" Then he rattled off his grades - very impressive. I would have been proud if I were his father.

"Do you have a family? Why did you come here alone? Do you also have a son?" The questions are shooting out from his mouth one after the other.

"Yes, I have a family - my father and my brothers and sisters. But I do not have a wife and children. " I was struggling with the right words to say. I was not ready for a father-and-son type of conversation. They do not teach this in management school!

"Oh! Like me! I don't have a mama and papa, but Lola and Lolo love me very much. And I have my aunties and uncles. My mama died when I was a baby." His voice was happy. but I can see the sadness in his eyes.

"You are one lucky boy! Your Lola is great. I'm sure she loves you very much."

"Yes, but I wish I have a mama too, like my classmates. Why is your mama not with you now?"

"My mother also died almost 10 years ago." Suddenly, it seems like I was talking to myself as a little boy. "Like your mama, she had problems with her kidney."

Nanay would have been there with me had she been around, as she had always been.

When I was in fifth or sixth grade (don't ask me why I can't remember correctly now - blame it on three-letter word that starts with "a"), our school organized a 3-day Boy Scout's Camp-out. The camping ground was not very far from where we live, but it required us to stay for two nights and 3 days. As such, we were required to undergo a medical examination by the school doctor to make sure we are fit enough for the activities.

After the doctor had examined me, he had a worried look on his face when he spoke with my teacher. He had detected a murmur in my heartbeat and suspected symptoms of rheumatic heart disease. I cannot be allowed to join my fellow scouts, classmates and friends all, for my first ever camp-out. Me and my friends were frustrated as we were all looking forward to this event. Everyone passed the medical examination, except me.

I was crestfallen. I cried all the way back home. I told my Nanay about what the doctor said. I pleaded for her to ask the doctor and my teachers to allow me to join my classmates. She went back with me to the school. The doctor told her that he was worried I may not be fit enough for the physical activities. My mother spoke with my teachers as well. I do not know how she did it, but she managed to convince them to let me join my troop. I was overjoyed.

I had a wonderful time camping out with my friends and other boy scouts from different schools. I can't recall now if she stayed at the camp the entire time, but I do remember that Nanay would always be around during those 3 days, staying with teachers at the faculty tent. She stayed out of sight most of the time though, but I knew she was just there, always making sure that she was around in case anything went wrong with me. She was my angel then as she is now that she is in heaven.

My Nanay loved me enough to protect me and make sure no harm will come my way, but she loved me even more by allowing me space to grow and discover the world on my own.

"Do you remember her? I only saw my mama in pictures. But I love her very much. Lola said my mama loves me very much too." I looked at Kelly and wish he would always remember his own words when he grows up.

"Have you been a good boy?"

"Yes!", he quickly said, then let out an impish smile. "Well, sometimes I am not. Is that why I got bitten by our dog and had to be injected?"

"No, of course not. Sometimes things happen even if we do not want to. But you have to learn from them, so they will not happen again." He nodded, then fidgeted with his fingers.

Just then, the street kid accompanied by the woman speaking with Kelly's Lola came out of the facility and played around the driveway. He was dirty, barefoot and malnourished. He was oblivious of the warnings from the guard and other people. Apparently, he was attacked by the woman's dog when he taunted it. The kid was eleven years old, but was only as big as six-year old Kelly.

"Will I be like him because of the dog bite?" He had a worried look on his face, throwing glances at the other kid. He thought the kid had gone sick and crazy because of rabies.

"No, you will not end up like him because many people love you. Your Lola will always take care of you."

He let out a wide grin on his face. "And my mama too! Lola said mama is always watching over me. I do not see her, but she is my angel in heaven." I smiled back at him, and remembered my own angel in heaven.

When it was time to have the injections, he went in first. I was expecting a loud cry from him, like all the other kids who had theirs. There was none. After a few minutes, my name was called and I was asked to come into the injection room. I met Kelly on his way out. He asked that I stoop down so he can whisper something to my ear.

"It really hurts. But its okay. I'm a grown up now. Don't cry when it's your turn, ok?" With that, he waved goodbye to me.

As I sat through the seven injections for that initial session, I had Kelly on my mind. The little boy who loved his mother even if he could not even remember how she looked like, the little boy who was not afraid of anything because he put all his trust in the unconditional love and protection of his mother.

As the nurse buried each needle deep into my muscles, I took the pain as little Kelly did - bravely and without fear. He did his mother proud. I was not about to fail my own.


Postscript: This blog entry is dedicated to the mothers in my family, most especially to our dear Nanay. It's been almost 10 years since she passed on and left us bereaved, but her memory lives on. On this Mother's Day, I pay tribute to her and all the women who made all of us possible.

Of Dog Bites And A Boy Named Kelly - Chapter 1

This is a story about dogs and a little boy named Kelly.

First, the dogs.

As far as I remember, I've always had dogs for pets. My last pet dog, Jasper, passed away last February 14, Valentines Day. I used to play around with him a lot when he was younger, but when he got older, his thin coat of sharp fur caused an allergic reaction on my skin. For a dog who loves to stand on his two rear legs and wrap the other two around me, I needed to keep my distance. I generally get along very well with dogs, except for those that roam the streets and who would bark at and threaten everyone who would pass by. With these dogs around, I would call on the intercession of San Roque for protection.

Over the weekend, Sunday to be exact, I got invited to a birthday dinner for a friend. I was pleasantly surprised to see many dogs in the house. One dog in particular, a Japanese Spitz, freely mixed with the guests. We sat around in the living room, munching on finger foods and birthday noodles. I did not notice the dog beside me and had carelessly dropped my right arm by the side of the sofa chair I was sitting at. My arms must have startled the dog and he let out a sharp yelp and then snapped at my hands. In one instant, my hand became the finger food.

It was not painful at all, or maybe my hand just got numbed as blood flowed freely from the deep wound on my palm. I washed the wound with flowing water and let it bleed, alternately washing it with soap. Betadine completed the first-aid routine, and in no time at all, I was enjoying the party again. It somehow eased my apprehensions knowing that the dog had it's anti-rabies vaccination just six months before. But at the back of my mind, I knew I could never be sure. Visions of dogs roaming aimlessly, with mouth foaming and eyes bloodshot red kept my mind off the conversations. Worse, what if i get infected?

The morning after, the wound was visibly swollen. When my brother, who is a doctor, saw it he immediately sent me to the Research Institute for Tropical Medicine (RITM) in Alabang. The doctor who examined me was relieved that the dog was vaccinated, but she was worried about the swelling. I had not started howling, but what she just said sounded like bad news for me. My worst fear came true when she started scribbling not just one, but several prescriptions. And as if adding insult to injury, I was told that the dosage is based on my weight. How cruel can this world be?

We started with two shots on the right arm for skin tests against allergies. Though the needles were relatively smaller, the serum definitely had a bite! After a few minutes, when they were sure I will have no allergic reactions, we started with the real thing.

Watching the nurse prepare the syringes, I tried convincing myself that they were not all for me. I am to receive a total of seven shots in different parts of the body in one session. Tough luck. They were all for me. All seven of them. With most of the patients being kids, I needed to put up a brave front. I can't have my screams drown out the cries of the little kids in the injection room. So for a few moments of glory, I steeled myself and prepared to take on the shots one after the other.

We started with the left arm, then on the right. By the time she went for the left leg, then the right, and then lunged into my left buttock before giving the coup de grace in the wounds on both sides of my right hand, my body had somehow responded with a rush of adrenalin to help me cope with the pain. It was all over in less than ten minutes.

But the pain was not on the needles pricking deep into my body parts. It was more of the what ifs that have been playing on my mind on that fateful night of the bite. What if I had not gone to the party? What if I had not sat down on that chair? What if I just stuck to singing out of tune on the karaoke box instead of munching on the foods on the table? What if they just kept the dogs out of the house? What if I just took antibiotics and observed the dog before going through all these needle-pricking business? So many what ifs!

But the truth is, life is simply too precious to take for granted. Boring as it may be most of the time, it still feels wonderful to wake up each morning. And so, I am not about to take any chances when it comes to making sure life will be always beautiful for me and those around me. I do not want any of my families or friends worrying about a crazy old fat man getting out of his mind. No way, I will not leave this world in such ignomous exit.

Allow me then to stop my what ifs and do my civic duty instead. Part of the treatment is educating people on the dangers of rabies infection. First, some basic facts that we need to be aware of:

1. Rabies are not the exclusive domain of dogs. Most animals, including cats and most mammals, have rabies.
2. Rabies are not transmitted by bites only. An animal infected with the rabies virus can also infect a person through scratches or if saliva gets in contact with an open wound.
3. Rabies can remain dormant, or in latent state, for months or years. If you do not show signs of infection right after a suspected transmission, it does not mean you did not get the rabies.
4. When bitten or attacked by an animal, let the wound bleed by itself. Wash the would with soap on clean running water. When the bleeding had subsided, apply Betadine on the wound and proceed to the nearest Animal Bite Center in your area. Better yet, go to the Research Institute for Tropical Medicine (RITM) in Alabang. They have excellent facilities and great doctors and nurses.
5. DO NOT put garlic on the wound, as old people will ask you to do. Garlic will stunt the healing of the wound.
6. DO NOT kill the animal that bit you. If the animal does not belong to you, make sure you make arrangements for the owner to observe the animal for at least 14 days. Things that you need to look out for:
• sudden change in behavior
• urge to bite into anything
• frothing in the mouth due to excess saliva
• restlessness and agressiveness
  
• running without direction
• loss of appetite for food and water due to difficulty in swallowing
7. If the animal shows any of the above signs, it will be better to bring it to a veterinarian to be examined. If the animal dies, DO NOT eat or bury it. Chopped off the head and secure it in a plastic container with lots of ice to prevent decomposition. Bring it right away to RITM for examination.
8. DO NOT take chances. There is no wound or scratch that is too small for an infection. If you get bitten or scratched, proceed to the nearest Animal Bite Clinic, or to the RITM where I went to, and get your anti-rabies and anti-tetanus shots.
   
9. DO NOT drink any alcohol, or take steroids and medication for malaria while getting shots for anti-rabies. Be mindful of what you feel. Report any excessive itchiness of the skin, or fevers that would not go away.
10. DO NOT be afraid of needles - all sizes! You will deal with them all throughout the treatment sessions. As your momma would tell you - it's just like a bite from a small ant...

There you go - the ten commandments of dealing with dog bites, from someone who learned it the hard way.

Now, you may ask me, "What about the little boy named Kelly?". That would be in Chapter 2.

Meantime, stay safe and healthy. Awwwwwwoooooooooooo!