"You can't be a woman," Intern 1 said, shaking his head in disbelief. "To think this is your first time." Kinda sexist, I thought, but that moment I chose to take his remark as a compliment.
It was that early morning when I had my endoscopy, for which I had to painfully swallow a long tube (as thick as what my esophagus could fit in) attached to a camera that roamed the whole of my digestive labyrinth. I swear up to now I could still feel the tube scratching my innards, as if struggling to find its way out of my navel. (Had pride been tangible, maybe swallowing it could almost accurately be like this Grey's Anatomy moment.) Despite going through the process solo and the fear of what could’ve possibly been propagating inside my belly for so long, I had to woman* it up and get it over with so I won't have to go back to step 1 and swallow the damn thing all over again.
There were no stones found, contrary to what my gastroenterologist suspected. But late last night--the second to the last day of my two-week medication--I was writhing in that all-too-familiar pain once again, wishing for just another heartache to attack mercilessly (heck, even multiply that by 20), in place of this torment haunting me for the past 13 years. It didn't help at all that I was also nursing a mean--and in my case, rare--cold-cough-insomnia trifecta, the first two of which I probably get once every two years, I kid you not. ("We're not getting any younger, that's why," said my life coach in her usual all-knowing manner.) In times like this, all I need is that one seemingly magical burp that would free me from the hours-long ordeal. It's not like I'm asking for corruption to end in the Philippines. In times like this, too, I remember all those punks from some random gag show burp out their ABCs with the slightest effort. Totally not comforting.
I gotta tell you, a broken heart doesn't compare to this motherfucker called gastritis. When your heart breaks into shards (or at least in a few's case), it's an event you've somehow anticipated as the relationship progresses. You discover your partner's flaws in chronological order: quirks you find endearing, mistakes you can tolerate thanks to unconditional love, offenses you choose to live with because you hope things will get better eventually. Then comes the deal breaker and the whole thing turns into dominoes in just a snap. But you're okay, and it's not a miracle. You just underestimated the strong person you've always been.
My sickness, however, just grabs me by the guts and knots them into every permutation possible. I could be giving Oprah the double hand grip as I tell her how I managed to bring Zuckerberg down by billions; or approaching climax delivered by my "buddy" Jake Gyllenhaal--it doesn't give a fuck. If it wants to inflict pain, it will, and will do so in technicolor.
I walked out of endoscopy to find my friend waiting for me outside.
"You're late," I rolled my eyes at him.
"As usual."
"And what the hell are you doing waiting for me at the Breast Clinic?!" Laughter.
"I'm gonna be okay."
"Have you paid yet?"
And there goes the moment. Not to mention more than half my month's salary.
As with heartaches and physical pain, there's always relief in whatever form: friends, independence, Nexium 40mg. You suffer in silence, but for years and years of being through shit, you know you'll still live. Because sooner or later, you're gonna let that one loud burp out. I should know--I just did.
*species whose threshold for pain make it possible to give life even to the most sexist of pigs
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