For the Better
Before I left for Gubat, we visited a friend's father in Philippine General Hospital (PGH). He had two cardiac arrests and was already relying on a machine to breathe properly. He had this long, white elastic hose bandaged around his mouth, and a couple of transparent, narrow tubes that wound around his arms. The nurse was feeding him through his nose with food that must have been put in a blender earlier. His bed jumped with his chest every time he gasped for air. His eyes were closed, he could only flap his right arm and bend his right knee.

I stared at him. I stared at him for what seemed like hours. I listened to the creaking of his bed when he fought for air. I smelled the tonic-like waft that came from the used up bottles of medicine beside his bed. I sensed the tightening of his muscles when he tried to move his arms and legs. Yet I felt so distant.

I saw my father on the bed in an orange hospital gown. Fighting for his life. With bags of blood being transfused into his dying body. Needles piercing his yellow skin.

Around eight hours after we arrived here in Gubat, I received a text message from my friend. Her father finally gave up.

Maybe it is for the better. Maybe it is.