The Real Illness

He lay inside the pink mosquito net on a rickety bed near the window, pale and thin. He would turn over to the window to welcome the new day. He would do it slowly, afraid that the legs of the bed might give in. He would do it every morning when the sun comes out on the horizon. At night before sleeping, he would face away from the window. It had a benefit to him because when he coughed and needed to spit phlegm, he would just reach the tin can under his bed. It was better than to spit through the window and somebody would spot him. But the coughing did not hide the illness.

In the morning, his worried mother would go upstairs to serve his breakfast. A glass of milk and a platter of rice with a sunny-side-up egg. The only affordable menu with the nutrients his body needed to fight the infection.

Inside his chest, he could feel the pain, like it was being punctured with needles. Once in a while, there were sudden jabs. He felt like the air he was taking in didn’t reach the lungs because the pain blocked it. And when he inhaled deeply, he could feel a sharp pain in the part beside the heart. At first, he thought it was his heart that was ill. And it was, metaphorically.

The doctor initially concluded that it could be tuberculosis or pneumonia.

“Son, don’t worry.” His mother looked at him, full of hope in the eyes. “Either it’s TB or pneumonia we will do everything to cure it.”

He looked at her, thinking about how she had sacrificed to send him to college. He also thought that his time was near. He wanted to take care of her when she became old. But he didn’t know if he would still live. The only thing he knew inside his heart was the hope to live. For his mother.

The doctor called them in. They settled on the chairs facing each other across his table. In his hand was the X-ray result. “‘We need to get sputum test.” The doctor glanced at his mother, then at him. “I believe it’s TB, but we need to be sure.”

His mother was considering the doctor, taking in every detail he had to say.

The doctor drew out a tiny cup with a lid from the drawer. He gave it to him.

He took it. The tiny cup reminded him of the city, the time when he was with his girlfriend when they dined in at McDonald’s. The cup looked like the one used for gravy. He winced at the memory. He slowly got to his feet and went to the comfort room. Inside, he coughed hard while holding his aching chest. Then, he collected sputum.

***

He and his mother waited in the lobby for an hour.

“Are you hungry, son?” said his mother. They hadn’t eaten breakfast when they left home and took a two-hour ride to the capital town.

He shook his head. “No appetite, mother,” he said, hard-breathing apparent.

“Be strong, son. Nowadays the illness you have is curable.” She glanced through the clinic entrance to the passing vehicles. “Your father had tuberculosis, but it was cured. It was in the ’80s. The one that took his life was Cirrhosis. He was a heavy drinker.”

The door of the doctor’s office creaked open.

His mother rose to her feet to meet the doctor, who was holding the diagnosis and prescription.

“Here’s the result.” The doctor paused and looked at him. “It’s tuberculosis,” he declared in a whisper. And then, he explained the prescription.

***

Before they took the public bus bound home, they went to Mercury Drugstore and bought the prescribed medicines. Afterward, they headed to a small cafeteria at the bus station nearby the coast.

The thick smoke curled up and vanished in the wind in a clear summer sky. They could smell barbeque in the air. But he seemed unresponsive to it. Clatters of utensils and buzzes of diners filled in the surroundings as they entered the cafeteria. She looked for a vacant table and found one near the window that overlooked the seashore. They sat down and she called the server. She ordered two sticks of chicken barbecue, two cups of rice, and two bottles of Coke.

They were seated, facing each other. He was staring down at the seashore where bangkas rested off the dancing waves.

“I used to dine in here,” she said in a cheerful tone. “There’s a college up there near the capitol building. You can continue your studies after your 6-month medication. It’s better for us because you can go home anytime.”

He knew she was right. When he was in the city, it would take a month or two before he could go home. It would also take him six hours to get home by bus. It made him missed home so much. He was so attached to his mother that people would say he was a mama’s boy. He didn’t accept the comments, because whenever he had challenges, he would face it independently. Except for the challenge right now. Sick and broken-hearted.

“You’re right, mother.” He put a towel to his mouth and coughed uncontrollably while keeping his eyes from other diners.

“Son, many famous people have this illness,” she murmured. “Like the second president of the Philippines, Manuel Quezon. Nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve done nothing that hurt people’s feelings. So don’t be shy.”

Hurt feelings. The phrase hit his mind. He stared out blankly farther into the sea. He never caused pain to anyone, he was certain of that. But now he was in pain. Someone had caused it. He thought of his ex-girlfriend and felt the pain more. He swallowed the lump that formed in the throat and it made him cough hard. He did not want his mother to learn the real reason for the illness.

“I’m sorry, mother,” he said like how he had said it to himself when he was in his boarding house weeping alone at night.

“Why, son?”

“Oh, nothing.”

A mother knows what’s in the heart of her child. “What worries you, son?”

He was silent saved for his heavy breathing that produced a whistling sound.

“Don’t worry too much about anything. We need to recover your health.”

He nodded in agreement.

Their order arrived at the table. They then ate. She emptied her plate while he compellingly consumed the tasteless food. After they finished the meal, they went out to the bus. She held him in the upper arm protectively, like a hen covering its chicks with its wings to avoid being seen by a hawk. She helped him as they climbed onto the bus. She let him sit near the window before she sat beside him. The tiresome breathing made him slump against the chair of the bus. He leaned to her shoulder. And then she rubbed his arm with comfort.

At night, before he slept, she went upstairs to check on him. He pretended to be asleep. When she went back downstairs, he cried silently. Tears rolled down from the corners of his eyes, damping the pillow. He thought of how he ended up helpless. He thought of how his ex-girlfriend left him without proper talk but a blunt I don’t love you anymore and goodbye. Her words echoed in his ears and it felt like he was imprisoned down the well. At last, the thoughts faded out when his eyes became tired.

The next morning, his mother woke him up to eat breakfast and go to the seashore. The elders said it was good to stay in the seashore to shower his body in the morning sunlight. They also said that taking a bath in the sea early morning was good for cough. Though he did not have any idea if it had worked with others, he did so to get well.

In the seashore, he sat down on the sand and looked at the waves dancing against the morning light. He thought about how to fight the illness. He wanted to see the morning light again. To savor the fresh air, he was taking in now. And he needed to take care of his mother. He must let her go, the one who had caused the real illness. Although it was also his fault because he got easily affected by her decision. The breakup had made him drink hard with his friends in the city until morning. Had made him forget to eat on time in a day. Had made him stay awake at night because it disheartened him too much that he couldn’t sleep. And had even made him think once to end his life. But then he saw his mother’s gentle smile. It enlightened him and gave him hope to move on with his life. It was not yet the end of everything for him.

He wanted to forget everything about his ex-girlfriend. If he could only take her out of his memory, he would do it for his mother. It was impossible, yet he must get through it. And so, he wrote a letter of goodbye.

… this could be my last letter to you. I’m not expecting a reply. I just want to get things done formally between us, as they should be.

You never talked to me and gave me a chance. You’re unfair. I have been true to you and I have so many plans for us in the future. But I think you’ve never valued them. You’ve disregarded all of them. You’ve taken me for granted.

I must go on with my life and forget everything about us. To speak the truth, it’s kind of hard for me.

Thank you for coming into my life and for teaching me how to be strong.

Goodbye and take care…

He folded the stationery. Unlike before, tears did not drop this time. He looked at the laminated photo of his mother plastered on the wall of his bedroom. For the first time since he’d been home, he smiled a genuine smile and whispered to himself, I will live for you, mother.