The day I gave birth to a fish

I am now a parent to a baby fish. I “gave birth” to it early morning two Tuesdays ago. I labored for two days. And how!

I didn’t know how I got “pregnant.” It just happened. It’s preposterous to say “Immaculate Conception.” God forbid. God absolve me of the sin of even thinking of that. Sacrilegious me!

I got pregnant without signs. Like a thief in the night, the “culprit” came and left me with a gaping wound that is now in stitches. That’s the wound where my baby fish emerged. I now have a binder, if only it will prove that a binder will help me demonstrate that indeed I just gave birth.

That’s the end of my illusion. Now for the real story.

Three Fridays ago, after we finished closing the pages of Allure quite early, I met up with a friend in Greenbelt 3 to watch the last full show of The Wolf of Wall Street. After the movie, we had a supper of hot and cold ramen at Isshin on Pasay Road. Then off we went home.

The following day was a normal Saturday. No signs of me “getting pregnant.” Well, I attended a children’s party and was very merry to witness one joyful event. Then, before night dropped its cloak, I headed home to Cabuyao. In my barrio of Gulod, I was able to go to three wakes that night. I hit the bed at past 2 a.m. Everything was normal.

It was a quiet Sunday that I woke up to. Breakfast was divine — red eggs oozing with oil with crunchy half-ripe tomatoes, daing na pusit dipped in pinakurat and fried rice. The wind was cool and cozy so, after about an hour, I went back to bed.

Then it hit me while I was already in dreamland. I woke up to a discomfort in my abdomen. After a while, the discomfort progressed to become a spasm.

I thought I knew exactly what was happening to me: I was passing stones. After all, I was not alien to this kind of pain. I was diagnosed a stone former in 2001. Though everything is manageable, it’s a kidney condition that can only be remedied, if not reversed, by a diet that is low in salt and purine. But I am only human; I sometimes neglect the antidote to my condition.

At 3 p.m. of Sunday, my abdominal pain became excruciatingly unbearable I had to be brought to the nearest hospital in Santa Rosa. I was like a crazy ballerina inside the car — the pain caused me to do an arabesque and a plié even a three-axel turn all at the same time. Worse, the car needed to make a detour because on the road were three hearses. You know how people bring their dead to their final destination in the province; the bereaved and their multitude of friends walk like turtles behind the hearse. So, we took the long road to the hospital as I did circus and cartwheels inside the car.

At the emergency room, the resident doctor interviewed me as I lay berserk on the bed. Like a contender in a beauty contest, I answered her questions clearly, even narrating my history — my almost yearly history of passing stones.

I was injected with a painkiller and shortly after I felt like a tamed mad man. I entered dreamland again. The routine tests were done on me. Even a sonogram, or an ultra sound. The urologist confirmed to me the following day, Monday, that indeed I passed stones and nothing was suspended anymore in my system. I flushed out every single grain that caused my pain. So, I should be okay.

But I was not feeling okay still. I still had the discomfort in my abdomen area. The pain couldn’t be ignored. I felt a baby was inside my tummy, ready to burst and see the light of day. I was not yet ready to become a mother, err, a father.

A general surgeon confirmed the other doctors’ suspetsa: appendicitis. It was a double whammy for me — while I was passing stones, my appendix was also acting up. I felt I had a grocery of pain inside me. It was more comforting to think that I was pregnant and anytime soon, I would give birth to a fish!

The solution: appendectomy.

Up until that fateful Tuesday, I was a virgin when it came to surgery. Prior to that appendectomy, I never had a condition that would require me to go under the knife. Even my cuticles are intact because I have never done a mani-pedi that would require a pusher or a nipper to devirginize my cuticles. Save for gel or wax, my hair has never known peroxide or perming lotion or dye. I have no tattoos, not even henna marks, except for the watch I drew around my wrist when I was a kid using a pink marking pen.

I was nervous for the operation. Friends consoled me by saying that appendectomy was almost a routine procedure. Then again, it was my first time to go under the knife. I prayed. I prayed that I would be safe and I would give birth to a bouncing baby fish.

At exactly 5:30 in the morning that Tuesday, a controlled screech was heard outside my door. My mother, who was my lone company that night, cleared her throat. She remained silent for a while, obvious that she was hoping the slight commotion outside would not lead to a knocking on my door. She had been awake since 3 a.m. She turned on the lights; the fluorescent bulbs revealed the soft yellow wall of my hospital room. 

“That must be your wheelchair,” she hushed in the vernacular, hiding her nervousness. “They must be very excited to operate on you,” she tried to humor me, noting that I was supposed to be wheeled in at 6 a.m. that day.

A brisk knocking on the door ensued. I got up but not without wearing first the hospital gown the nurse provided me earlier. 

My room was on the third floor and the Operating Room was just an elevator ride down to the second floor. But the screeching of the wheelchair as I was being wheeled in seemed to be sounds of lamentations. My mother was worried sick. She held my hands, comforted me, made sure that I felt her love.

When we reached the door of the O.R., my mother pressed my hand. “Good luck, girl,” she told me. Sensing she had to be appropriate, she whispered to me: “God bless you.”

Indeed, God blessed me with a renewed spirit after the operation. I had a split-second seizure, I heard my anesthesiologist say, after I was given the regional anesthesia. The surgeon asked me to raise my left foot. I was numbed. That was the only thing I remembered when I woke up at the recovery room at 2:30 p.m. For nine hours, I did not know what was happening to the world. I woke up and was brought back to my room to the delight of my mother who welcomed me again in her loving arms.

Groggy, I asked for my phone. Friends sent me messages: “Get well soon. Anong anak mo, babae o lalake?”

I was still groggy to answer each message. But in my mind I answered them: “I gave birth to a fish.” Then off to dreamland I swam again.

I’m now doing post-op recovery. There are good days and there are bad days. I am just thankful for every day.  I am just thankful that I have my family and well-meaning friends in this journey. I am just thankful that I find humor amidst the discomfort after the surgery.

Now, I’m thinking of what name to give to my baby fish. Baby shower will take place soon. And, if I may ask, are you willing to stand as its godparent?

Let me know.

(I want to thank Dr. Romeo Dinulos, Dr. Ferdinand Tolentino, Dr. Ernesto Manasan, Dr. Mary Anne Dolom, Dr. Kristine Parde and the efficient nursing staff who helped me deliver my “baby” at St. James Hospital in Santa Rosa, Laguna.)

(For your new beginnings, please e-mail me at bumbaki@yahoo.com. I’m also on Twitter @bum_tenorio. Have a blessed Sunday!)