Gutsy, my life’s bully, has got me between “won’t move” or “won’t stop.” Either way, it’s got me under its power, and I’m left wondering, as always in such a condition, what may have triggered it.
These days I’m on “won’t stop” mode, and I’m thinking of the genius Dr. Higino Laureta, but I’ve lost touch with him.
Gene Laureta, old friend, professor and golf mate of my first husband, is my kind of stomach doctor. When I went to him, a long time ago, with my three-day-old constipation, he was unimpressed; he took out a case of a woman who must have held the world record—she hadn’t moved for 365 days, and lived.
“You should be the master of your own bowels,” he said to me. “You should be able to tell them when and where to move, and not the other way around.”
I never forgot that.
Memorable occasion
But there’s something special about my “won’t stop” condition I’m not ungrateful for—I’ve never messed up publicly; Gutsy seems to mount its attacks in perfect situations, though I’m not so sure it’s because I’ve gained any mastery of Gutsy at all.
On one memorable occasion, for instance, it struck in the comfortable company of two cousins, Ninit and Sylvia, and on a tour of the Malacañang museum, where I received presidential-quality emergency medical attention. Then, I got caught, in the same lucky company, in a five-star hotel, where the bathrooms offer just the kind of privacy and provisions one in my condition desperately needs.
The second case has been the most recent; I downed, single-handedly, nearly a whole basket of rambutan, eating it like popcorn. But Ninit had her own usual suspect—stress. Well, I did have a court hearing the day before, involving the custody of a grandchild.
I also had just gone to my dermatologist friend Sylvia Jacinto for an allergic reaction to hair dye and related products, and Vergel had just beaten the flu (he rode it quickly and without medication, thanks to his conservative doctor-daughter and also, no doubt, to his sturdier constitution). It does not escape me that all this has happened in the ghost month of August.
Already feeling remorseful for not having had my overdue blood tests yet, I was hesitant to call another doctor friend, Dr. Norma Ona, who had prescribed them. When I finally called, she was set to leave the next day for Europe. The most she managed was a renewed prescription for tests.
But, suddenly, I wasn’t, again, feeling any urgency, and decided to wait until she returned next month. I instead texted Dr. Jacinto for a stomach-doctor referral—and who did she suggest but good old Gene Laureta. Still I decided to put him off until after a beach trip that, with such irresistible company alone, looked worth the risk.
Residual rumblings
We got ourselves ready Sunday night, with me monitoring residual rumblings inside me, for the early morning drive. The alarm was set for 6:30 and we woke up to the alarm tone of provincial cocks crowing on Vergel’s cellphone.
Running late still for the 7:30 assembly, I called Babeth, the trip coordinator, from the cab to warn her, only to be shocked by the return text: “You’re in fact a whole day early!” Presently, the three of us, the cabdriver now inevitably involved, were all having a good laugh, on my inexcusable account, on the return ride.
But just as well. With time on my hands, I call Gene Laureta.
Gene and I have not seen each other in years, not since his wife, Nancy, a dear friend, passed away. I warn him not to laugh at how much we have both aged. To which he replies, “If you’re old, I must be ancient.”
But I’m sure we look better than we deserve, considering that some of our friends have passed on, and that some fellows of his are no longer able to practice.
He asks if I have taken any medication; no. He asks if I have felt better since it started; “Yes, although not quite normal yet.”
“Then,” comes the prognosis, bringing back endearing memories of the logical and practical doctor he has always been, “it can’t be anything serious, because, if it were, it would not have improved without medication.”
Perfect sense
Gene has always made perfect sense. When Dad had been found with gallstones, I brought him to Gene, who asked Dad if he was in any pain; Dad said no. He asked if there was anything Dad couldn’t do because of the stones; nothing, really. Then he turned to me and told me to get my dad out of the hospital before he caught something worse.
He said he would not subject an 80-year-old to the trauma of gallstone surgery, unless he was in excruciating pain or unable to function in some way. Patients like Dad, he said, usually die of something else—and, just as surely, Dad did, 11 years later, at 91.
Gene now lives alone, declaring himself in the W. E. Henley fashion (“Invictus”) “the master of my fate, the captain of my soul.”
I tell him, the confessed atheist that he is, “Gene, you’ve been blessed with a good life and a good wife. God, whether you acknowledge Him or not, loves you.”
He proceeds to examine me. I thought I’d warn him, my stomach felt bloated, offering it as an excuse for its size. He starts feeling around and, decisively ending the examination, unceremoniously pronounces, “You have gas.”
“So, what do I do about it?” I ask.
He looks at me, quizzically, as would someone amazed at some ludicrous remark, before finally prescribing: “Fart.”
He stands up and sees Vergel and me off, very properly—my kind of doctor and Vergel’s confessed kind of man.
