EMPACHO gets me every time. What’s worse, I’m now able to reach that point of oversatiation anywhere, not just at buffets. I managed it this time at a beach resort in Batangas, where four daily meals came with the package; we were, in fact, not allowed to bring food.
That should have stopped me from overloading on snacks. But we had with us eight children snacking all the time. I wasn’t the only one—all five of us adult couples brought snacks: lanzones, cashew nuts and peanuts, boxes of crackers, cookies and chips, cans of juices and soft drinks. And that was only for when we weren’t having our meals.
My husband and I and our balikbayan guests, his brother and wife, aren’t beach people, our children and grandchildren are. Mercifully, with the grandchildren’s parents around, we didn’t have to go on any duty watch. We simply observed from a dry, safe distance—while munching.
Well, sleep was the only other alternative to munching, and it may have been the safer and wiser thing to do. The invitation to sleep beckoned from many places—in shady nooks, inside the thatched-roofed cabanas just a few meters from the water, its billowing white curtains dancing in the wind enticing one to siesta. There were also divans and cushioned mats in the ample balconies facing the sea on each level of the villa itself, and, again, in each balcony a snack table.
On the same balcony there was space left yet for the children to play indoor games before and after swimming and before bedtime. If, however, one couldn’t nap during their playtime, one could seek refuge inside one of the four air-conditioned bedrooms, each with its own bathroom.
Our villa was shaded by tall leafy trees, among them an Ilang-ilang tree, which gave the sweetest scent when the wind blew, and it blew constantly. The wind and the rolling sound of the sea lulled me to nap. I kept dozing wherever, whenever. When awake, I lazed around multitasking: watching the children frolicking in the sand, reading a book and, yet again, munching.
Time for ‘suero’
I must have done more munching than anything else because, on my birthday, the eve of Chinese New Year, our last day, my stomach, like a volcano after 400 years, had to give, and just as we were packing, we had to make relief stops along the way home. I spent almost the whole lunch break in the bathroom of the restaurant—it was my birthday treat!
On the third day I decided it was time for lab tests and a suero. The situation being absolutely out of control, I had to go to the nearest emergency room—at Makati Medical. All my doctors were at Medical City, in Pasig, and the doctor schoolmate and friend I’d have wanted to take care of me was in yet another hospital, Cardinal Santos, in San Juan.
Immediately, the admitting clerk at the ER, upon discovering my birthday was only two days ago, greeted me for all to hear. The news spread faster than germs, and soon people around were following suit.
When Vergel arrived, my suero was in place and my blood sample on its way to the lab. He had come from an appointment in the same hospital for his own brother, himself feeling bloated and unable to sleep well, among other things. My sister-in-law had only begun to recover herself from her own runs in Bataan, before Batangas.
My condition prevented me from joining them to Boracay, after Batangas. I missed my birthday lunches with cousins and friends and classmates, as well as my St. Theresa’s high-school homecoming.
This early in the year, I’ve already been to two different emergency rooms, the earlier occasion at the Medical City for what turned out to be acid reflux mimicking a heart attack. The last to succumb in our foursome was Vergel, for a severe reaction to an antibiotic given him when his skin broke out after Boracay.
At this stage of our lives, Vergel and I, in a sort of full circle, have put ourselves in the care of two pediatricians—we may be overqualified but we feel confortable: One is my stepdaughter Ayis, Vergel’s daughter, who holds office at Medical City, and the other a dear old friend, Chona, at Makati Medical.
At our age, when time is of the essence, we call Chona most often, especially for emergencies. We’re lucky to live near a hospital. I still can’t help asking myself: If I had brought Mom to the nearest hospital instead of where her doctors were, would she have made it?
There are lessons to be learned at every turn. For my sin of overindulgence, perhaps I should recall what I learned in convent school: To avoid sin, one must avoid the occasion of sin. Until I’ve developed self-restraint, I should avoid buffets—and probably, despite their beauty, serenity and other allures, beaches, too.
Let’s not be our own serpent in every paradise.
