Holy Week came early: An Easter 'miracle' story

MANILA, Philippines — March 27, Sunday, seemed like any other day. Our weekly Legion of Mary Zoom meeting proceeded without a technical glitch. That afternoon, I asked my husband to finally push through with his plan of installing the faucet at the second floor terrace so it will be convenient to water the plants lining the floor.

I was scrolling through my private messages when suddenly, something urged me to get up from the chair and look out the second floor window. I heard a babble of noises from the ground. I was about to dismiss it as nothing until I saw the tan pair of shorts my husband was wearing. I can’t believe it when I saw men carrying him to a white Ford Fiera.

I descended the stairs slowly because any misstep on my part may trigger aching joints and delay my arrival on the scene. It will also worsen a terrible situation.

Nobody glanced at me when I reached the Fiera, a nervous hand clutching my chest.  All eyes were on the prostate man – my 63-year-old husband Good Samaritans transferred at the back of the vehicle.

Turns out my ever-alert helper Irene Bonifacio, approached a customer – a total stranger buying halo-halo at Onyang’s, a corner store across our house, and begged him to rush my husband to the hospital. 

Thank God Irene went straight home after hearing mass, instead of lingering with her grandchildren that Sunday. Thank God the kindness of strangers – Reynan  if I remember correctly, and Joanne, his companion  – whisked us straight to Quezon City General Hospital, 10 minutes away from the house. 

JoAnne never left my husband’s side at the back of the van. 

“He’s conscious,” she announced, to my relief.

But bad news was waiting for me when the parademics transferred him to a hospital stretcher. My husband of 31 years didn’t know my name. Fear clutched my heart like a vise grip. I willed myself to stay calm and let God take over. I suddenly remembered I didn’t have a face mask. My good Samaritan gave me the one on his dashboard.

Irene followed an hour after and tried to give my husband a change of clothes. Again, he failed to recognize our helper of six years. 

I refreshed his memory again. It worked. He remembered Irene, mine, and our son’s names.

The ordeal has just begun. The resident doctor told me my husband needs a neurosurgeon. The hospital has a consultant neurosurgeon, but I got the impression that it would take time for them to contact him.  It was almost midnight after all.

I sent text messages to three doctors. One of them, pediatric pulmonologist Cristan Cabanilla, was my 31-year-old son’s pedia. We sent rosaries and rosary guides to him for distribution to COVID patients at Lung Center, where he holds a regular clinic up to now. Mere mention of the rosaries struck a familiar chord. 

Dr. Cabanilla sent the cellphone number of his good friend, neurologist Dr. Jon Christian Manuntag. At close to midnight, Dr. Manuntag and I were discussing  the accident and its possible (grim) effects. He informed World Citi Hospital’s emergency room that we were coming. My son arranged for our transfer at around 1 a.m. of the next day.

Dr. Manuntag said it will take five days before he can tell if surgery is required. The words cranial surgery and mounting hospital bills hounded me like a never-ending nightmare.   Five days after, the nth miracle occurred. The blood clots increased a bit – which is normal. So did the brain swelling. No cranial surgery was needed, at that point.

My husband became more responsive to questions. He has drastic mood swings expected of brain injury victims because that organ of the body controls our decision-making processes. But again, that is normal.  And I should brace myself for a torrent of hurtful words.

I thought I was prepared for the verbal beatings. I was wrong. I’m human, after all.  

I grew up in polite society. It was more than I could bear. But Dr. Manuntag  told me to be extra patient. He explained that mood swings are natural offshoots of brain injury. So I bore my cross the way I endured the comings and goings of nurses entering the room and turning the lights on at ungodly hours (they were just doing their job). I endured the short intervals between waking and sleeping for 14 straight days.

I willed my foggy brain to think straight and not wallow in self-pity. I reached out to my husband’s boss, Julie Limjuco, and asked if the company has a health insurance plan for employees. I asked the same question from my friend, Josefa Rodriguez, who worked for the same company. Bingo!  The company is affiliated with  a health care provider. This, and my son’s HMO, covered the bulk of the hospital bills.

I was ashamed of myself for worrying so. God, you’re such a great provider! I stared at the Bible passages on healing above the plasma TV, on the walls and on the elevator, and felt a tsunami of overpowering relief. I fled  to the the 5th floor chapel for the nth time, and wept on the wooden cross at the altar.

Before I knew it, Dr. Manuntag has issued our discharge orders. It was Palm Sunday, April 10, the first day of Holy Week.  My Holy Week came two weeks before.  But I was so relieved at leaving the hospital, I considered it a small price to pay for the blessing of healing  and the comfort of home.

I didn’t see another blessing coming that  no-clinic day, until Dr. Manuntag assured me we don’t need to  settle the bill for  his professional fees  that day.  We can do it some other day ( I did, the day after).

My husband is taking baby steps towards recovery at home. His stomach doesn’t churn anymore (thank you, Dr. Ray Caesar Anunciacion and my sister-in-law Carol Ancheta). He has ventured out of the house (with the helper and me trailing behind).  Headaches have become less intense and less frequent.  His strong appetite is back. He can now respond to two decades of the rosary without feeling this head throb. 

It’s trite but true. Accidents happen for a reason. This happened because my faith badly needed nudging. My trust in Him needed a lot of boosting.

The test of fire jolted me to the core. But I’m happy and grateful. It’s what I need to stay true to what I can, and should be. It’s what I need to appreciate the gift of  life all over again. It is a lesson I will never forget.