It was only after weeks in room confinement that I became fully conscious of my condition. I was done with the physical pain but the emotional pain that permeated deep into my soul was beyond description. There was only one thing that I could comfortably do: lie down. I could not lift my arms or move my feet. I could not even sit on my own. Whenever I would want to sit, my father had to pull me up but I could not keep my balance. Secretions would accumulate inside my tracheal tube and it would be difficult to breathe until they suck those out with a suction machine. Whenever I would want to go downstairs, my father would have to carry me like a newborn infant. I was so helpless and I felt so useless, invalid. For someone as athletic as I had been, that condition was not easy to accept or even understand. I used to run rings around opponents inside the hard court, and then all of a sudden, I had lost all the strength on my limbs. This inner trauma brought excruciating torment and many silent tears. I had to stop schooling that year. One big dream I had was to enter the Philippine Military Academy but obviously, with my condition, it was already impossible. I lost it like a crystal that had fallen and was shattered to pieces before my very eyes. I asked God, “Why this had happened to me?” “What terrible thing had I done to deserve such a bitter punishment?” Sheer will was no longer enough to sustain me. It had its own limitation. It was one moment in my life when I thought that the best thing to happen was to expire…

>Chapter 7: Sustaining Parental Love

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