Love and Resilience

Uncharted Waters

Serena’s POV

A year had passed since I first arrived in the US for my leukemia treatment. The time had been long and challenging, but I had managed to keep myself occupied. My hospital room, usually a place of quiet and isolation, had become a little haven for me, filled with paintings I’d created to stave off the monotony. I was in the middle of adding the final touches to a landscape when my tablet rang, breaking the silence.

I glanced at the screen and saw Mary’s name. I quickly set my brush aside and answered the call.

“Hey Mary,” I said, trying to sound cheerful despite the fatigue I felt.

“Serena! It’s so good to hear your voice. Kamusta ka naman dyan?"
Mary asked, her concern evident even through the phone.

“I’m managing,” I replied, though I knew the reality was a bit more complicated. “The treatments have been tough, but the staff here has been supportive. I’ve been painting a lot to keep myself busy. It helps distract me from the constant worry.”

“That sounds like a good distraction,” Mary said with a soft smile in her voice. “But I’ve been thinking about you a lot. How’s everything going with the doctors and your progress?”

I hesitated for a moment before responding. “It’s been a mixed bag. Some days are better than others. The treatments have had their share of side effects, but I’m trying to stay positive. I’ve met some amazing people here, and that’s made things a little easier.”

“That’s good to hear. I wish I could be there to help you through this,” Mary said.

“I appreciate that,” I said, touched by her words. “It means a lot.”

After our call ended, I sat quietly for a few moments, reflecting on our conversation. The sound of footsteps approaching my room interrupted my thoughts. I looked up to see my mom walking in, her expression unusually pensive.

“Hey, Ma,” I said, trying to gauge her mood. “What’s going on?”

She took a deep breath, her face clouded with concern. “Serena, I need to talk to you about something important,” she said, sitting down beside me. “The hospital here is facing some serious issues. I’ve been informed that the treatment facilities might not be up to par, and the doctors might not be able to provide the level of care you need.”

My heart sank as I processed her words. “What does that mean for me?”

Mom’s eyes were filled with worry.
"Ibig sabihin kailangan nating humanap ng ibang solusyon o ibang hospital na makakapag support ng treatment mo. I’ve been in touch with one of my friends who knows a highly recommended doctor in the Philippines. This doctor has a reputation for being excellent in treating cancer patients. After considering all our options, I think it’s best if we go back to our country and consult with this specialist.”

I felt a mix of anxiety and relief.
"So, ma. Babalik tayo sa Pilipinas para doon  na ituloy ang treatment ko?"

“Yes,” Mom confirmed. “I’ve already made the arrangements. We’ll be leaving soon, and I hope this change will lead us to the right path for your treatment.”

Despite the uncertainty, I was grateful for her proactive approach. “Thank you for doing this, Ma. I just want to get the best care possible.”

Later that day, we were at the airport, waiting for our flight. The bustling surroundings were a stark contrast to the calm of the hospital room. Mom and I sat together, talking quietly as we waited.

"Kinakabahan ka ba na babalik na tayo sa Pilipinas?" Mom asked, her voice a mix of concern and hope.

“A little,” I admitted. “But I trust you, Ma. Alam kong tama itong desisyon mo na bumalik sa Pilipinas para doon ituloy ang pag papagaling ko. I believe now that Mother knows best."

As the departure time drew closer, I couldn’t shake a nagging worry that had been with me since the moment we decided to return. I had left the Philippines under painful circumstances, and the thought of being back brought a wave of unease. More than anything, I feared the possibility of running into Jovana.

Jovana. Her name alone stirred a mix of anxiety and regret. We had shared so much once laughter, love, and a deep connection. But our relationship had ended in a way that left a lingering ache in my heart. Seeing her again would be inevitable in such a small country, and the idea made me feel vulnerable.

Our flight was called, and we gathered our belongings. As we boarded the plane, my mind was occupied with memories of Jovana. I tried to push them away, focusing on the immediate concern of my treatment. But the thought of encountering her, of having to face those old wounds, was a shadow that loomed over me.

Hours later, we arrived in the Philippines. The warm, humid air greeted us as we stepped off the plane, a stark contrast to the cold climate of the US. We made our way to the hospital where the new specialist was based. The hospital was a busy place, but it had a welcoming atmosphere that eased some of my anxiety.

Mom and I checked in, and I could see the dedication in her eyes. She had fought so hard to get me to this point, and I felt a renewed sense of hope. As I looked around, I hoped that this new chapter in my treatment would bring the positive change we so desperately needed.

But as much as I tried to focus on the future, the fear of seeing Jovana remained. The road ahead was filled with both hope and apprehension, and I knew I had to navigate it with courage, whatever might come.