(Posted Nov 17, '07 3:03 AM)
It all started one boring afternoon.
Two bags of lebintador, One used Roman Candle, 1 budding scientist.
A perfect recipe for disaster.
After more than an hour of painstakingly recreating a Roman Candle from scratch. My cousins and I were excited to check out the fruit of our labors. This project masterminded by my cousin (a young girl of 14- apparently showing great potential in Physics and Explosives) was top secret… We kept it from the radars of our parents and maids at all cost.
After putting our finishing touches (we added 2 wicks at the top of the candle as if resembling the two horns of the devil), we lighted the firecracker.
Ironically, it was my cousin who first held the firecracker. I was just a mere spectator. We are all in awe as fountains of fire flowed from the mouth of our Roman Candle- as most Roman Candles would do. It appeared as if our project was a success. Suddenly, the greed within me sprawled from its nesting place. I don’t want to be robbed of this opportunity to hold the firecracker myself… So at the very last minute I asked my cousin to give it to me and after 3 seconds the candle exploded… instantly blasting the five fingers of my right hand and severing the palm…Thus began the longest 15 minutes of my life.
They said that the explosion was so strong it shook the house.
Instead of a roman candle, we unknowingly created a dynamite.
When my mom, who was at her room at that time, heard the explosion, she thought of only one thing, “Si Jeffrey?” Her motherly intuition proved valid.
When I saw what remained of my right hand, I saw my life slowly flashed in front of my eyes- just like how it happens in the movies. For some eerie reason, even at such a young age, I knew that after this incident, life will never be the same again. I do not remember feeling any sharp pain. I just felt the nerves of my hand trembling in heart beat motion… fighting for dear life.
I tried to cry. But I just can’t. It’s beyond crying.
It was a bad dream that never ended.
As my own blood trickled freely to the floor… The hard questions of life also started to flow. Will I ever get back to school? What will happen when I grow up? What about sports?
Reality bit so hard I just had to suspend my emotions. I guess this is what they call the state of shock.
In comedic fashion, the people in the house- namely the yayas, my cousins, my titos and titas- instead of helping me, ran for cover, as if a monster invaded the place. One locked herself in the room. Another hid behind the “clothes line” while most scampered out of the house to call for help. I, on the other hand, trailed through the whole house, starting from the 2nd floor where the veranda was located (the scene of the crime), down to the kitchen area on the 1st floor (where someone suggested I wash my newly decapitated hand with soap and water.. haha.. come on, as if Safeguard can do anything to raise my right hand from the dead..) and finding no help there… I went back again to 2nd floor to go to the 3rd floor where my mom was situated. It was Via Dolorosa right here in the 21st century.
As I was treading up the stairs, my strength left me, probably due to exhaustion and blood loss. I stopped there in the stairs at the same time my mom came out of her room. I can never forget the sight of my mom when she first saw me. She wailed as if it’s the end of the world. I no longer saw a woman crying… I saw a little girl crying… she was helpless.. even more helpless than me… We just looked at each other… Knowing full well that this ordeal is greater than us… In fact, in that moment in time, the ordeal was beyond us…
Right then and there, when I thought all hope was lost, I remembered to pray. I said, “Lord, help me.”
Just right after my prayer, a stranger came inside the house. He picked me in his arms and brought me to the hospital. Come to think of it, I never knew him. I don’t even know his name. Yet I believe it in my heart it was God who sent him there. Just at the right time. And the rest was history.
For some, my story may be a story of tragedy. And it really is.
On another note, when I think back, some scenes then were very hilarious, it would have passed for a comedy skit if it did not result to the amputation of my right hand.
But what happened during the accident was some sort a parable of the Christian life.
When people who are supposed to help or protect me failed (not necessarily because they willed to, many times due to human limitations), God won’t.
Now I won’t even dare gloss over the situation.
True enough, going out of a tragic incident is one challenge, living life with disability is another. I had my moments when I questioned everybody- even God.
But over time, I realized that the goal of Christ is not really to relieve us from trouble, but to give us the grace to walk through it. He clearly said, “In this world you will have trouble… but take heart, I have overcome the world”.
The question “Why me?” is the same question asked by all.. the blind, the deaf, the paraplegic, the anorexic, the drug addict, the divorced, the rich, the poor, the famous.. All of us are in the same boat… just different planks… It just so happened, mine is obvious. And come to think of it, for every complaint that I would throw, other people may have it even worse.
Its funny, there are times I still catch myself missing my right hand. Losing a hand is like losing a loved one. You never really get over it completely. Ali Sotto commented that when she lost her son, the pain never left, she just got used to it. I would probably say the same thing. But in the same token, though we grieve for our departed ones… we also hope of being reunited with them in eternity. This is how I see my disability as well. It makes me long for that place where everything will be restored as it should be.
But while I'm still here, the purpose of life lives on.
And with God's grace, I intend to live that purpose to the full- be it two hands or one.
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