Beginning

I clutched the small stuffed teddy bear and walked briskly along the corridors. I had just done my morning rounds
discharging two patients who delivered normally two days ago, and looked in on another that was operated on for a
ruptured ectopic pregnancy the night before. I was on my way to Room 314 at the San Vicente Ward in our hospital, to
pay Mrs. J. a social visit. It was Valentine’s Day.

Exposition

Mrs. J., a 58-year-old teacher, was diagnose to have advanced ovarian cancer two months ago, and was referred to me
by a physician friend from a southern city because of abdominal enlargement. She was operated on in the province with
removal of all pelvic organs when the ovarian malignancy was discovered, but the disease had already involved other
parts of her body, causing ascites (edema fluid) in the abdominal cavity to accumulate faster than it could be drained.

Rising Action with Conflict

But it was not all smiles and laughter for Mommy J. One morning while doing my usual call on her, I opened the door to
her room and found it in half-darkness. The only halo of light was found in the patient’s bed, focusing on Mommy J.’s
pallid face, now heaving in spurts. The hiss of the oxygen valve seemed unduly loud; it was the only thing one heard. It
was not a large room, and the shadowy outlines of the small bedside table and settee seemed to have made it look
smaller. Rowena stood in that shadows, her face burrowed in a white handkerchief, her shoulder heaving with
suppressed sobs. A nurse was adjusting the valve of the oxygen delivery system. It was another bout of her living
nightmare these days, these episodes of what the doctors told her to expect: her lungs could no longer expand well
because of the large amount of fluid accumulating in her abdomen, compressing the lungs. An immediate drainage of
the liquid relieved her temporarily. Two days before, a suggestion for chemotherapy was made by Dr. M., and Mrs. J.
and the family were still considering it, as the patient had already expressed her desire to go back to the province. “The
fresh air would do me good,” she said. After long discussions with the oncologist, it was decided that she be brought
home, in a week’s time.

Climax

The nurses in her ward took it upon themselves to organize a send-off party for her, and it seemed that after staying for
almost three weeks in the hospital, Mommy J. had made a lot of friends. The “party” was held in the corridor of the left
wing of the ward, towards a cul-de-sac at the far end of the hall. The nurses set up two long tables, and using clean
white bed linens as tablecloths, prepared a filling merienda of sandwiches, pansit, ensaimada, barbeque, and cold
drinks. Someone ingeniously rounded up some red paper, cut them into ribbons and fashioned huge bows, attaching
them to the tables’ sides. The affair was to be at four in the afternoon, but as early as 2 p.m., the ward was already a-
bustle with activity. Mommy J. came out of her room in a wheelchair a little before 4p.m., a smile on her lips, her eyes
shining in anticipation.

Falling Action with Resolution

Danny came up to me later an asked if we could play “Auld Lang Syne” as the last tune; Mommy J was showing signs of
strain. I cautioned him against it, suggesting instead something lively and “danceable”, so he played, to everyone’s glee
the “Lambada”. So it was this catch tune, with its hint of playfulness, that we remember Mommy J. the most. We
received her “thank you” card a week after she went home to Iloilo City.

Ending

When news reached us about her passing away two months later, no one was surprised. But we still talk about her
often; her cheerfulness, her openness, her sunny disposition. And when we sometimes caught a whiff of the scent of
sampaguitas as we passed through San Vincent Ward, we again felt her presence, and almost heard her soft voice, we
who’s live were touched by her magic.