Menthol sticks are an essential part of my life.
I keep one in my right pocket all day to sniff away the stressors I encounter--- the mountains of paperwork, the slow internet speed, the difficult patients. One swipe and I am transported to a quieter place, a more relaxing pace, a mental reprieve amidst the humidity and noise that cloaks the daily grind of a public health physician.
I keep one at my bedside to lull myself to sleep, to wash away the pounding headaches I tend to come home with on a regular basis. It has become more of a comfort object to me--- an amulet I cling to for safety, a talisman I keep anywhere and everywhere so as to create a window, a space for myself, when the world feels like it is closing in on me.
Today I unscrewed the stick of menthol as per usual, a couple of dots on my temples and a generous sweep below my nostrils, as I dug into my work--- finishing the monthly census of my patient consults. And instead of the usual breath of relief, I saw a vision different from the peace I was hoping to gain. (Of course it was not a *literal* vision, but more of a mind movie. Yes, this is how my brain works.)
The lights turn on in a small, dank apartment on a dark, sketchy street, the flickering lamppost casting a warm glow on the twisted window grills and the wooden shutters of the rented room. Inside is a single bed--pretty uncommon for this part of San Marcelino, Manila--- and on the bed a lone twentysomething woman sits, her head in one hand, a menthol stick in another. On her bedside a cup of Lipton tea is going cold by the minute, its steam lazily dissipated by the old ceiling fan, click-click-clicking as it catches on a rough and rusty spot the landlord never bothered to grease.
She is tired--- tired on an otherworldly level. Her weekly budget is spent, the last few pesos tucked inside the stained coin pouch on her study table. She had just sent the bulk of her money to her youngest brother back home, just in time for his second installment this semester. Nanay's arthritic hands could no longer work the sewing machine, and since their father's passing it had fallen upon her, the firstborn, the Ate to four siblings, to make ends meet. She had no choice but to put her plans on the back burner, saying good-bye to her classmates in the local colegio, her girlfriends whom she met on Saturday afternoons in the town plaza, and the boy to whom she had promised her heart last summer.
One last installment, she breathes, as she allows herself to lay back on the bed, to sink into her mattress, what little its two-and-a-half inch thickness could sink. She closes her eyes and swipes the menthol stick onto her temples and under her nostrils, inhaling and exhaling, falling asleep to the click-click-click of the rusty ceiling fan and the soft pitter-patter of the rain. Her hand unclenches as she drifts off, her chest calmly rising and falling in cadence, the spell of slumber befalling her weary soul as the menthol stick rolls off the edge of the bed and onto the cold, unwaxed wooden floor.
Yun lang.
Just thought I would tell myself this, because no one else is gonna do it for me.
Also, here is a reminder to myself, which the universe has so kindly sent to my inbox:
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