Reflection: A New Chapter at the PG Dialysis Center

I am back at the new dialysis center here in PG. To be honest, after the last election—so painful and disheartening—I wasn’t feeling particularly pleased to be back here. I’ll keep my thoughts about that to myself for now.

But today, I want to share something else—my experience after my fistula operation at NKTI.

After the operation, I found myself in a room with about ten other patients who had also just undergone their fistula procedures. When I arrived, they were already talking, sharing stories, bonding over this strange new reality we all shared.

The man next to me said he used to be a soldier and now manages a security agency. He was the most talkative in the group—at first, I thought he was angry about something. But then he began to open up.

He said that sometimes people joke that the “P” on our wristbands doesn’t stand for “patient” but for “perwisyo”—as if we are a burden to our families, to everyone. It was sad to hear—and painfully true at times.

He started dialysis in February. I started in March. He is 56. I’m 55. Among that group, we were three in that age range. The others were much younger—too young to be going through this.

One young lady shared that her kidneys failed because she used to eat a lot of pancit canton and drink Coke. Another said it was from too many energy drinks. We were all struggling, many of us battling depression.

The former soldier said that one morning, in despair, he almost ended his life. He had a gun ready, but his daughter begged him through tears to think of his family, to hold on. And so, he did.

I don’t know why, but I felt the need to tell him this: “What we are going through now is temporary. There may still be hope—new technologies, new treatments. We just have to hold on.”

He listened. And for a moment, I think, he found comfort.

This is a nightmare. And every day, I must fight the monsters that make life miserable. But I must believe there is light at the end of the tunnel—however distant.

I am loved. This is temporary.

That must be my mantra. Otherwise, I could easily fall into the same sadness that gripped that soldier.

I’m blessed to have my brother and sisters who help me so much. My children, too. And of course, my wife, Melody—so loving and caring, always making sure I take my medicines.

This life is hard. The man I used to be is gone. But I must fight—for them, for my loved ones.

And I pray… may God continue to bless us and have mercy on our family.