My cousin Ana, 89, who lives with her husband Simeon, 92, in a senior's home along Avalon avenue in Carson City has been undergoing dialysis for the past three months or so. Thrice a week, the hospital vehicle would come, in the morning, and take her to the facility for this procedure that would leave her weak and tired. She usually sleeps after the hospital personnel take her home.
Manong Simeon is the one preparing her wife's meal. Sometimes, their daughter Malou, who lives with her family on Treyton street, also in Carson would come during the week and do the cooking for her parents. Malou, 62, a nurse, works in a hospital in the city where a Filipino from Bacnotan, La Union became mayor but was removed from office because of corruption.
In the morning of July 19, Manong Simeon, doing her ritual of the day, collapsed at the bathroom of their apartment. Manang Ana, bedridden, heard the thud at the bathroom which is opposite her room and, alarmed and had to forced herself out of bed, called 911; she also phoned Malou, informing her about what had happened to her father. The 911 vehicle arrived and Manong was rushed to the Harbor UCLA Medical in the city. He underwent several surgeries--his big intestines were removed-- and stayed several weeks at the hospital's ICU department.
Manong Simeon was supposed to die that night but his determination to live was too strong he got his wish. Their sons and daughters, from Canada and New Jersey including the Philippines--Susan, Edwin, Rolly, and Nora-- arrived in Carson expecting the worst for their father. But Manong Simeon lived on, and was later transferred to the ward section of the hospital.
We went to Carson to visit the couple and stayed in the city for ten days. Malou and Nora came to fetched us in Menifee.
The ICU is located at the third floor of Harbor UCLA Medical Center, a 6-story structure. From the parking lot which is usually full of cars and Nora had to drive around for a space to park, we would walked to the first floor, undergo a security check and ride an elevator to the third floor. We would line up for a visitor's card at a table manned by uniformed guards--blacks, Latinos, and one time an Egyptian-- who would take our names and other relevant information in our IDs. Only two people are allowed inside the ICU and one of us would stay in a room, a holding area. Inside the room, there is a sign at the wall that says in two languages: Room of Bereavement/Cuarto de Condoleci. It is here where guests, mostly Latinos, wait for their turn to visit relatives and acquaintances confined at the hospital's ICU and wards.
