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The times I
cried—grateful for being Catholic—were often during mass. I confess—my
mass attendance record was embarrassing, and every time I did make it
to mass, I left vowing to go to mass every week. I made that vow
often. Sigh, sigh&
I cried during
Communion and during the joining of hands for "Our Father." I cried
that amidst fatigue and disappointment from work, from failed
introductions, from waiting for a phone call, from losing a patient,
there was still a routine, a tradition that did not change: mass. A
simple and repetitive procession, among one community, centered around
one person, celebrating an unconditional Love. I was grateful that
there was still something so basic, fundamental, consistent, yet
profound, in my life. I was grateful for my Catholic faith, that which
I repeatedly took for granted.
I attended my
first Đại Hội Đồng Hành this past December, even though I had been
part of Đồng Hành for thirteen years. My sister, chị Chiêu Lan,
encouraged me to attend đại hội since I enjoyed Emmaus so much. She
said I will get to meet living saints. I won’t embarrass anh Hào by
acknowledging that my sister was right.
Rather than
recounting the four days of đại hội, I shall answer ban phục vụ’s
evaluation question, "When did you feel God’s presence the most?"
On Friday night,
I volunteered to drive guests to Downtown Disney for L.A. By Night.
Since only two persons signed-up, we cancelled Downtown Disney, and I
was reassigned to drive to Universal City Walk. I was assigned to
chauffeur Tom Bausch, President of CLC-USA and his wife, Bernie, and
Hang and Tran. I asked Bernie if Tom was good with directions since I
needed a navigator, and she said no. Then it dawned on me that I drove
a Honda Accord, and Tom was at least 6 feet tall; therefore, he needed
to sit in the front with me and be my navigator.
I told my
passengers, "I have one policy. I don’t talk while I drive in
unfamiliar territory, so you need to keep each other company." My
passengers looked bewildered. I added, "My goal is to get you all
there then back here safe and sound." They nodded understandingly.
Before I backed
out the car, I made a sign of the cross. Tom looked at me askance.
"I always make
the sign of the cross before I drive," I explained. "No accidents for
fourteen years of driving." And Tom smiled.
In the backseat,
Hang, Tran, and Bernie exchanged backgrounds. In the front, Tom—with
knees leveling the dashboard—gripped the Yahoo Maps printout. We made
all the designated turns.
But I missed the
entrance into Freeway 5 North. The car became silent.
No problem, I
assured my passengers. I’ll just make a U-turn.
After four
stoplights, and all signs read, "No U-turn," I gulped.
"Okay, God," I
whispered, "I need some help here. A sign please."
I looked up and
saw it as Tom said, "Oh look! Up ahead—Freeway 5 North entrance!"
The car filled
with relieved chuckle.
After we exited
the Freeway 101 North, we were supposed to be on Buddy Holly Drive,
except we could not find the Buddy Holly Drive anywhere. From overhead
signs, we only recognized "City Walk ‘" so we drove straight on.
"Now I just need
to find parking," I muttered.
"Oh Parking!" Tom
said. Sure enough, a block ahead on the right was the Parking sign.
Needless to say, I was the happiest person in the car.
We were the first
ones to arrive at Universal City Walk. About 15 minutes later, we met
up with Cha Mạnh and the other groups. Cha Mạnh revealed that he also
missed the Freeway 5 North entrance; subsequently, he made an illegal
U-turn. Two cars behind him followed suit.
At 11:45 P.M. we
called it a night. Again, I followed the signs and arrows to get back
on the 101 Freeway South. We passed two entrances both for 101 North.
We needed 101 South.
Bernie asked,
"Weren’t there two freeway entrances?"
"Yes, but both
were for 101 North," I replied. That did not make sense—two
consecutive entrances for one direction? I must be mistaken.
"They were both
for 101 North, Bernie," Tom said, as if he read my mind. "I saw them
clearly."
The car was
silent again. I kept driving and saw no more freeway entrances. We hit
a T, and I turned right, which lead us into a business area. By the
seconds, we were further and further from the freeway.
"I will make a
U-turn to go back to the parking structure to ask for directions," I
said to my passengers. To myself, I said, "God, I need another sign
please."
"Look! Freeway
101 South up ahead," Tom said.
When we were
close to DePaul Center, we could not find the same street from which
we entered the Freeway 5 North. We drove two miles then I recognized
"Paramount," an exit I took when I came to DePaul Center from Orange
County, on Wednesday afternoon. Tom could not confirm my decision
because no where on Yahoo Maps was "Paramount."
I was on my own.
We drove about
1.5 miles, and I could not find streets I was familiar with on
Wednesday. I made a U-turn. We passed the Freeway 5 entrance again,
and I thought, "God, another sign please." Then the houses looked
familiar, then a little further on, the names of the streets became
familiar.
"We’re heading in
the right direction," I said. "I recognize this area now."
And we arrived at
DePaul Center safe and sound. Again, I was the happiest person.
Later that night,
as I was lying in bed, I realized that I was responsible for God’s
precious cargo; thus, we were guaranteed a safe trip home. Perhaps
this was one of the "blessings" for having a family member đi tu—the
whole family is guaranteed a safe way home to heaven. I thought some
more and all of my brothers and sisters are married; my younger
brother is in love; that only leaves me. NO, there are other ways to
guarantee a safe way to heaven. Good night, God.
Then I fell
asleep.
On Saturday
morning, anh Bíënh approached me and told me that by popular demand,
he and I were asked to MC that evening’s Đồng Hành By Night. Oh no.
I thought my work was already over! Anh Bính looked at me in
silence, and I knew "no" was not an option. Anh Tuấn will help us.
Besides, anh Bính said, we have the rest of the day to prepare.
Despite our
seemingly "laxed" schedule at đại hội, we always managed to run out of
time, over time, under time, all the time, and never was on time.
Thus, dinner was over, and as everyone was gathering, I scribbled a
short introduction for Dong Hanh By Night.
When the room
filled up, I prayed, "God, please help us."
Anh Bính was my
alter ego. Anh Tuấn kept the program in order. Chị Tuyết and Thái Sơn
were the standup comedians. The children innocently bid at auction as
their parents gasped. We laughed so hard the whole evening. The
audience and performers kept Đồng Hành By Night rolling like thunder
into the New Year. By 1 A.M. many of us were still dancing, laughing,
singing, and hugging.
Thank you, God,
for all the brave souls who created, practiced, performed, donated,
and stayed up until the end.
God was not
through with me yet.
On Sunday
morning, cha Tuấn, anh Trung, and anh Liêm spoke the last session.
Per schedule,
Sunday—I was assigned to translate for Tom and Bernie Bausche. I sat
behind and between them so both could hear me speaking over their
shoulders. Five minutes into the session, anh Hưng pulled up a chair
behind Tom, and he said to me, "You’re tired, Chiêu Giang. It’s my
turn today."
He was right; I
was tired so I did not argue. I smiled gratefully and moved over to
the empty seat on Tom’s left.
Cha Tuấn
patiently emphasized, "Work can be your ministry." My heart skipped a
beat. Suddenly and gently, anh Hưng punched me on my right shoulder. I
turned to him, and he grinned knowingly at me. Did he hear my heart
skip???
Cha Tuấn shared
about his work visiting patients. That was the drop that overfilled
the cup; I started to cry. Get a grip on yourself Chiêu Giang, I told
myself. No one was suffering here so you’re being silly. The tears
would not stop flowing, however.
I heard over and
over again, "Work can be your ministry. Work is your ministry."
And here were my
thoughts as I listened and cried:
"Are Miracles
Numbered?"
In February of
2004, Mike, our full time Oncology pharmacist, left to advance his
career at another hospital. On his last day, as each member of the
East Tower Pharmacy crew hugged him goodbye, Mike told me, through a
strained whisper, "Take good care of my patients." That was a tall
order. Before Mike left, he had told our Director that I was the
person to replace him. I resented Mike.
Though I solemnly
replied, "I will," I recalled months afterwards, I emailed Mike, "I
cannot replace you!" And he replied, "You are the last person to
protect the patient’s life."
To this day, I
still did not know whether to kick Mike or to hug him.
As soon as I
passed the California Board of Pharmacy Exam in September of 2001, I
started working at Fountain Valley Regional Hospital. In February of
2004, I became a "full time" Oncology pharmacist for the hospital
though I share that position with another pharmacist.
In the beginning,
the source of my daytime anxiety and nighttime wake-ups was the
pestering, "Right patient, right indication, right regimen, and right
dose." I did not recall a time during which I doubted my ability to
care more.
To simply put it,
my job as the Oncology pharmacist was to calculate and to mix poisons
to give patients with the intention of healing them. To realistically
put it, each chemo regimen averaged two hours to prepare from the
moment I received the order to the time it was delivered to the nurse.
I used to dread receiving new chemo orders because I averaged 3-4
hours to prepare. I became more efficient, not so much because I knew
everything as much as I knew where to look for everything.
I always tried to
be efficient at everything I did because that was the only way time
remained&for contemplation. I contemplated about why I do what I do
and what kept me doing it.
It was the Eve of
Lunar New Year (aka Tết), and the tradition was to reflect upon the
past year and to wish for a brighter New Year. I had requested four
days off this week to prepare for and to celebrate Tết, but all I had
been thinking about were my patients.
Brent* was a 22
year-old male with Refractory Lymphoma. I chatted with Brent before I
left for my long weekend. Brent was diagnosed with Lymphoma in
December of 2003. He failed the first four lines of treatment, and
before I took off for Tết, I prepared Brent’s second cycle of "salvage
therapy." Between hospitalizations, chemo treatments, and doctor
visits, he was taking 15 units of class at Cal State Fullerton,
majoring in Business Administration. He awaited a match for a bone
marrow transplant.
Brent was a
handsome Vietnamese man. Tall. Chiseled face. Long chinned. Tanned.
Head always covered. The dark circles under his eyes were darker with
each hospitalization...
Sari* was a 32
year-old Japanese female diagnosed with Refractory Leukemia. With this
hospitalization, her chemo doses were significantly higher than the
last time because the last cycle did not work. When I first met Sari,
her head was covered with a red scarf. When I visited her before I
took off for Tết, her head was bare. Just a few strands of hair
remained near the temples. My heart just broke when I saw her.
She smiled
brightly when she saw me. I asked her how she was tolerating the
chemo. She cheerfully replied, "Good!!!" Her radiant smile and spirit
mended my heart. So we chatted.
Sari was a
student at Santa Ana College, studying Business. She was the youngest
of three children. Fair complexion. Thin. Beautiful skin. Bright eyes.
She had only been in America for two years. I complimented her fluent
English, and she smiled even brighter... for me, it seemed.
I had used up
enough of their energy. I said good-bye to both Brent and Sari,
wishing them the best. I also told them that I would be praying for
them. For an instant, breaths held, eyes flickered, a sigh, and then
both brightened.
What were my
dreams when I was 22? I wanted to finish pharmacy school, and then
pass the overwhelming CA Board Exam. At thirty? I want to fall in
love, travel around the world, and start a family. Never once did I
think about the pain my body must suffer as a disease progresses.
Never once did I think about how many more days I had to live.
Today, when I
wake up and see my parents, I hug each of them good morning.
Throughout the day, my father and I crack jokes every chance we get. I
crave for post-laughter catharsis. When I leave for work, I kiss them
on the cheek good-bye. At the hospital and at Nhân Ḥa Clinic, as I
speak to my patients, I hold their hand. At home as my nieces do their
homework or watch television, I gently comb, stroke, and braid their
beautiful black hair. Afterwards, we go to the nearby park and on the
Big Toy, I become a kid again. Or when we’re tired, hand in hand, we
circle the park. When their mothers pick them up, I hug them a little
harder, a little longer. I am so grateful for today.
In three hours, a
New Year began. With all my heart, I hoped and prayed Brent and Sari
would encounter a miracle.
*Names and ages
have been slightly altered to protect the patients’ identity.
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