Prior to April of this month, I had been hospitalized a total of three times in my entire life. One when I was around 6 years old for a nasty case of flu and the next two when I gave birth to my children. I was too young to remember the experience the first time around, but both my childbirthing experiences were something I don't particularly recall with fondness. (Hallmark people, shut up. There is nothing wonderful in pushing till you turn the color of a cherry tomato and your eye capillaries burst, ok?)

Indeed because of these ambivalent feelings toward hospital stay, nobody was more shocked than I when I decided to check in myself at the local private hospital last April 13. Simply put, I felt like I was at death's door and I had no more recourse but to seek professional care in order to get better. I was losing my homecare battle with pneumonia and allergic rhinitis despite the numerous prescriptions I had from a pulmonologist. I felt so weak that even talking to my babies exhausted me and boy, my coughing and wheezing fits would rival the worst crooner on the planet.

For a normally healthy and energetic person, my bout with pneumonia was one big eye opener. Yes. I am not superwoman. Yes. A simple cough could turn worse. Yes. One could die from the combination of asthma and pneumonia.

I had to stay on sick leave for more than two weeks after I got out of the hospital. The first week immediately after my release was pure hell for I suffered from severe asthma attacks almost daily. I had to be rushed for oxygen and nebulization thrice after my release, with the last one being the worst because I already hyperventilated. My entire face and two hands became so numb that I felt I was suffering from stroke. I urged the nurse to prick my ten fingers (first aid) but she looked at me like I was loonycase so my husband had to do it. He did so with tears on his eyes and I never felt a thing even if blood flowed from my ten digits.

I recovered but the experience left us both shaken.

I'm back working but things are not the same. My perspective has changed, and not for the better. I have become fearful, paranoid even that any time I would suffer from an asthma attack. I feel that I am wasting my time working for a company that doesn't appreciate what I do and what I have sacrificed. I have grown resentful of the fact that my time with my kids are limited to a few hours a day because sleeping doesn't count. I have become more impatient for things to happen. I don't know if this is merely a phase, a side effect of the cocktail of meds I've been taking even but I feel that time is no longer at my side.

At night I look at my sleeping children and ponder about my mortality. I try to shake off this feeling of negativity because it will only cause me pain, but when all is quiet I can't help but reflect how my carelessness has led me to this. And indeed I was careless. I figured I was young and a lot of things can be solved with a good night's sleep. Well, my body gave me a big wake up call. Now, everytime I take my medication I am reminded of how easily this borrowed life can be taken from me and I am humbled. I wouldn't be human and say I have no resentment, but it is a daily battle for pessimism and optimism. I have been given a fair warning, now it will be up to me to take it to heart.