Tomorrow, November 30, will be my 37^th week of pregnancy. Finally my baby is ‘full term'. I will then be waiting for his arrival, to see his face, feel his soft sweet smelling skin, the smile, the yawn, and the many adventures we will be lurching thru. It's been nine months of having this seemingly unusual feeling of carrying a human being, moving on its own, not under my control but God's, like an alien hovering in my gut, waiting to exit. Yet it was quiet amazing to get excited again and be thrilled, to recollect and restructure my life according to what has now been laid...this second pregnancy.

If you thought this was easy, you're wrong. My mood swings were terrible, from grin to grouch then back to grinning again. Shaun has to put up with me and try to be patient. So allow me to jot down this circus-like episode of my womanhood, fresh from my memory before a blanket of flimsy clouds cast over my mind making this extraordinary experience hazy.

The Grouch

I had a horrible first trimester due to a debilitating hyperemesis gravidarum, or the so called "morning sickness". My tummy's tone often wobbled from nausea to vomiting with a considerable amount. I lost weight, and felt tired. I hated taking medicines because it made me sick. I'll just threw up my gastric contents. Yeah, yeah...I know I have to consume it. They said nausea and vomiting gets worst every pregnancy. I don't know. Medical books didn't tell me so. More, the feeling and suffering is an unfamiliar territory. Maybe I missed my OB class watching movies at Victoria during medschool (bisto ang bisyo). Or fell asleep during conferences (ikaduhang bisyo). Hmmm, still my review class for the boards had not prepared me for the so called tales of the oldies (try daw sa aklat ng albularyo).

This year was supposed to be a truckload of activities. There's the long list of conventions (especially Palawan), the Talikod scuba diving, the CDO wild river rafting, the 60^th SPH celebration, Alumni homecoming, Friends' weddings and now the several list of Christmas parties. I have to bear the anguish of staying home while my colleagues were enjoying the fun and adventure. I have to put up with the disgruntled look from those who invited me as a team in dance numbers/competitions (yehey, got an excuse). And I have to accept the misery of ugliness despite concealing the intractable change of my looks by make-up of course! So, this is a year of refusing invitations, and I have to be content in lingering in Marco Polo or Insular as a get-away (maayo na lang, ingon nila).

So what was it with my looks? This progesterone, well, this hormone raging inside my body, is the one responsible for my emerging new beauty. Suddenly, from a plain Filipina I have become a mestisa. Yup! Mestiza Africana., in other words, NogNog! Hahaha! Black is the color, from my armpit, to my neck and up to my face. And as I am waxing a bit emotional every morning in the mirror, my husband would simply and starkly say I looked like an ‘Ata' and with my disdainful stare, he would again say ‘no,no,no, gwapa na Ata' or much more ‘princesa sa mga Ata'. Then we'd laugh our way out from my struggle to self-preservation.

The forces of nature just wouldn't stop yet! I watched my fresh young skin across my belly stretched into an enormous mound, the tissue underneath breaking, leaving a permanent scar, you call it stretch marks. As my ballooning abdomen grows, I have difficulty looking at my feet and touching it to apply a dab of lotion. So I have to ask my husband to give an extra hand in applying lotion from my thigh down to my feet. Of course, the ‘touch-me-not' rule may suddenly conform into ‘touch-me-sometimes' (bigaon ay). Then, it was such an ordeal to cut my toenails . I'd rather rush for a pedicure or leave it as is, just out of laziness to bring on a little effort. And talking about laziness, I hate picking up things from the floor or the ground, even to bow down is an effort too. So I have maneuvered the dance step of picking things with my bare foot. Use my toes to pick it, swayed my leg backwards, reach it up from my toes to my hand. Easy! Better yet, I would ask somebody to pick it up. Hehehe..

As I reached my term, I get bloated, from my face down to my hips and toes. I feel like a puffer fish in a puffed state, knocking everyone who gets in my way, good thing I'm not poisonous. My tiny fingers are stubby that even Shaun's wedding ring won't nearly fit now. My swollen feet are aching from my new shoes getting tighter. I kept on buying a bit larger shoes, knowing it won't fit later so occasionally borrowing from my mom would be fun. Fun because you wouldn't have to think of giving it back.

And now I got the funny nose. In between my eyes, I could almost see the ‘alae nasi' (nasal wing) flaring as I catch my breath, enlarging steadily like a fertilized Del Monte tomato (or Dole, depending on your brand of ketchup). My lips have become fuller and thicker, somewhat pouting, but never like that of Angelina Jolie. Mine is a lips of an indigenous Malay race. Good thing my hair doesn't go kinky! If I could only walk through corridors with a paper bag covering my head and two holes for my sight, I would. Then I wouldn't have to put up with people who gave remarks like that of the little red riding hood commenting to the grandma wolf ‘oh, what a big nose you have!'. So what, I would say, it's the wonders of life. From a goddess-like demeanor to turning into an unsightly figure, then hoping to become ‘fit' again, this is the art of humanity. Well then, I just have to convince myself to keep a positive outlook in living the day of today, period.

The Grin

But after all this sulking moments, is what's worth the wait. I have always been fascinated with my baby's movements. He'd greet me everyday dancing inside my belly like clockworks. Aside from talking to him, I find myself indulge in the guessing game of every body parts I get to palpate when he produces a bumps and hoops. Sometimes I'd felt his tiny hand, or his stumping feet, a large bulge may mean his back or butt, and sometimes, I'm so sure he got hiccups.

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But nothing excits me more than having a proud daddy preparing for his baby's first world exposure. The sight of Shaun counting mittens and shoes, securing feeding bottles, looking for an extra small diapers, and baby's get-up gear upon discharge and many more (which I have not done on this second pregnancy), made me realized I've never been most proud of him that day. Aside from working his brains in creative designs accepting more than one project at a time lately, in preparation for my C-section financial cost, I know my babies and me will be just fine. And I've never been much happier. I've never regretted the day I have chosen this man to marry.

Pregnancy is one of the wonders God has gifted humankind. And it's a privilege to have this exciting acquaintance on each woman and each expectant daddy's too. The roller coaster ride towards motherhood, and fatherhood, is bumpy, full of loops and unpredicted turns. Sometimes we tend to give up our own personal pursuit and plan anew.

I know I may have written too much on grouching, but what I have gone through is just temporary. Shaun and our kids are my stable variable. They mean the world. Time will fly, and suddenly, our sons will grow as a young adult, ready to soar into the world, each with a unique journey towards a great adventure.

Hence, I'm here, grinning now. As my husband would like to say it, "let's get this over and done with." So we wait..... and ready to say "Welcome to the world, our dear baby!"

"Literature is the art of writing something that will be read twice, journalism what will be grasped at once." (Cyril Connolly, British journalist)

I have my own way of writing my literary folio. I do not have any particular criteria in composing my blogs to start with, nor have undergone some rigid formal education in journalistic skills as a fortress of knowledge. So spare me. I do not wish to be a writer of any tabloids or news magazines for that matter, nor wish to win and become a famous blogger.

But what I do have is a fervent mind rich in nerve-wracking experiences, from unique adventures of failures and success, of losing and winning, of hating and loving, of fears and hopes, of frustrations and satisfactions. Maybe, I am something of a dreamer. Perhaps, I breathe life into a dream, but both feet glued to the ground of reality, striving to achieve maturity to balance idealism and realism. I don't know. All I know is that I treasure my vivid literary imagination. Thus, I believe that putting these into words is an art, believing that anything is possible for art's sake. So allow me to scribble down my thoughts in a spur of the moment, may it be a bit drafty, or a bit flashy, for each moment may pass, never to be recovered.

Often, I used to break away from the standard and customary writings making my audience gawked in disdain or blankly awed by the words and phrases I used. But like movies, heroes and villains clash. Some people never get tired of their silliness, spending time crusading against those who stray from their standards. My article was once blogged as "pretentious mixing up of words to become high sounding phrases only ends up awkward......so brazen yet so terrible." Whether this blog was intentionally meant for me or not, I feel guilty. Perhaps to them, I am an embarrassment in the blog world and ooh what a high standard to be imposed in such a mediocre site, when I have seen far more terrible blogs.

My adoring husband, Shaun, who noticed my disenchanted confidence, just gave a chuckle and jokingly suggested to have my blog submitted to Ninang Gail, if that's how the trend now goes for just a blog. He could not be serious of course. So I let out a hollow laugh. Ma'am Gail, as she's popularly called, is one of the coolest writer and editor in our locality. A nose bleeder in writing too, which triggered my nosebleed blog (but then of course, she's not part of that minute populace I've been discussing all about). It was my husband's way to keep me going, to encourage me to write more of our family, him, egan, and my profession, not just creating some counter-attacks from those who embraced the wicked pleasure from bullying. So now I'm back into blogging again after a few months of silence. He carefully screened down my friendster "friends", and turned the settings into non-viewing to non-friends, in the hope that no stalker shall penetrate the deepest recesses of my blood-brain barrier. I don't usually mention my Shaun's name in my blog rants for he is too wholesome to be stained, but this one deserves his credit.

Still, the trivial pursuit of ordinary literary writings is terribly interesting. I will write what I want to write, the way I learn to write it. I am not perfect and the world cannot forgive those who pretend to be one. Hence, call me unconventional, a deviation from the mean, different from the conservative, and that of which can be detrimental to the health of those who are stereotypical. I don't want to create fury amongst the beaten but i do acknowledge the testimony of those who are weary. Perhaps chained to their obligation as a writer by profession, where words are counted and pages selected to fit a few. But yes, I am blatantly bold and shameless over my articles because I do not wish to live to be broken by those who are drenched in bitterness. The best way to deal with my journal is to offer decency instead of cynicism, because our wit is not enough to outsmart this cruel world.

So go ahead, read on... Love it, or hate it. It is fun to see how my stories end to your senses. Throw in more coal and keep the fire burning!

What you think of me may not be what I think of myself. But it's ok. We are all entitled to our own views and who am I to insist my mind over yours. After all, we are what we think we are.

I have a lot of "friends" in this cyber world. Some are my old time friends or classmates, previous workmates or just plain acquaintances. Some think of me as plain and simple Anna, or some, the other way around. Indeed, you don't know me that well, or you don't know anything at all.

Let me guess... you wonder how I put regard on myself so you're reading this blog. Perhaps, sharing my thoughts of how I feel who I am may help you decipher the inner me, without, of course, trying to be close to me. Now that's the beauty of the internet, you can stalk from afar. But you don't need to prey on me, I'm an easy slay. Read my blogs and you'll see me, slowly stripping naked.

I always ask myself, what's it to hide? They say that we be careful writing personal blogs. I always watch my words on it. I don't resort to name-calling nor posting inflammatory remarks, you know, the dolor, rubor, calor thing (ooops, medical people knows this). But more than being careful with words, I mind my manners. You don't know who read your blogs, right? We are being watched all the time.

So go on and probe me, read my views and agree with me, or contradict against it. If you want to scrutinize, I hope you refute the writings and not the writer. It's fine with me. Ok?

TANSAN is derived from my real name. T stands for Teresa, AN for Anna, and SAN for Santos. Though it should be ANTSAN because my first name is Anna, my friends in medschool juggled the letters until this name sounds beautifully in their pinnacle. Yes, medschool. That was first year, 1995, and thanks to Chilay anyway.

My friends thought that the name Anna was too ladylike, the name Teresa was too holy, and Petit ( my pen name back in college editorial years) was too cute. They thought TANSAN best fit me, though in tagalog it meant bottlecap, in any other way it is just light, jolly, funny, boyish. In other words, they never thought of me as holy, cute and lady like (well, the way i drove my volkswagen made my classmates believed i'm a boy who underwent sex transplant).

At first it was just a joke. But everytime they started calling me in that name, i gave them a violent reaction, and the more i have a reaction to that name, my classmates (the boys usually), enjoyed naming me repeatedly until we passed 1st year, 2nd yr, and 3rd yr. Worst, the name was carried on to our residents during clerkship days (4th years) and during our internship.

I can't correct them when they call me TANSAN, our residents, our superiors, (Should i tell my boss to call me Dr. Santos?). So the residents passed it to the consultants, now my colleagues. From then on, i already accepted that in the medical field i will be Tansan, so unique that anybody looking for it will find me right away because nobody was named that except me.

I LOVE MY NAME!! THANKS classmates....

Have you ever felt a writing depression? No, not really a blogger’s block, but for whatever this is called, somehow, Jan and Dee’s awards made me hold on to blogging. James often told me that bloggers are basically nice people who will help their co-bloggers achieve their full potential. That there will always be somebody who would take side on you. Now I understand what awards are for, it’s an appropriate abracadabra to ease out, to breathe in and boost your activity. With much profound gratefulness over such a generous act, thank you Jan and Dee from my bottomless heart.

Did I say bottomless? Sorry, I can’t find words that best fit a ‘cardiac anomaly’, might as well be accused of playing with words again. Plus the fact that doctors don’t blog that much, who else would understand if I choose a medical term? Alright, they do blog, about the JNC or the ASCOT, the new drug, the latest randomized, case-controlled or cohort studies. And it bores! In that sense, you might as well get epistaxis without thrombocytopenia or blood dyscrasia.

See, even my computer complains that I’ve misspelled it, highlighting the unfamiliar words in red. “What duh?! You don’t know that?”, I retorted in disbelief. I’d rather have such a high expectation for a machine that doesn’t even talk, than a person that talks like they knew everything. But yes, I get the message. Let’s talk layman.

I have once lost that zeal to blog. I marveled at the spectacle of the colorful emotions of the bloggers’ world and I feel I failed to catch-up. And I hate to be a failure. The blogosphere is trendy and plugged-in, hype and wired, and bloggers are parading one blog post to another, yakking away in full shrill, and generates excitement without shrieking. No, I don’t feel like there’s nothing more to write, nor everything has already been written. To tell you the truth, I have a million moments worth a million of letters and a thousand of words to be written, but time is not bias on my side. There are touching stories of people and patients I have encountered, waiting to be told. Knowing you have a whole bunch of these stagnant ideas quietly positioned to unearth but can’t, isn’t it depressing? Even the search key didn’t help me interact with bloggers who are doctors, doctors who are bold enough to express their being human; search cloud gave me foreign doctors with a medical Q&A site, tedious and self-absorbed. I don’t need the academic bull shit I know I am well equipped of, readers don’t want experts, if they do, they would rather go search for it in academic journals.

So before I could feel that I don’t belong here, or prescribed myself with Prozac so to be “blog”-productive, here comes Jan and Dee’s awards. Jan who is a blog addict for a few months now, allowed himself to be seen naked by his readers. Oh, don’t get me wrong. His posts, unabashedand influential, have inspired many bloggers including me. On the other hand, Dee, the lawyer, who took her time off for an extra-legal vigilante-style crusade against global warming, share’s spontaneous feelings and thoughts in a natural manner, like her campaign to help save mother nature. Perhaps these two have a strong sense of a shared destiny in blogging.

If I could only place my first blog awards in my parents’ family recognition table, I would! Haha! That’s how I am in ecstatically twisted mood. Mom and dad would’ve wondered where the heck I have gotten this one again this time. Even if I’ll explain it, the blogging world is like a galaxy away. Nah! Never mind.

So why do I love blogging? Even if sometimes I feel that I have just wasted my time over a blog? Simple, it’s because we share. We share the same interest of wanting to share what we have with others, with limitless boundaries except the art of writing. Art after all, is a better teacher than textbooks. And there’s a lot more, but that will be another post, in another day…or weeks, or month maybe, depending on my bias time.

So I pass these awards to all of Jan’s active followers, who made me hide in the cyberspace for a while…in awe and admiration.