Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
For comments, inquiries, corrections and feedback, contact admin: alexzita5@gmail.com
~
March 27, 2025
Day Three in the Hospital
It’s now March 27—my third day here in the hospital. I woke up early this morning with a strange sensation on the left side of my face. At first, I thought it was numbness. I called the nurse to check, and she said it appeared swollen. My nose has been congested, so it’s possible the feeling of heaviness is simply from sinus pressure. Still, it unsettled me. I long to have this angiogram dressing removed—it’s become uncomfortable and makes it hard to rest fully in bed.
When the doctor comes, I plan to ask for two things. First, I’d like them to prescribe a mild anxiety medication—something low-level, just enough to help calm me. I’ve noticed that anxiety has crept in more easily since this stroke, and I fear it will intensify once I’m home, especially alone.
But I also know I’m not truly alone. God is with me—always. This moment of contemplation, right now, is my lifeline. I’m talking to God, not just journaling. The Holy Spirit is here with me. And that knowledge—more than any medication—is my greatest comfort. I’m thankful beyond words.
I believe discharge is near. Most of the team seems to have cleared me, except for this lingering facial issue. Still, the idea of going home stirs up anxiety. I’m doing my best to stay positive and to trust in the Lord. Everything that needed to be done has been done. Requesting more tests—like the second MRI I hoped for—may not be granted, and I need to accept that.
What I keep returning to is this thought: It would be beautiful to be in the company of someone I love—and who loves me back. Like so many ordinary people have. Companionship in the simplest form. But I’m 62, and single. That ship has likely sailed. Yet, I’m not bitter. I am deeply grateful that the Lord is with me. It’s more than just companionship—it’s divine presence. He is beside me, in me, around me. And the message I keep receiving from Him is clear: Be brave.
And brave I must be. This is the newest chapter in a long book of challenges I’ve faced. Aging is hard. Facing it alone is harder. But despite the odds stacked against me, I’ve never truly been alone. The Lord has taken ownership of my life again and again. He’s covered me in His mercy and love, and I believe He will do so once more. Whether I go home or to a nursing facility, there is rest waiting for me. Peace. A slowing down. And if I do end up in a nursing home, perhaps that setting would suit my temperament—quiet, structured, safe. Nothing to fear. I’ve faced much harder things.
If I go home, I can finally settle in bed without pressure, read my favorite books, write the stories I’ve always meant to tell. Yes, there is still hope.
This is what I treasure about my contemplative moments with God—there is always a way forward, always a light. No despair can survive long in His presence. As much as my mind might wander into the dark corners, I choose to stay in the light, in the hope.
Still, I admit the waiting is difficult. The discharge talk came earlier, but I’ve heard no updates since. The neurologists have mostly cleared me. I left a message for my primary care doctor and spoke with my sister about insurance, Social Security, all the logistics. I’m usually so consumed by those practical worries—expenses, planning—but right now, I feel oddly indifferent. Facing mortality puts everything into perspective.
All the things that used to keep me up at night—security, finances, health plans, dreams, exercise routines, social media posts, the causes I stood for, the people I helped, the family I supported, the books I wanted to write—all of them suddenly feel distant. Faded. They were once my whole world. Now, they feel like scenes from a life I no longer need to keep rehearsing.
Time has washed them gently away. Like trees I walked past each morning, the gardens I admired, the birds I photographed, the conversations I thought would last forever. All of them are being placed gently into their proper order in the great, eternal timeline of God. And somehow, I feel at peace.
I’m not grieving these things. I’m just grateful I was there. I lived them. I witnessed them. I was part of the wheel of time. And now, the Lord is telling me to stop—to pause this frantic quest for “someday.”
That someday has always been here. I just never saw it.
It’s like the story of a mother who devoted her life to her children—so much so that she forgot to love herself. She collapsed only when there was nothing left to give. And while her children loved her dearly, she had no love left for herself. That is me. I held on to roles and tasks long past their purpose. I wore them like armor, thinking they would save me.
But God has finally stomped His staff to the ground and said, clearly:
Stop.
This is no longer a disruption. It is an invitation.
A new kind of life awaits me now. A life where each day is a blessed day, walking in the garden of God. I don’t need to wake up early to force a routine of meditation or exercise. My whole life now becomes a quiet, living meditation. I don’t need to rush to beat the clock, or go out walking before work, or squeeze in moments of peace. I am free.
And in that freedom, I hear God again:
Be still.
Enjoy the quiet work you truly love.
Not for approval, not for performance.
Just for the joy of being alive.
Just for being you.
No timer.
No audience.
No applause.
Just me and my Lord.
That’s it. That’s all that remains. And it is more than enough.
2025-04-01 13:48:48
popong
March 28, 2025
Today, I stand at a crossroads. It is possible that I will be discharged from the hospital, leaving behind the confines of this room where I have spent an extended period. Though I have moved around within the space—getting up for the bathroom, shifting positions—I have not yet taken the opportunity to walk down the hallway, largely due to the precautions placed on me two days ago. The nurse, concerned about my stability, has been hesitant to let me attempt it, fearing I might falter.
Yet, I walked into this hospital on my own two feet. On the first day, I walked despite slight unsteadiness, without any loss of balance. But then, something shifted within me. Fear took hold—fear of hypertension, fear of a secondary stroke, fear of a heart attack. ‘Dr. Google’ reinforced my anxiety, warning that such events could occur within three months post-stroke. And so, I immobilized myself. But I know that recovery requires movement, gradual but deliberate. The swelling in my brain should subside within five days, and by then, healing will begin in earnest. In my profession, I never discharge a patient until they can walk at least 200 feet. Now, I must take my own advice. It is time to start, carefully but with purpose.
The challenge is compounded by my worsening sinus congestion, a lingering effect of past nasal drip exacerbated by my time in this room. Movement must be slow and deliberate—I cannot afford recklessness. The key to recovery is pacing myself, listening to my body, and honoring its needs during this acute phase. My focus now is on essential self-care: rising from bed, using the bathroom, changing clothes. Perhaps today, I will attempt a simple wash, but showering remains an ambitious goal for another day.
My primary objective is simple yet critical: make it from this hospital to the car, then up the three steps into my house. Rest. Check my blood pressure. Monitor my blood sugar. Relax. Sleep. The brain, already assaulted by this stroke, must not be further burdened by unnecessary exertion. It is not wise to push through when my body signals the need for rest.
A fundamental realization has emerged from this experience: it is time to slow down. The compulsion to get up, to walk, to test my limits—these impulses must be tamed. The word "must" has no place in my vocabulary now. In my profession, I have always encouraged patients to pace themselves. Now, I must heed my own advice.
This anxiety, this relentless drive—these are lifelong patterns I have built. I have lived under the weight of obligation, always thinking ahead to the next task, the next goal, the next achievement. But life is not meant to be a relentless pursuit. Look at the animals—they move when necessary, then rest. Even Rocky, my faithful companion, plays only when he feels inclined. For the most part, he rests in his corner, as nature intended. The older an organism becomes, the slower it must move. That is the natural order of things.
One discipline I must now master is the art of stillness. "Be still, and know that I am God." I have spent my life placing God on standby, treating Him as a presence to call upon only when needed, rather than as the guiding force of my existence. That thinking must change. My survival, my well-being—these are in His hands. If I am meant to live, then let it be for the purpose of enjoying the fruits of my labor, as He intended.
What, then, is true joy? Is it found in the admiration of others, in social media validation, in meticulously following the rules of health? Or is it in the quiet moments of meditation, in reading great books that bring comfort, in conversations with God? I believe I know the answer. Joy is in stillness, in communion with God, in the simple pleasure of reading and learning. Social media, with all its illusions of importance, no longer holds the power it once did. Gone are the days of anxiously tracking likes and views, of seeking validation from a digital audience. There is no real gain in it—only vanity, a fleeting illusion.
This hospitalization and my decision to leave my job have granted me a newfound perspective. My purpose now is simple: to live as God intended, to find contentment in the present moment.
Ecclesiastes 5:18-20 resonates deeply:
"This is what I have observed to be good: that it is appropriate for a person to eat, to drink and to find satisfaction in their toilsome labor under the sun during the few days of life God has given them—for this is their lot. Moreover, when God gives someone wealth and possessions, and the ability to enjoy them, to accept their lot and be happy in their toil—this is a gift of God. They seldom reflect on the days of their life, because God keeps them occupied with gladness of heart."
This passage encapsulates my new philosophy: let God take the lead. Let Him guide my steps, my thoughts, my path. My task now is to relinquish control and embrace the peace that comes with trust.
Despite this newfound clarity, anxieties persist. This morning, my worries fixated on insurance issues and out-of-network doctors. Discharge logistics remain uncertain, and in the past, I would have let such concerns consume me. But today, I choose to surrender these worries to God. Our relationship, one that has endured since I was 14, remains my greatest source of solace. Friends and family may come and go, but He is always there, ever-present, ever-accessible.
I look forward to my days of rest. To waking up without obligations. To lingering in bed, conversing with God over morning coffee. To a quiet existence filled with reading, writing, and creative endeavors—when my body allows. Perhaps I will embrace the slow, contemplative life of a retiree, sitting at a café and watching the world pass by. It may not be my usual style, but I will adapt. The goal is simple: to live in alignment with my body's needs, to maximize joy, to cherish the blessings I have been given.
No longer will I exhaust myself for the sake of others. My body is my priority now. Stillness, relaxation, and quietude will be my guiding principles. No more chasing after social media validation, no more unnecessary exertion for the sake of appearances. The stress, the anxiety, the constant striving—it is all behind me now. I once thought I found happiness in these pursuits, but now I see the toll they took. I have heard the stories of people who lost themselves in the pursuit of digital validation, who sacrificed their well-being for content creation. I was never that extreme, but I, too, lost precious time to distractions that did not serve me.
The stroke was my body’s final warning. For years, I pushed myself too hard—early morning writing, hours of exercise, long workdays, additional activities like fishing. From 4 AM to 3 PM, I was constantly on the move, believing it was all necessary. But it was too much. My body endured until it could no longer keep up with my demands.
Now, it is time for a cool change.
Home at last, I feel the difference immediately. The nasal congestion that plagued me in the hospital dissipates. Yet, exhaustion sets in. My blood pressure spikes—anxiety’s cruel trick. The moment I step into my house, my mind shifts into worry mode. It is automatic. But what, truly, am I afraid of? Perhaps it is time to consider sleeping aids. Melatonin, maybe. Watching television. Anything to keep my mind from feeding the monsters it creates.
Sleep will not come easily tonight. Perhaps I would have been better off in a nursing home, surrounded by people, never alone with my thoughts. Did I take my blood pressure medication earlier? My anxiety is real, and I must find ways to manage it.
Today has been the most active day since Monday, when I naively attempted a three-mile walk despite my symptoms. Thank God I went to the ER. Now, after three days of being mostly bedridden, my body is reacting to sudden mobility.
The first priority is rest. In the hospital, I could sleep easily, comforted by the knowledge that I was in good hands. Now, I must learn to find that security within myself. Anxiety is my greatest enemy, but with God, I do not face it alone.
2025-03-30 15:47:06
popong
Anxiety
March 27, 2025
Day Three in the Hospital
It’s now March 27—my third day here in the hospital. I woke up early this morning with a strange sensation on the left side of my face. At first, I thought it was numbness. I called the nurse to check, and she said it appeared swollen. My nose has been congested, so it’s possible the feeling of heaviness is simply from sinus pressure. Still, it unsettled me. I long to have this angiogram dressing removed—it’s become uncomfortable and makes it hard to rest fully in bed.
When the doctor comes, I plan to ask for two things. First, I’d like them to prescribe a mild anxiety medication—something low-level, just enough to help calm me. I’ve noticed that anxiety has crept in more easily since this stroke, and I fear it will intensify once I’m home, especially alone.
But I also know I’m not truly alone. God is with me—always. This moment of contemplation, right now, is my lifeline. I’m talking to God, not just journaling. The Holy Spirit is here with me. And that knowledge—more than any medication—is my greatest comfort. I’m thankful beyond words.
I believe discharge is near. Most of the team seems to have cleared me, except for this lingering facial issue. Still, the idea of going home stirs up anxiety. I’m doing my best to stay positive and to trust in the Lord. Everything that needed to be done has been done. Requesting more tests—like the second MRI I hoped for—may not be granted, and I need to accept that.
What I keep returning to is this thought: It would be beautiful to be in the company of someone I love—and who loves me back. Like so many ordinary people have. Companionship in the simplest form. But I’m 62, and single. That ship has likely sailed. Yet, I’m not bitter. I am deeply grateful that the Lord is with me. It’s more than just companionship—it’s divine presence. He is beside me, in me, around me. And the message I keep receiving from Him is clear: Be brave.
And brave I must be. This is the newest chapter in a long book of challenges I’ve faced. Aging is hard. Facing it alone is harder. But despite the odds stacked against me, I’ve never truly been alone. The Lord has taken ownership of my life again and again. He’s covered me in His mercy and love, and I believe He will do so once more. Whether I go home or to a nursing facility, there is rest waiting for me. Peace. A slowing down. And if I do end up in a nursing home, perhaps that setting would suit my temperament—quiet, structured, safe. Nothing to fear. I’ve faced much harder things.
If I go home, I can finally settle in bed without pressure, read my favorite books, write the stories I’ve always meant to tell. Yes, there is still hope.
This is what I treasure about my contemplative moments with God—there is always a way forward, always a light. No despair can survive long in His presence. As much as my mind might wander into the dark corners, I choose to stay in the light, in the hope.
Still, I admit the waiting is difficult. The discharge talk came earlier, but I’ve heard no updates since. The neurologists have mostly cleared me. I left a message for my primary care doctor and spoke with my sister about insurance, Social Security, all the logistics. I’m usually so consumed by those practical worries—expenses, planning—but right now, I feel oddly indifferent. Facing mortality puts everything into perspective.
All the things that used to keep me up at night—security, finances, health plans, dreams, exercise routines, social media posts, the causes I stood for, the people I helped, the family I supported, the books I wanted to write—all of them suddenly feel distant. Faded. They were once my whole world. Now, they feel like scenes from a life I no longer need to keep rehearsing.
Time has washed them gently away. Like trees I walked past each morning, the gardens I admired, the birds I photographed, the conversations I thought would last forever. All of them are being placed gently into their proper order in the great, eternal timeline of God. And somehow, I feel at peace.
I’m not grieving these things. I’m just grateful I was there. I lived them. I witnessed them. I was part of the wheel of time. And now, the Lord is telling me to stop—to pause this frantic quest for “someday.”
That someday has always been here. I just never saw it.
It’s like the story of a mother who devoted her life to her children—so much so that she forgot to love herself. She collapsed only when there was nothing left to give. And while her children loved her dearly, she had no love left for herself. That is me. I held on to roles and tasks long past their purpose. I wore them like armor, thinking they would save me.
But God has finally stomped His staff to the ground and said, clearly:
Stop.
This is no longer a disruption. It is an invitation.
A new kind of life awaits me now. A life where each day is a blessed day, walking in the garden of God. I don’t need to wake up early to force a routine of meditation or exercise. My whole life now becomes a quiet, living meditation. I don’t need to rush to beat the clock, or go out walking before work, or squeeze in moments of peace. I am free.
And in that freedom, I hear God again:
Be still.
Enjoy the quiet work you truly love.
Not for approval, not for performance.
Just for the joy of being alive.
Just for being you.
No timer.
No audience.
No applause.
Just me and my Lord.
That’s it. That’s all that remains. And it is more than enough.
2025-04-01 13:48:48
popong
The Mild Stroke of Ramon Santos
March 28, 2025
Today, I stand at a crossroads. It is possible that I will be discharged from the hospital, leaving behind the confines of this room where I have spent an extended period. Though I have moved around within the space—getting up for the bathroom, shifting positions—I have not yet taken the opportunity to walk down the hallway, largely due to the precautions placed on me two days ago. The nurse, concerned about my stability, has been hesitant to let me attempt it, fearing I might falter.
Yet, I walked into this hospital on my own two feet. On the first day, I walked despite slight unsteadiness, without any loss of balance. But then, something shifted within me. Fear took hold—fear of hypertension, fear of a secondary stroke, fear of a heart attack. ‘Dr. Google’ reinforced my anxiety, warning that such events could occur within three months post-stroke. And so, I immobilized myself. But I know that recovery requires movement, gradual but deliberate. The swelling in my brain should subside within five days, and by then, healing will begin in earnest. In my profession, I never discharge a patient until they can walk at least 200 feet. Now, I must take my own advice. It is time to start, carefully but with purpose.
The challenge is compounded by my worsening sinus congestion, a lingering effect of past nasal drip exacerbated by my time in this room. Movement must be slow and deliberate—I cannot afford recklessness. The key to recovery is pacing myself, listening to my body, and honoring its needs during this acute phase. My focus now is on essential self-care: rising from bed, using the bathroom, changing clothes. Perhaps today, I will attempt a simple wash, but showering remains an ambitious goal for another day.
My primary objective is simple yet critical: make it from this hospital to the car, then up the three steps into my house. Rest. Check my blood pressure. Monitor my blood sugar. Relax. Sleep. The brain, already assaulted by this stroke, must not be further burdened by unnecessary exertion. It is not wise to push through when my body signals the need for rest.
A fundamental realization has emerged from this experience: it is time to slow down. The compulsion to get up, to walk, to test my limits—these impulses must be tamed. The word "must" has no place in my vocabulary now. In my profession, I have always encouraged patients to pace themselves. Now, I must heed my own advice.
This anxiety, this relentless drive—these are lifelong patterns I have built. I have lived under the weight of obligation, always thinking ahead to the next task, the next goal, the next achievement. But life is not meant to be a relentless pursuit. Look at the animals—they move when necessary, then rest. Even Rocky, my faithful companion, plays only when he feels inclined. For the most part, he rests in his corner, as nature intended. The older an organism becomes, the slower it must move. That is the natural order of things.
One discipline I must now master is the art of stillness. "Be still, and know that I am God." I have spent my life placing God on standby, treating Him as a presence to call upon only when needed, rather than as the guiding force of my existence. That thinking must change. My survival, my well-being—these are in His hands. If I am meant to live, then let it be for the purpose of enjoying the fruits of my labor, as He intended.
What, then, is true joy? Is it found in the admiration of others, in social media validation, in meticulously following the rules of health? Or is it in the quiet moments of meditation, in reading great books that bring comfort, in conversations with God? I believe I know the answer. Joy is in stillness, in communion with God, in the simple pleasure of reading and learning. Social media, with all its illusions of importance, no longer holds the power it once did. Gone are the days of anxiously tracking likes and views, of seeking validation from a digital audience. There is no real gain in it—only vanity, a fleeting illusion.
This hospitalization and my decision to leave my job have granted me a newfound perspective. My purpose now is simple: to live as God intended, to find contentment in the present moment.
Ecclesiastes 5:18-20 resonates deeply:
"This is what I have observed to be good: that it is appropriate for a person to eat, to drink and to find satisfaction in their toilsome labor under the sun during the few days of life God has given them—for this is their lot. Moreover, when God gives someone wealth and possessions, and the ability to enjoy them, to accept their lot and be happy in their toil—this is a gift of God. They seldom reflect on the days of their life, because God keeps them occupied with gladness of heart."
This passage encapsulates my new philosophy: let God take the lead. Let Him guide my steps, my thoughts, my path. My task now is to relinquish control and embrace the peace that comes with trust.
Despite this newfound clarity, anxieties persist. This morning, my worries fixated on insurance issues and out-of-network doctors. Discharge logistics remain uncertain, and in the past, I would have let such concerns consume me. But today, I choose to surrender these worries to God. Our relationship, one that has endured since I was 14, remains my greatest source of solace. Friends and family may come and go, but He is always there, ever-present, ever-accessible.
I look forward to my days of rest. To waking up without obligations. To lingering in bed, conversing with God over morning coffee. To a quiet existence filled with reading, writing, and creative endeavors—when my body allows. Perhaps I will embrace the slow, contemplative life of a retiree, sitting at a café and watching the world pass by. It may not be my usual style, but I will adapt. The goal is simple: to live in alignment with my body's needs, to maximize joy, to cherish the blessings I have been given.
No longer will I exhaust myself for the sake of others. My body is my priority now. Stillness, relaxation, and quietude will be my guiding principles. No more chasing after social media validation, no more unnecessary exertion for the sake of appearances. The stress, the anxiety, the constant striving—it is all behind me now. I once thought I found happiness in these pursuits, but now I see the toll they took. I have heard the stories of people who lost themselves in the pursuit of digital validation, who sacrificed their well-being for content creation. I was never that extreme, but I, too, lost precious time to distractions that did not serve me.
The stroke was my body’s final warning. For years, I pushed myself too hard—early morning writing, hours of exercise, long workdays, additional activities like fishing. From 4 AM to 3 PM, I was constantly on the move, believing it was all necessary. But it was too much. My body endured until it could no longer keep up with my demands.
Now, it is time for a cool change.
Home at last, I feel the difference immediately. The nasal congestion that plagued me in the hospital dissipates. Yet, exhaustion sets in. My blood pressure spikes—anxiety’s cruel trick. The moment I step into my house, my mind shifts into worry mode. It is automatic. But what, truly, am I afraid of? Perhaps it is time to consider sleeping aids. Melatonin, maybe. Watching television. Anything to keep my mind from feeding the monsters it creates.
Sleep will not come easily tonight. Perhaps I would have been better off in a nursing home, surrounded by people, never alone with my thoughts. Did I take my blood pressure medication earlier? My anxiety is real, and I must find ways to manage it.
Today has been the most active day since Monday, when I naively attempted a three-mile walk despite my symptoms. Thank God I went to the ER. Now, after three days of being mostly bedridden, my body is reacting to sudden mobility.
The first priority is rest. In the hospital, I could sleep easily, comforted by the knowledge that I was in good hands. Now, I must learn to find that security within myself. Anxiety is my greatest enemy, but with God, I do not face it alone.
2025-03-30 15:47:06
popong