The Man I Met Because of The Beatles

 

I wanted to put this in writing because nobody really reads this blog anyway. And maybe that’s the point. Some stories aren’t meant to go viral, but they’re meant to be remembered.

Last weekend, while rummaging through boxes in my childhood home, I came across my old cassette tapes -- the ones I used to play on my Walkman during med school nights when loneliness hummed louder than fatigue. The music pulled me back, the way music always does: to a different version of myself, and to a person who once made the world feel gentler.

This is a story about him. I have written about him countless times in my older blog entries. This story is about us, though “us” was never quite the right word. I think stories like these need to be told, if only to remind us that not all great loves are romantic. Some are quieter, rarer, and harder to name.

He found me because of The Beatles.

It was the Friendster era, mid-2004, when the internet still felt small and full of accidental kindness. He said he’d clicked on The Beatles and my name appeared among the top fans. He wrote me a message, and I replied. That’s how it began -- not with sparks or fate, but with a click and a song.

He was eight years older, already working in the airline industry: handsome, brooding, confident, articulate, the kind of person who moved through life with quiet assurance. I was fresh out of med school, exhausted and uncertain, in the messy, sleepless blur of pre-residency at the Philippine General Hospital. Somehow, we met in that strange in-between space between his stability and my becoming.

We started exchanging emails -- not the short, distracted kind people send now, but letters. Long, thoughtful, unhurried. He wrote beautifully, with the kind of honesty that invited you to do the same. He wrote about travel, music, why he believes there is a God, and why Dylan’s voice was both unbearable and true. I wrote about the wards, my frustration about the health system, about fear, about trying to become a doctor and still be human.

When we finally met, I was already a second-year resident. It was a Black Saturday. The hospital was unusually quiet, the city half-asleep. He picked me up in my home ward: Ward 1. A tall brooding guy in a light blue shirt, or was it gray, walking in with a quiet swagger. As I stepped out from the ward half-full of patients, he gave me a half-smile and said, “Finally, we meet.” To me then, he was as handsome and mysterious as I had imagined him to be.  He handed me a CD he had curated himself: a collection of songs he loved and thought I might, too: Sting, Tracy Chapman, Beck, Radiohead, Tom Waits, the Beatles. 

That evening, we had dinner and beer al fresco -- the rare, crowdless Malate brought about by Holy Week spread out before us, the warm breeze drifting in from Manila Bay. We ended past midnight, talking about life, faith, music. Everything. But we were silent, too. In fact, we were silent most of the time -- that kind of silence so comfortable it felt like home. He drove my back to the hospital past midnight. 

I remember floating through Ward 1 as I walked toward the residents’ callroom -- weightless, dazed, and smiling to myself for reasons I couldn’t quite name.

I think I fell in love with him that day.

We met regularly after that. And by “regularly,” I mean once a month, sometimes once in three. But it was always the same: the conversations, the comfort, the ease. Perhaps because I was heard. Perhaps because with him, I could talk about my small, silly concerns about life without fear of judgment. He listened, really listened, and even remembered the tiny details.

We talked for hours, meeting for a late breakfast, moving somewhere for lunch, then drifting to another place for dinner and beer. I never knew when our next meeting would be, but residency passed quickly because I was always looking forward to every conversation, no matter how long the wait.

He never promised anything, but I stayed in Manila longer than I should have. I stayed officially for fellowship, but secretly for him. I didn’t know what to call it then. Maybe I still don’t.

During my first year of cardiology fellowship, his mother fell ill with metastatic breast cancer. We braved that storm together: the early admissions at Makati Medical Center, the palliative care at home, the long, uncertain weeks at PGH. On New Year’s Eve, while the world outside erupted in fireworks, we hid a bottle of wine in her room and drank quietly, while a blue moon illuminated the smoky air of Taft Avenue. A few weeks later, when her breathing slowed, I was the one who checked her pulse and said the words “time of death”. He curled beside her bed and wept.

That night, I saw the tenderness of his heart. The quiet strength that carried him through grief. And maybe that’s when I realized that love can also mean staying, even when you’re not chosen.

After that, life resumed its steady rhythm. We still saw each other. We watched concerts, had both simple and fancy dinners. But my favorites have always been the conversations over beer. I met his family; he met mine. His sisters brought me chocolates and trinkets from abroad. Once, he went home with me to Digos. My parents assumed he was my boyfriend. I laughed, but maybe a small part of me wished they were right.

Some time during fellowship, there was that one night he called, distraught. Someone he’d been seeing thought she was pregnant, and then it turned out to be a blighted ovum. He was heartbroken. I stayed on the phone with him. We met for dinner and beer, skirted around the topic, and talked about music instead. I sat with him, joining him in his sadness, even as my own heart quietly cracked open.

And still, I stayed.

Years blurred. I finished training and returned home. We kept in touch through short Facebook messages -- perfunctory ”how are you’s” and “we should have beer soon”. We rarely did, but the friendship endured like a low, steady hum in the background of our separate lives.  I remember staying with him when the clock struck midnight on his 40th birthday, sipping coffee in Ortigas, when I attended a cardiology conference in Manila. 

And then, one day, when my mother died in 2016, he appeared. He hadn’t asked for details and hadn’t even messaged. But there he was, flying in quietly from Manila to Davao City, standing at the edge of the funeral crowd in a white shirt and jeans. I saw him and smiled despite my tears. “You're here,” I said. He nodded. “Of course.” His unexpected presence broke the last thread of strength and composure in me.  He didn’t say much; he didn’t have to. He was simply there -- that same calm, steady presence that had once anchored me through the hardest nights of training. On one of the saddest days of my life, he came to grieve with me, wordlessly. He left the same day, after a long, tight hug that said everything words could not. And I knew then that this friendship is for keeps. Not loud, not constant, not defined by frequency or labels. But enduring. Certain. 

After that, the busyness of our lives caught up with us. We still meet for short catch-ups in Manila. I remember I met him at the airport once, before I set out for Japan. I told him about this man that I had recently met, but he was based in Japan. He said he was excited for me because I deserved to be loved. 

In 2018, I married the man I told him about. He was one of my secondary sponsors. He was supposed to carry the Bible, but at the last minute, he cancelled his trip because of medical emergency. It was so perfectly him: written into my story, even in absence.

Many months after our wedding, he visited us to meet my husband. It was awkward at first. The conversations were brief and less personal, as though we were both aware of the invisible weight of memory between us. We talked about travel, work, politics -- the kind of small talk people use when they are trying not to trespass into tender territory.

But there were moments -- fleeting, fragile -- when the old ease returned. When a shared laugh or an unfinished sentence would remind me of how naturally we used to speak, before life grew complicated with marriages, children, and unspoken histories.

He stayed for only a few hours, then left as quietly as he had arrived. We drove him to an obscure beach resort, the only one open to accept guests. He told us to not worry about him anymore. On the drive home, my husband said he seemed kind. I smiled. “He is,” I said. And that was all.

When I became pregnant with my first child, he was one of the first people I told. It felt right that the man who’d known me through my most uncertain years should also know this gentler, fuller version of me.

It has been eight years now, since I got married to a beautiful soul I can never live without. We have been blessed with two lovely daughters who keep our home lovely and bright. He has remained single, living alone in the house his mother left him. We still message sometimes: birthdays, quick updates, concerts we might like to watch together, and a song he thinks I might like.

Every now and then, I still dream of him. It’s never romantic, just familiar. In my dreams, we’re usually talking over coffee or over beer, of just sitting together with both our feet up, silently watching the sun set. After these dreams, I wake up smiling, the kind of smile that aches a little. It's the same unexplainable joy I felt as I walked back to the callroom that night I first met him. Only now, it's softer. More peaceful. Kinder.

Sometimes I miss him. And sometimes, because of the quiet fulfillment and completeness of my life now, I feel guilty for missing him. But I’ve learned that missing someone doesn’t mean longing. Sometimes it’s gratitude wearing another face.

Because the truth is not every meaningful relationship fits into the boxes we've been taught to name. The most important ones elude definition. Some never turn into love stories, but remain stories about love nonetheless.

And today, I found the CD he gave me -- buried deep in a box of memories. The handwriting is still there, looping along the edges of the disc: Two of Us. Karma Police. Shape of My Heart. Everybody Hurts. The ink has faded, the plastic is scratched, but the music still plays.

And as I listened, I remembered everything: the girl I was, the man who saw her, the friendship that held its shape even after everything else changed.

Maybe that’s how the universe works: we meet the most special people not through grand design, but through the smallest, most ordinary accidents.

And maybe love -- real love -- isn’t the fireworks or the ending we imagine. Maybe it’s two lives running side by side for a while, close enough to touch, never meant to meet, but changed all the same.

It is friendship, memory, and music. The letters exchanged in naked honesty between strangers, the long conversation with a friend that never really ends. The grace of being seen, once but completely, by another soul.

And as The Beatles sang, “Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, bra… la-la how the life goes on...”

22 Years Old

I just lost another patient.

I watched over that patient, stayed at his bedside for more than an hour the night before. I had a conversation with his son and learned that he has just graduated from BS Biology. He told me he wants to become a doctor. He is thinking of applying at the school where I am teaching, and I encouraged him. 

I also learned that he is the eldest of two siblings. His younger brother is in senior high school. Their mother is an OFW, working as a housekeeper in Saudi. 

I did my best to save his father's life. He was showing improvement when I left for the night. When I made rounds early in the morning, he even recognized me. I went back at 2PM, shortly before I went to my clinic, and he was stable. Two hours later, he had seizures followed by sudden cardiac arrest that the team was unable to reverse. Because I was with patients at the clinic, I arrived at the hospital too late. He was already pronounced dead. 

The boys were on the floor, sobbing. Their hands on their faces, the floor wet with their tears. 

I didn’t speak. I didn’t try to explain. I just sat on the floor with them. In my scrubs. On the floor.

The eldest finally looked up and whispered the words that crushed me more than the silence ever could: "Doc wala pa kabalo si Mama. Doc, unsaon ko man ni?" 

He is 22 years old.

No one prepares you for that kind of moment in medical school, even in residency and fellowship training. We learn how to manage cardiac arrests. We memorize ACLS algorithms. We recite differentials like they’re poetry. But this -- this is the real medicine. Being a witness to the exact moment someone’s world splits open. And having no choice but to feel it crack inside you, too.

After some time, I stood up. I wrote orders for post-mortem care. Completed the paperwork. Scribbled what needed to be scribbled on the chart.

Then I walked to my clinic and saw my next patient. It was almost seven in the evening. They had been waiting for hours.

Because life, for most of us, must go on.

I hope, in time, it does for them too.

The Things We Cannot Heal

Last month, I received a new referral. As I dropped by the nurses' station to look at the patient's chart, one of the nurses told me, "Doc, nakahilak ko ana nga patient." I asked her why and she replied, "Basta doc. Uban ko sa imo ha."

So together we walked to the patient’s bedside. The patient was a young woman, a mother, her frail body swallowed by the sheets. She had oxygen support and was breathless after speaking short sentences. She had advanced breast cancer.

She told me she first felt the lump more than a year ago, but sought consult only three months back. I asked her why she waited so long.

Her answer broke me.

Her husband, she said, had been diagnosed with rectal cancer the year before. They sold their house to pay for his chemotherapy. When he lost his job, their children stopped going to school. She herself had felt the lump on her breast at that time but chose to keep quiet. She decided that all their attention and remaining resources must go to her husband.

Six months ago, he finished his chemotherapy and underwent surgery. He was back on his feet, taking blue-collar jobs wherever he could find them. The children returned to school. Only then did she tell her family about the lump.

But they did not immediately go to the doctor. By then, they had been stripped bare. It took several months before they could borrow enough money from neighbors and lenders for her to finally see one. At her first consult, the doctor suspected cancer. There were already lymph nodes in her supraclavicular area. Her chest X-ray showed lung metastasis. The ultrasound revealed liver metastasis.

As she told me her story, tears welled in her eyes. She said her two children are still in high school and feared that they would once again have to stop studying to help pay for her treatment.

She was currently admitted for severe back pain, weakness, and numbness of the legs. Imaging showed metastatic lesions on her spine. That was why she could no longer walk. She told me she was not afraid of dying. What she feared was for her family. What if her husband’s cancer returned? What would happen to her children if she died?

Her husband interrupted us. He told her not to lose hope. God had seen them through his own cancer, and He would see them through this one, too. I wanted to tell him that this was different. His case had been diagnosed early. But hers? Hers was stage 4 -- with metastases to the lungs, liver, and spine.

I chose to keep quiet, not wanting to take away that tiny shred of hope they were holding onto. Perhaps next time I’ll tell them. Or perhaps one of her other doctors will.

After hearing her story, the nurse and I went back to the station. We were both in tears. I told her, “Life is unfair, no? I can’t imagine the pain they’re going through. Some people are really just unlucky.”

The nurse was young. This was her first job, her first time encountering such a story. She asked, “Doc, how do you handle it?”

I said, “I just listen. And I pray for them. There are things I really can’t control, but I think just being there, just listening, already helps.” Then I told her, “Ma’am, you will be hearing more stories like this. You have to learn to be strong, and you shouldn’t despair. You're already holding up very well. You're doing something wonderful, more than you'll ever know."

The patient was sent home after receiving steroids and radiotherapy. I haven’t heard from her since. I’m sure her cancer must have progressed, but I pray that her children are still in school.

As for the nurse, I still see her often in the ward, patiently caring for our patients. I know that she is stronger now. I hope that she hasn’t lost her faith in what she can do for the world.

Sometimes, I cannot understand the justice system of this world. Why do people suffer? Why do others get lucky while some go through unimaginable pain? I really cannot understand.

But perhaps understanding is not what is asked of us. Because even if I cannot understand, I can listen. And I can help.

In medicine, we are taught how to diagnose, to treat, to cure. But stories like hers remind me that sometimes, our role is simply to witness: to stand beside those who suffer when the world has taken almost everything from them. Because when we listen, when we stay, we honor what remains of their strength and dignity. And perhaps, in moments when we cannot heal the body, we can still help keep the hope from breaking. 

And perhaps at that moment in time, that is the best thing that we can do.

On Delays and Healthcare Access

 “Nganong karon ra man ninyo gidala si tatay nga grabe na man?”

Sometimes we ask this question mindlessly, without malice. Not because we’ve grown callous, but because we care.

Just recently, I learned that this simple question can actually break some families’ hearts. As I sat by the bedside of my dying patient, talking with his family, I was reminded again of the painful realities of our healthcare system and that nobody really wants delayed medical care. It’s just that access is not the same for everyone.

My patient came from a mountainous community in Malungon, Sarangani Province, near the borders of Malita, Davao Occidental. Their place can only be reached by motorcycle or horse, crossing four hours of rough terrain and several rivers.

When he first felt the symptoms of his illness, his instinct was to wait it out. Endure until it passes. The virtue of “pagtitiis” is often the poor Filipino’s first line of defense against illness.

But the pain did not pass. It worsened. The next instinct was to ask for help. Their nearest neighbor lived almost a kilometer away. His neighbors carried him like a child for more than four hours, traveling by motorcycle on rocky roads to reach the nearest district hospital.

But before they could even decide to leave, they needed to find money, so they sold their horse and a few pigs. And now that they are in the city, with mounting hospital expenses, they have sold so much more than their animals. They have also sold their land.

As doctors, I know that we don’t mean harm when we ask that question. But maybe there’s a better way to ask.

Perhaps instead of “Nganong karon ra man ninyo gidala si Tatay nga grabe na man?” we can ask, softly, “Giunsa ninyo pagdala si Tatay diri?” or “Asa pa diay gikan si Tatay?” These questions are not accusations of neglect, but open doors to stories, not wounds.

Because more often than not, for the ordinary Filipino, behind every delay is not neglect. It is sacrifice. And while a single medical consult is ordinary for many, for some, it costs them their entire livelihood. Any accusation of neglect, even if unintended, robs them of their dignity and pride. And sometimes, that’s all they have left.