After a week of relentless rains brought by Tropical Depression Basyang and the intermittent showers that followed, our home bore the quiet evidence of nature’s persistence.
Leaves, twigs, and debris had gathered in the gutters, clogging the downspouts and threatening to send rainwater cascading down the walls. I worried about seepage, about damage, about the slow but costly erosion that neglect can bring.
The two downspouts in front of the master’s bedroom—once occupied by my late parents—demanded attention. That room holds memories, and perhaps that is why I felt an even stronger resolve to protect that corner of our home.
It was late afternoon, around 5:30 p.m. on Saturday, Feb. 13. The skies were cloudy but mercifully dry. It seemed like a safe window to act.
I set up a six-foot folding aluminum ladder against the wall. I had done similar tasks many times before.
At 69, I still considered myself steady and capable. I climbed carefully, reaching perhaps four feet, when in an instant that felt both sudden and surreal, the ladder shifted. It wobbled, tilted to the left, and before I could regain balance, it toppled completely—sending me crashing onto the concrete walkway beneath the cantilevered awning.
The impact was crushing. My left thigh absorbed the blow, my leg twisting unnaturally as I hit the ground. A sharp, searing pain shot upward, leaving me breathless. I tried to stand but could not. The reality settled in: something was terribly wrong.
Lying on my back, I gathered what composure I could and began to crawl—slowly, painfully—toward the house. My mobile phone sat on the dining table, roughly five meters from the main door.
Those five meters felt like a marathon. Each movement demanded grit. Each inch forward was an act of determination.
Finally inside, I called my son. He immediately informed my aunt. I tried reaching my wife, unaware she was at Central Philippine University attending her students’ thesis defense.
My eldest son in Iloilo answered and calmly instructed me to remain still and conserve energy while waiting for help. His voice steadied me. My aunt arrived quickly and mobilized assistance.
Three men from Alvin’s Vulcanizing Shop responded without hesitation, coordinating with our town’s emergency responders. Their swift compassion reminded me how communities hold one another together during crisis.
I was carefully placed on a flatbed and transported first to Elumba Clinic, then to the Rural Health Unit for initial pain management.
At 9:30 p.m., an ambulance from Cabacungan arrived. By 10:38 p.m., I was admitted to Riverside Hospital. At 11:28 p.m., an X-ray confirmed what I already sensed—a fractured left femur.
Dr. Ricardo Chua, my orthopedic physician, explained that age-related bone brittleness likely contributed to the severity of the fracture. Dr. Giann Carlo Ezpelita, the surgeon, scheduled the operation for Tuesday, Feb. 17, to stabilize the bone and prevent complications.
In the days leading to surgery, a dedicated team led by Dr. Kevin Sua guided me through pre-operative exercises to maintain muscle tone and improve recovery prospects. A thorough battery of tests followed: 2D Echo, ultrasound, blood chemistry panels, and vigilant monitoring of my vital signs, including blood sugar levels. Every detail mattered.
At midnight of Feb. 16, I began fasting in preparation for the 2 p.m. surgery the next day. I was eventually wheeled into the operating room at 5:50 p.m., where standard protocols were meticulously observed.
Ever curious, I asked how the titanium implant would function and whether airport X-ray scanners would detect it. The answer was yes—but I would be provided medical clearance documentation.
Before anesthesia took effect, the medical team and I paused for prayer. We acknowledged God’s sovereignty, entrusted the procedure to His guiding hand, and invoked His healing power.
In that sacred moment, science and faith stood side by side—not in opposition, but in harmony.
The surgery concluded successfully. I was taken out of the operating room at 10:30 p.m. and transferred to the Medical Ward.
Post-operative care, supervised by Dr. John Adrian Sanchez, began immediately. Doctors estimate four to six months before full mobility is restored.
And so I rise—a Titanium Man.
Titanium is known for strength, resilience, and endurance. It resists corrosion. It bears weight. It symbolizes the triumph of modern medicine and the marvel of human ingenuity. Yet for me, it also represents humility.
It is a permanent reminder that strength is not merely physical. It is spiritual. It is communal. It is born of prayer, family, neighbors, and medical professionals working together.
While my leg now carries titanium, my mind remains sharp. My 15 daily online group chats continue. My responsibilities as publisher and editor of La Castellana News Online remain intact. My weekly column for Negros News Daily will not miss a beat. Service does not pause simply because the body needs repair.
This experience has etched lessons deeper than the surgical scar. It reminds me to respect age, to exercise caution, and to value the fragility of life. It reinforces gratitude—for family, for community, for healthcare workers, and above all, for God’s sustaining grace.
Through pain, prayer, and perseverance, I rise stronger—part flesh, part titanium, wholly grateful.
And as always, I remain in your service. | NWI
