Life is nothing but a cycle of waiting.

I have known this even before I could count the months: waiting for water to come out of the rusty pump, for Tatay to return from the fields, for Nanay to finish scrubbing other people’s clothes. And now, once more, I was waiting again. 

With its weary engine, the jeepney charged toward the provincial hospital. Dust drifted through the loosened window, carrying the gritty smell of sun-cured palay. Barefoot children skittered along the roadside, glancing up with wondering eyes as the bus left the barrio.

Inside, it reeked of engine oil, sukang tuba, and sweat soaked into faded shirts. Passengers clutched bayongs of vegetables and bags bulging at the seams. A wooden rosary swung from the driver’s mirror; beads clicking like the road itself was desperate for a prayer. 

Cramped in our seats, I nestled my head where my mother’s shoulder met her neck. She caressed my back with the same care that used to cradle me through childhood fevers. One hand rubbed circles, while the other hand hid inside her skirt pocket; fingers worrying over folded bills she had counted too many times. Every time I coughed, she held me closer, steadying her breathing so mine might follow.

The trip was eight hours long, but it felt longer. I drifted in and out of sleep, broken only by the brakes’ screeches and the begging cries of vendors, climbing aboard with boxes of mineral water and peanuts.

Along the way, I let the passing places slip from memory.

“Anak, konti na lang, makakarating na tayo,” she whispered.

By the time we reached the hospital, fever-sweat had glued my shirt to my back. The gates were a cascade of people carrying rice cookers, rolled-up banigs, and bags of clothes that swung against their sides. The corridors stank of sweat, antiseptic, and something rancid I couldn’t name. 

My mother guided me to a row of plastic chairs already full of families fanning themselves with cardboard. We all looked the same—tired, sun-browned, clothes worn thin from too many washings—people who had waited their whole lives because that was the only way out. 

Beside us, a woman sighed, “Ganito na lang palagi; hintay nang hintay.”

Above the nurses’ station, a poster for “Universal Health Care” smiled in government green, its corners peeling as if it’s tired of pretending. The nurses kept saying sorry as they handed us a number, but it didn’t make the wait any shorter. 

The first hours passed like days. The heat pressed down like another fever. Somewhere in the hallway, a baby wailed, and the sound ebbed and swelled until I could no longer tell if it was the same one crying. My mother refolded the slip from the clerk again and again, while I traced the cracks on the wall with my eyes.

Afternoon bled into evening, and no doctor had come. Someone said he would pass by on rounds, but later stretched until the sun fell, until night came and went, until later felt like forever. 

We waited, and waited…and waited. That was all there was to do. Wait for the list to be called. Wait for a bed to be vacated. Wait for the doctor rumored to be making rounds somewhere else. 

When the nurse finally called our number, it was almost dawn. She led us to a narrow bed near the far wall, beside a window that would not close. Dust drifted in, carrying the earthy smell of the city market.

The nurse handed my mother a list of medicines. “Wala na pong stock. Pabili na lang po sa labas.” 

My mother nodded, already fishing for her purse. She left and came back hours later, carrying only half of what was written. The pharmacy had run out of the rest, she said. I knew better than to believe, knowing the prices had probably leapt beyond her folded bills. 

Night after night, the air in my lungs learned to leave like a friend who found work in the city and never returned. The coughing bent my body in ways I didn’t know I could move, and the bitter tang of blood became constant. Yet, my mother never stopped moving—tucking the thin sheet of blanket, pressing the cool rag to my forehead, holding me together with the only things she had left: her hands. 

“Anak, maghintay lang tayo. Gagaling ka rin,” she said softly and with a smile.

Each day melted painfully into the next. More lists were handed over, and more trips were made outside for medicine. On the fourth night, I heard someone in the next bed whisper that another patient had died while waiting for an IV drip. No one came to pronounce anything. The body was simply wheeled away at dawn, making space for another name on the waiting list.

By the time the doctor finally said the word—pneumonia—it was already too late. The infection had set deep, the nurse said. They would try a stronger antibiotic if we could find it, but my mother’s hands stayed folded in her lap. I knew the pockets were empty. 

When the coughing came, it ripped through me until my vision blurred into the night. My mother gathered me against her chest the way she had on the bus; her steady breath against a failing one. 

The last thing I saw was the poster above the nurses’ station, still smiling in government green. Every night its corners surrendered a little more, waiting as we did, peeling at the edges of its own lie.

And in the end, as in the beginning, I was held in my mother’s arms—waiting no more.

Life is nothing but a cycle of waiting, and most of the time, waiting is all the life we get.

Editor’s Note: This literary piece was first issued in the August-November 2025 First Semester Newsletter of Atenews.