The Journey: Base on Personal Accounts

By Nitch Saver

The Journey is about real-event stories of a Filipino nurse who does not want to leave his loved ones, but out of poverty, he made the biggest sacrifice of his life. During this journey, he met several people, nurses, patients, and strangers who shared other real-life stories that would surely break the readers heart. The main character of each story became victorious in their struggles. You must read each story and find out which story is similar with yours and learn how to conquer your own battle through the examples set by the characters in this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524670245

Nitch Saver

Nitch Saver, BSN-RN, Authored Poems for You and The Power Of Fiction. He won a category in Las Vegas last 2007’s International Poetry Writing Competition. He’s passionate in coaching volleyball and learning Wing Chun.

Book preview

When God Gives You America

WHO IN THIS world doesn’t dream about America? I don’t.

In November 2005, I was in the Philippines. Two strangers on a motorbike were looking for me at my home address. One of them handed me a small sealed envelope. Not knowing its contents, I carefully tore the envelope, and the first things that caught my eye were the words United States of America and Visa written on a stiff piece of paper.

My parents and other relatives were there, and all of them became joyous. They acted like I’d hit the Powerball. What is this? I asked them.

You don’t know a visa? They laughed. They thought I was asking a complicated question, when all I wanted to know was why they were so happy.

Were they happy because I would be leaving soon? Was I so bad that they wanted to get rid of me? Were they celebrating because America meant money to them? Why were they so crazy about America? And why was I so mournful and sorrowful?

In 1998, I’d tried to enroll at the College of Medical Technology at Silliman University in Dumaguete City, Philippines, working a step closer to fulfilling my childhood dream of becoming a doctor. However, I was obsessed with volleyball and was a leading player on my team, which was involved in a big game at the time of enrollment, and I was not able to apply. However, the college of nursing opened its doors to me. I earned my diploma and a bachelor’s degree in nursing, which gave me an opportunity to work in a hospital, where I met my high school classmate, who was also a nurse at that time. She got pregnant. She handed me a business card from White Glove, an agency that recruited nurses, which eventually sponsored my trip to New York.

Was I ready to leave? As the head coach of the provincial volleyball team, I was of two minds. My heart belonged to volleyball, and I had also started a master’s degree. I dreamed to be at least the dean of a college of nursing. Becoming a doctor was no longer possible after my parents were in a car accident and my family’s financial status was shattered.

Mama, when I become a doctor, I will treat your eyes. I’d made that promise to my late grandma, and it kept ringing in my mind. I was about six years old when one morning I observed my grandmother—I called her Mama—struggling to find her broomstick. She suffered from cataracts but could not afford medical treatment. I was two months old, and Mama was sixty-five when my parents left me in her care. She earned a living by picking fruits and palm leaves in her backyard and then selling them in the city market. One early morning, I walked miles with her to reach the national road, where we caught a jeepney to the city.

The 2:00 a.m. cold was barely eased by our handmade lamp, which was made from dry palm leaves wrapped together. I had seldom seen the city, and seeing it at the break of dawn caused peace and joy in my heart. But that peace ended when law enforcement approached us.

Mama did not have a permit. How could she afford a fifteen-peso (less than twenty-five cents) permit when we had not yet made any sales? Fear rose in my heart faster than the rising sun when I observed the officers harassing my grandma. They yelled at my poor grandma, almost spitting on her; if there had been no other people around, they would have beaten her up.

My grandma was less than five feet tall, yet the two officers dragged her out of the marketplace like she had committed a heinous crime. I could hear bubbling from afar. My grandma begged for mercy, but she never cried. She knew she was my only source of strength and that tears would weaken me. She wanted me to believe that she could take care of me, no matter how harsh the world became. Then a man offered help to us. I thought he was sincere, but he was just taking advantage of the situation. He knew we could no longer sell our fruit in the market. He offered my grandma twenty pesos when we could have made two hundred (five dollars). Afraid that the officers would come back, I begged grandma to take the offer. She did so because of her love for me.

I’ve missed the care and love of my grandma since a tree took her life. It was during a stormy afternoon in 2007. My grandma climbed a lofty santol tree to pick fruit. The tree trunk was wet and her legs slipped on the branches that had supported her for years.

And now I had an invitation to America—an invitation that most people would love to grab. Should I leave my country and risk life in an unknown place? In the Philippines, I had friends I would never have in New York. I loved the sun, not the winter. I would surely miss the beach, the food, the climate, and, most of all, my family. What could America offer me? These thoughts kept me from migrating until a horrible accident pushed me to leave the life that I’d once believed was the most beautiful gift from God.

In March 2006, I was reading one early morning, when a neighbor yelled from our gate, Your parents! Your parents!

Tremors ran through my whole body and almost paralyzed me. My uncle revved his motorbike, and I got on it wearing my sando (sleeveless shirt), shorts, and slippers that made me look like a penguin. My uncle drove the bike in a flash, faster than any ambulance. We drove straight to the ER.

I found my dad being treated, bloody, with broken left leg and left arm. He shouted at me, Your mom!

That cry from my dad stung in my ears. I couldn’t find her. I heard someone announce, Code Blue to ER, please three times, and I saw the medical team rush to the ER. I followed them and found my mom, covered in blood and unconscious. Her left leg was just hanging. I could tell her leg could no longer be saved, but I was hoping badly that the doctors could save her life.

Hours passed. The attending surgeon announced that my mom needed bags of blood. I begged friends to donate since we could not afford to buy. Finally, Mom became stable after she received a blood transfusion.

After two days, the doctor allowed us to see Mom in the ICU. I was the first to visit her. It was four in the morning. I sat beside her. Tears dropped from my eyes when I saw her hopeless condition. She slowly woke up. I called the rest of my family in to see her.

Is the game about to start? she asked. Her team had won a game just before the accident, and she was one of their best players.

Mom, you always make your team win, I said, cheering her up. She looked happy to hear that.

Then she asked, Why can’t I feel my left leg?

That question made us stare at one another. We didn’t know what to say. The truth would surely hurt her. I placed some pillows where her leg would have been to make her think she still had one. I told her the anesthesia made her leg numb, so she couldn’t feel it.

Days passed, and Mom found out the truth. I expected her to cry; yet she accepted her fate faster than my father did. The hospital bills forced my parents to sell our house in the city, the car, the trucks, and the shop—all that we had was gone, but my family still had huge debts because my parents needed ongoing rehabilitation. Then I remembered that visa that I’d held on to for months. I thought about my team, my master’s class, my friends, my parents, and my only brother, who would have to stop going to college if I didn’t find a solution. I finally decided to get a ticket to fly to America.

The Departure

IN MAY 2006, just three days before my American visa expired, I boarded a flight bound for New York. I paid the cheapest price, of course. I’m a Filipino—practicality counts before comfort. At the airport, I was consumed by sadness, the worst feeling I have ever had in my entire life. I was conflicted—I wanted to stay in the Philippines and take care of my disabled parents, but I also wanted to work abroad so I could help my family. All our financial crises hovered over my head as I walked toward the check-in counter. I refrained from looking back, and I disregarded the calls from my loved ones. Once I was seated on the plane, I looked through the glass window, and I could see their hands waving to me, particularly Mary Ann’s.

I’d met Mary Ann six years earlier. My best friend, who was interested in her, introduced us. Then he realized he couldn’t get anywhere with her and quit trying. Not me, I told him. I would finish what he had started. My other friends found this perplexing since I’m more of a pursuing type, but I was determined not to waste all his efforts.

Our relationship didn’t go as smoothly as I’d expected. Long distance and infidelity on my side muddled the situation, and yet Mary Ann remained faithful. She’s really crazy, I thought. She even took care of my parents at the hospital. To my dismay, my parents invited her to their house. I was cursed.

We will not allow any other woman to come into our house, my mom said.

You can marry anybody, but only Mary Ann will be accepted into the family, Dad said.

Their statements filled my thoughts. This means I have to like her no matter what, I said to myself.

The plane roared. I closed my eyes and thought about all my memories with Mary Ann. I realized I was cursing a great gift from God. Once, we were going to a fiesta in a town three hours from the city. We were caught in heavy rain, which didn’t stop. She hugged my back, risking her life as we rode the motorbike toward the town. Her body gave me warmth so that I could stand the cold rain. Suddenly, I missed the road, and we were dragged to the side. We weren’t badly injured, but I blamed her, even though she had nothing to do with it. I bashed her in every way. I demanded things from her—from doing my school papers to grocery shopping to setting my appointments. I acted like her boss at all times. She is stupid, I thought. She did everything I asked without complaining, and I never appreciated what she did.

I never wanted her to be around with me, especially at my games. Of course, I was a womanizer. I loved the cheers from other girls. Mary Ann was just an aide, a secretary, a low-class friend, and not my girlfriend. I never bought gifts for her or gave her flowers on Valentine’s Day. I gave the best gifts to other women. I was like a chauffeur for other women, yet Mary Ann drove me to school. I was flirty with others, but kind words for her never passed my lips. No other woman loved me the way she did. And now that I was going away, I missed all her love and care. I wanted to feel her embrace, which I had always rejected. I wanted to hear her voice, which had always annoyed me. I wanted to feel her touch, her kiss, but it was too late. America was driving us apart.

The Arrival

FEELINGS OF FEAR and excitement haunted my soul. I was on an internationally bound plane for the first time. Its huge body and the long hours of flying high in the sky made me think I might not see my family again. The flight attendant distributed drinks to everyone. My dry lips begging for something to drink, and yet I refused the offer from the attendant, thinking I would have to pay it. Coffee, tea, or wine? the attendant asked. No thanks, I replied. I only had $500 in my wallet, and I didn’t know if that would be enough.

My bladder was itching, and yet I kept myself from going to the bathroom. I looked on my left side, and there was a man who looked so ugly and scary, huge and tall. To my right, another man looked rich, and I didn’t want to get involved with any wealthy person.

After a fourteen-hour flight from Hong Kong, the captain announced that we were about to land. The window blinds were raised, and I saw New York for the first time. Seen from above, the lights seemed like fireflies at night. But the moonlight in the Philippines, celebrated with friends at the beach, is still the most beautiful sight to me.

The plane landed, and my whole body shook. Everything went well, from the immigration office to picking up my luggage. Wow, I’m like a pro! I praised myself. Two hours later, I was still waiting at the arrival area. I noticed that everybody from my flight had disappeared. Sweat started to drip from my forehead despite the heat at the airport. Was the White Glove agency bogus? I started to become overwrought. There was an officer patrolling nearby. I begged for help and asked to use his phone.

Please don’t take long, he said. I have limited minutes.

I didn’t know what he meant. I dialed the numbers for the White Glove agency, but nobody answered. Who would be at the office at midnight? I dialed another number. I told the officer that I would pay.

Hello, my aunt’s best friend answered.

Auntie, please pick me up. I’m here in New York.

New York? It’s twelve hours away from Michigan.

Her answer was not helping, but some hope rose in my heart that if anything happened to me I could ask for her help. I told her that if nobody picked me up, I would sleep at the airport and wait for her.

The officer asked for his phone back. He noticed how worried I was. He told me to go to the Cathay Pacific airline office, which I did. The office was about to close, and the workers were leaving. I begged to use their phone and dialed White Glove again. Unfortunately, no one was there. I started to shake, and my eyes showed a fear that I had never felt before.

Do you have the address of your apartment? asked one of the Cathay agents.

Did I hear him right? I asked myself. I never thought about refusing his offer. We went to the parking area, where a bus would take us to another part of the airport where his car was parked. I got a long sermon from the bus driver. I wasn’t supposed to be there. That was the first time I faced my fear. I spoke to the bus driver gently and begged her, bowing like a Japanese slave to his master. I was thinking that America is a harsh place in which to live and survive. I missed the hospitality back home. We never treat foreigners the way I was treated by the bus driver. She was a black woman, and I remembered what my friends told me: New York is occupied by blacks, and they are very mean.

I’m Hassan, said the Cathay agent. I gave him the address of my apartment, and he drove me there. While I was sitting quietly in his car, I recalled an old blind man whom I had helped across the street.

It was four in the afternoon. I was on my bike, heading toward the university where I had a master’s class in behavioral nursing. I saw an old man. I knew him, for sure. He used to beg for food on the street. But this time he looked so different. He looked older than he should have, and he had a cane. His gait was not stable, and he was trying to cross the street. Vehicles honked their horns as he wobbled in different directions. I sped up to try to catch him. A truck rushed at my left side and a motor cab did the same from the opposite lane. I took the risk; I crossed the lane in-between, where I was almost hit by the truck. Then I intentionally parked my bike diagonally in the middle of the road to block one lane. Suddenly the old man lost his balance and hit his head on the ground. I ran to him quickly. He was bleeding badly. I rushed him to the hospital where I worked, and he was given immediate attention.

God’s grace saved him, and he recovered. I visited him often and treated him like my own relative. When he was able to speak, I started talking to him.

You were the boy, he said.

I was