Nurse Lyon was a gentle woman in her late 50’s. She always scolded me for something. One day, I was wearing my Mickey Mouse dangly earrings and she told me not to wear them because when I play during recess, someone can pull on them and yank my earlobe off. Another day, when I was playing during recess, I slipped on the gravel and skinned both knees. Nurse Lyon cleaned and bandaged them. She said I should not have been running in the first place. A week later, I did the exact same thing, but again, Nurse Lyon was there to help. Another time, I was flustered during math. I hated math with a passion and I started to fail my math tests. I told Sister Mary Catherine I was sick, and she sent me to Nurse Lyon to take my temperature.
I loved Nurse Lyon. She was the only one in the school who took care of me.
This time I did something that no one else in the class has ever done. It was just after the bell rang at the beginning of the school day. We put our coats in the coat room, our lunchboxes in the lunchbox room, and took out our assignments from our assignment bins. Then all of a sudden-
“Ew! Mrs. O’Donnell! Joanne threw up!”
“Mrs. O’Donnell, it stinks!”
I swear, I tried to hold it in. Look at my hands! I covered my mouth, but the throw up went through my fingers! I’m sorry!
I tried wiping off my soiled hands on my green plaid jumper, but the smell of sour hydrochloric acid, coffee, and pan de sal had already permeated in the room. I knew where I was going already.
Mrs. O’Donnell walked me to Nurse Lyon’s office. I was pretty excited to go home. Maybe I would be home to catch the last half of Electric Company. When we walked in, Nurse Lyon looked at me with that “you again” look. The previous week, it was unusually hot for Daly City, and I had a nosebleed. I tried rolling up twigs of bathroom paper towel and stuck them up my nostrils. It didn’t work and the blood soaked through my white Peter Pan-collared blouse. Not pretty.
She cleaned me up and called Inang, my emergency contact. Momma was at work at the hotel again. She left even before I woke up. Inang dressed me up in the morning and gave me my usual breakfast of coffee and pan de sal. I did not particularly like the coffee because I was only six, and this was for old people. I wanted orange juice, or even better, chocolate milk! But no, I had to drink what Inang and Tatay were drinking.
“What did you eat for breakfast, Joanne?”
“Coffee and pan de sal.”
“Coffee, huh? What is pan de sal?”
“Bread…”
“Is it good?”
“Yeah…”
“Does your tummy hurt, Joanne?”
“No…I ate a lot of pan de sal, and then came to school and then I throw up.”
“Tomorrow, tell grandma not to give you too much bread, okay?”
There was a knock at the door. Maybe another sick kid? Nurse Lyon opened the door and I saw Tatay standing there.
“Howdie!”
Tatay, Momma’s father, brought me to school every morning. He dropped me off at 8:15, and came back at 8:45 to pick me back up.
“Mr. Boston, Joanne said she had coffee and bread for breakfast. It might have made her stomach ache. If she is okay, she can come back to school tomorrow.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Okay, Joanne. Feel better.”
“Okay, Nurse Lyon.”
When I got home, Inang had a pot of chicken tinola on the stove bubbling away. For some reason, every time I ate something that Inang cooked, I felt a whole lot better. Her chicken tinola had an aromatic broth that was infused with ginger, garlic and onions. The soup is like a medicine in itself. The ginger stimulated digestion and also cleared any clogged sinuses. Sometimes she would change things up and add green papaya or chili leaves.
She scooped some white rice in a bowl and ladled the steaming hot soup and chunks of chicken over it. I let the grains soak in the liquid for a minute and took a bite.
It felt like…home.
Like a warm hug from the inside.
Though it was blistering hot, one bite cleared my senses and I was able to take in a deep breath of fresh air.
I heard of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup, and how it is supposed to make you feel better, but nothing beats Inang’s tinola.
I am about 4 years old in this picture.
