Another Friday night has come and gone while I’m stuck in the hospital, pouring my heart into caring for my dad. Not that I’m complaining—far from it! I’m actually committed to this, but let’s be honest: I miss the sweet escape of alcohol and all the little indulgences that make life more bearable.

In other mildly entertaining news, my mother recently had a rather awkward run-in with her in-laws. It was one of those moments that made me proud to witness the complexities of family dynamics. My dad’s illness remains a medical mystery, and from what I can gather, the doctors are still flailing like blindfolded darts. To add to the chaos, one of my mother’s in-laws decided it would be a brilliant idea to invite a so-called faith healer to my dad’s room. Clearly, common sense took a backseat in that decision. Good intentions? Sure. Rational thought? Not so much.

For context, my mom and dad have dabbled in charismatic communities (cults, as I like to call them) over the years, but they haven’t attended church since my dad’s hair was still a natural shade of black. Had he known about the nonsense my mom was dealing with, I can only imagine he would have been less than pleased. I vividly recall one New Year’s Eve when my dad decided we should abandon the delightful tradition of sleeping under piles of cash—apparently, it clashed with his beliefs about rejecting meaningless rituals. Who knew that good luck could be considered a burden?

To avoid a family feud—and out of a misplaced sense of respect for their opinions—my mom reluctantly agreed to the in-laws’ little ritual, but only on her terms. They could chant their incantations and summon whatever spirits they wished, but there was one non-negotiable rule: no touching.

Honestly, I think it’s incredibly generous of her to entertain this ridiculous charade at all. Skin contact can make a world of difference! Just imagining the massage oils and who knows what other questionable materials they might use is enough to make my skin crawl. And given that no one has the slightest idea what’s actually wrong with my dad, it feels like a slap in the face to the medical professionals involved. So, yes, they can perform their little dance of desperation, but they better keep their hands to themselves.

Later that evening, an eerie-looking woman—who could easily star in a horror film—made her entrance outside my dad’s room. My mom and her in-laws rushed out to greet her, and in a moment of misguided enthusiasm, my mom offered her a low five. The woman then proceeded to explain her plan to put some sort of metal belt around my dad’s waist. Alarm bells rang in my mom’s mind; this was clearly a breach of their earlier agreement. She explained just how ludicrous this “procedure” would be, considering my dad couldn’t even get out of bed, let alone accommodate some magical metal belt.

After my mom expressed her concerns, the faith healer bitch—yes, I’m done with euphemisms—turned to the in-laws and declared, “It’s up to you if you don’t want me to help! He’ll never get better because someone’s put a spell on him!” The in-laws, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, kept pressuring my mom to let them proceed with their utterly pointless agenda. It was like watching a train wreck unfold.

In a moment of exasperation, my mom shouted in the quiet hospital hallway, “Who doesn’t want my husband to get better?! If there’s anyone here who wants him to recover, it’s me!” And with that, she left them all speechless. I couldn’t help but think how much more impactful it would have been if she’d added a few well-placed expletives. I can only imagine the dawning realization on the in-laws’ faces as they grasped how ridiculous they looked. They fell quiet, hopefully for good, while the faith healer bitch retreated in defeat. My mom returned to the room, victorious.

As things stand now, my father is making a remarkable recovery. He’s no longer in diapers, can make it to the toilet with a little assistance, and is eating better—though he still has a tendency to slip up from time to time. He’s regaining his strength and even throwing out witty one-liners to family members. The fever is gone, and the doctors say he’ll be going home soon. Of course, they still haven’t figured out exactly what’s wrong with him. But for now, we’re choosing to focus on the positives.

And then there’s the hospital bill—because for a fever, it’s nothing short of astonishing. It’s enough to make anyone question the fuckery that is the Philippine healthcare system. So here I am, typing this from my father’s hospital room, caught in this whirlwind of family drama and medical uncertainty, doing my best to keep my head above water. In the end, it seems the only remedy is finding humor in the sheer absurdity of it all.