A doctor in her mid-thirties jotted down notes on her checklist. She asked series of questions which I answered with series perfunctory nods. Upward nods for yes. Sideward nods for no. My impatience begun to flourish.

"What's the patient's blood type?"

Answer: Sideward nod.

"Any history of previous illnesses that warranted hospital admission?"

Answer: Sideward nod.

"Any history of hypertension, stroke, paralysis in the family?"

Answer: Series of sideward nods.

"Any history of diabetes in the family?"

Answer: Sideward nod.

"Had there been any medical prescriptions on hypertension given in the past?" I thought of the empty medicine bottle I saw in the cabinet.

Answer: Upward nod.

"Do you happen to know what the prescription was?"

Answer: No nod. Tired.

"Look, I know it must've been pretty hard on you (Yes genius!) but I need this for the patient's diagnosis," she's as tired at the whole ordeal as I was.

We did not talk for a while. The doctor did not ask me anymore questions.

"What happened to her?" I asked.

"She had a mild stroke," said Dr. Betty Tolentino, the name that appeared on her name plate. Dr. Betty Tolentino, M.D.

"Will she be alright?"

"We still need to run some tests. But her vitals are stable. You saved her life; any minute late would have been fatal."

"Where are your parents?" She continued.

"Dead." I said. I 'killed' mom so she won't start firing questions about her.

"Both?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any adults you can call?"

"My aunts."

"Good. The lab results should be ready any minute now. Your aunts need to be here so I can discuss the diagnosis."

"Why not discuss it with me?" I protested.

"You're a minor."

"I'm eighteen." She was not convinced. When I insisted, she gave me the eyes.

"Aunts. Right." I said.

"Enalapril." I told doctor Tolentino before I left. She stopped writing and looked at me behind her eye glasses.

"That's the name I saw in a medicine bottle." I told her. She grabbed the checklist she held earlier when she was interrogating me with banal inquiries and wrote something on it. I slowly closed the door behind me and went back to nana's ward.

Earlier, I called Larry for help. He was still wearing his boxers when he arrived, completely mortified when he saw me drenched in tears carrying nana's limp body, unaware what to do. I was sure we hit a couple of trashcans on the way to the hospital and got the patrol car on our tail. The cops were not impressed with the over-speeding and all so he was held-off in the lobby for an interview. Adults loved interview. The never ending WH questions. I was worried about Larry. He could be so honest for his own good but I figured he might've loved the whole process. He's a sucker for story-telling afterall. He might even be telling the cops his life's story right now.