Cebu City (January 15) – For twenty years, my mother smoked stick after stick of what she used to call “low-class cigarette ra ni ‘day, kadaghan na ni hugasi, di na ni makadaot (this is of low-class quality dear Eleanor, tobacco leaves been washed several times, would do no more harm).”
But last year, she began complaining of numbness traveling from the fingertips of her left hand, to the forearm, to the upper arm, to her shoulders – and that this numbness, she said, already seemed to squeeze her armpit and the left portion of her chest.
Alarmed at her condition, we sought medical help.
Plastic cash
The company I am currently connected with, has, for a time, taken care of our healthcare needs by giving us the option to be members of certain healthcare groups. In the past years, we saw being taken care of by various healthcare service providers. I am paying PhP168.80 every quincena for an in-and-out patient medical plan, semi-private room and board limit, and P60,000 maximum benefit.
In the name of security, I paid another PhP168.80 every quincena to cover the cost for that of my mother. I have this kind of phobia (I dunno if there’s a term for such!) of a particular hospital policy – of them not attending to patients without a PhP3K to PhP5K deposit. What if one is cash-strapped the moment need occurs? So I rest our future on a PF card that when presented before its member-doctors would offer same amount, magnitude and dignity of patient care and sensitivity with those paying in cash. I strongly feel there should be equality and justice in the delivery and administration of medical services for us because plastic card, though plastic money, is just “cash delayed.” I mean, I owe you for your service but you serve first and save a life. After all, that is what a physician’s oath is all about – that is if I am still thinking in this orbit, or unless the medical profession has already produced negosyantes in its desperate system.
My fears did not fail me. There was Dr. Boy, Assistant Messy Fingers, and receptionist Sans Smiley in a private hospital that our company doctor has referred me to. And there I was – a rank and file employee, with only P1,500 in my pocket set aside for whatever and wherever prescription leads me. I approached Sans Smiley. No, let me call her Poker Face. She checked my referral note signed by our company doctor. Poker Face had me sign a patient record card; then directed me to wait for the previous patient attended to by the doctor that time to leave the doctor’s cubicle. After sometime, Dr. Boy’s voice echoed asking me what’s wrong with my mother. Hmmm, wasn’t I the one supposed to be asking? In the first place, that was the very reason why we sought professional medical help. To know what the hell is going on with her systems. And had I only studied medicine, I would never have allowed that Dr. Boy to touch my mother.
Nevertheless, I said “doc, my mom complains of numbness in her….” And before I could even end my sentence with a dot, he asked my mother to climb up a “high-rise bed” so he could check her up.
My mother, like a collie trained for a show, obeyed and climbed up the bed. The doctor checked her blood pressure, mashing the rubbery thing of that sphygmomanometer, like it was dough. So entered Messy Fingers with an uncovered box of what seemed to be chocolate marjolaine. “Doc, gipadala ni Madamme Sossy. Akong gitan-aw baya. Cake. Lami tan-awon,” she said sweetly, heading straight to a personal ref at the back of the doctor’s table. That was nearly lunchtime.
“Hala, ka-nice god,” Dr. Boy turned to catch a glimpse of how in the world would what seemingly chocolate marjolaine looks like upclose and personal. And as the doctor maneuvered 270 degrees – to Hades – perhaps saliva-ing at the chocolate-y fumes that he had smelled rising from a gastronomic present (exaggerating his cravings brought about by hunger pangs), his right leg bumped a makeshift stair used to help patients climb up the high-rise bed.
“Agaayyyy,” he whined. And in less than two minutes we were out of his clinic. “Mao ra to?” my boyfriend gave me a puzzled look. “Kadali god ninyo, wa may dos minutos, samantalang sa previous doctor 30 minutes mo naa’s sulod.”
So I told him, “second opinion ra to hon. I already expected this to happen. Cardholder ra god ko,” I consoled myself after a disgusting consultation with Dr. Boy. After he hurt his leg, he hurriedly scribbled a prescription, “high blood ka, Manang,” he told my mother without looking at her. And continued to scribble. “Pletaal – 50 mg 1 tab after lunch, 10 pieces; Deltanum 30 mg 1 tab twice a day, 10 pieces.” Also, the patient has to undergo “CBC, CREA, FBS, U/A, CXR, 2D echo with doppler, ECG, diagnostics on stable angina and HPN.”
Holy guacamole! I was staring at his prescription (ermm..I never really knew if he is a he or a she or an it, that’s maybe the reason why he/she/it was heartless because he/she/it is confused with his/her/it gender) as that wasn’t the case with the doctor I sought help first.
His/hers/its opinion was just secondary. Earlier, my sister referred me to an internal medicine specialist at a clinical diagnostics center at the CAP building. Dr. Reg asked my mama how old is she. She answered 55. She checked my mother’s blood pressure and found it to be normal for her age. Then she moved on to work with her stethoscope on my mom’s chest and back. Then she asked her to grip her hands – normally, and then to exert strength. And she placed her right foot on top of my mother’s right foot and asked to raise the load. Then she tried it with her left foot. And again my mother was able to raise her left foot with the load.
“Kusgan man imong mama, dili ni siya indication og stroke. Kon kanang ginganlan nila’g pasmo sa kusog pod, iya untang right hand nag-numb kay right handed god siya,” Dr. Reg explained.
Then she suggested that for her to be very accurate on the findings, my mother has to undergo Fasting Blood Sugar and Chest Examination.
The prescription? Pregabalin (Lyrica) 75 mg, 30 tablets to be taken once at bedtime, and Celostazole (Pletaal) 50 mg, 30 tablets to be taken twice a day after breakfast and after dinner.
This was how we were advised when we paid cash!
Doctor, doctor you’re the one sick!
What’s wrong with my card with PF? Why did it receive such kind of treatment? And why is the doctor behaving that way? Not interested anymore in patient wellbeing, but the taste of marjolaine? Was that what he had sworn for when taking his oath of service? To adore the goodies sent in by regular well-to-do patients? And to be nonchalant to the healthcare needs most needed by the poor? A week after that incident, a colleague of mine rushed his young daughter, who had difficulty breathing, to the hospital. When this colleague presented his medical card to the attending physician at the ER, the doctor replied, “Ah! Card diay na? Time pa sa ha? Ato usang pangitaon ang doctor nga connected ana (Oh, you mean you’re a cardholder. Wait for a sec. We’ll look for the doctor connected to that).”
Well, our ordeal did change the way I now look at some doctors – they are more ill than their patients. They are dying not from the cold without; they are decaying from that cold within! – Maria Eleanor E. Valeros
