A patient’s patience
published 17 Nov 2007
It was oil in the ’70s, entertainment in the ’80s, and as we know so well nowadays, the medical profession is offering prospects so lucrative that it has become the be-all and end-all for those out there with “simple” dreams. Ask any kid. Most probably she wants to be a nurse and go abroad.
Not that it’s wrong. Imagine what the world would be like without nurses and physical therapists and all others in related fields. Think how much financial comfort these professionals have already given their loved ones. Quantify their contribution to the economy with their remittances that shore up reserves and inspire domestic consumption, never mind that most of these are spent on unproductive consumer items.
What is jarring is how these professions have encouraged an almost-blind following among the unthinking.
Such explains the mad rush of some institutions, even if they were meant to specialize in information technology for instance, to provide courses related to health care. Well, okay maybe they really do work on beefing up their “medical side.” But how can you effectively judge a school’s performance other than by the passing rate or the grades in the licensure exams, assuming of course these tests aren’t tainted to begin with?
It also tries to justify the diploma or transcript mills that abound in Recto, which is derogatory to the man after whom the avenue was named. Actually, some don’t really have their diplomas manufactured. They are, in fact, graduates—but whose grades, as they appear in the transcript, need some tweaking. Or polishing. Or smarting up.
And the shops always have the correct shade of yellow or white and the exact paper texture and thickness and of course the seal to approximate the official document of the school. And then the 3s and the 4s get laundered into 1s and 1.5s.
Unless we eradicate this institutionalized dishonesty, we don’t really have the right to be touchy.
***
Hospitals, when they concurrently operate as medical or nursing schools, have to make sure the quality of their service is not diluted by their lack of focus. It is very easy to fall into this trap. Take for instance this medical center along McArthur Highway in Valenzuela, very near where I live. In about 14 years of dealing with this hospital, I was able to observe the extremes of how they attended to their patients.
I first dealt with this hospital about 14 years ago, when I was pregnant with my first child. Those days were a breeze because a family member was one of the executive secretaries of the president, the wife of the founder. My relative knew everybody in every department, so she could smuggle a slot for me into the doctor’s schedule even when the obstetrician was not supposed to be conducting clinic at that hour. Even when other patients had been waiting for hours, I would be called next even though I had just arrived. The niceties didn’t end there—I didn’t have to shell out consultation fees, either. All it took was a kilo of apples or a bar of chocolate. When I finally delivered my baby, we obtained hefty discounts. I thought then that it was the best hospital in town. I was then very young and much too naïve.
In succeeding years, things were not as easy. My relative had retired and after some time passed away. The new staff didn’t know her anymore. I experienced how it was to move about on my own like a regular patient. And I learned two things. One should be prepared to do a lot of waiting, and one should be patient with incompetence.
In 2002, I brought yet another relative to the same hospital, which was so near our place you think of it almost on impulse. My relative had been nursing a fever for several days. In the emergency room, we were made to answer routine questions until we noticed that the same questions were being asked by different individuals who were writing on different sheets of paper. They didn’t even share their notes with each other. When my relative was examined, everybody looked on—the resident and some nurses and about eight or 10 young-looking ones whom I surmised were students. On the other tables in the ER, some were texting. Some were engaged in conversation about teachers and schedules. Some boy was complimenting some girl’s smile. Nagliligawan. Ugh.
Somebody more senior than they instructed them, by phone, to get blood samples from my relative. Results of that special procedure, so we were told, could take anywhere between three and five days, and since my relative was feverish and chilling anyway, he could wait it out in one of their rooms, and, by the way, room number so and so was available.
The doctor assigned to us was a tall, thin woman with a low voice and who moved and spoke ever so slowly. She told us many scenarios based on the symptoms that my relative was exhibiting, with emphasis on the worst-case possibilities. Permanent disability. Premature death. And yet, she prescribed a curious pill, Essentiale, which was not even a real medicine but a supplement! The only medical thing she gave us was paracetamol, which my relative had already been taking. I forget her name now because we always referred to her as Doctor Doom. Really, what an exasperating way to part with P15,000 of your savings.
It was in the same hospital where I gave birth to my youngest child. When the doctor made the daily rounds, with her was a flock of boys and girls donned in white trying to look serious and scribbling on their little notebooks. They were so many they filled half my room and actually crowded out my visitors.
My last blow with this hospital happened two months ago. My daughter complained of sharp pain in her upper stomach and I rushed her to the ER at 1:30 a.m.
At 5 a.m., we went home snickering (my daughter felt better) at the fumbling of this resident who looked as though he was afraid of us. He was so unsure of what he was doing. He even fell asleep while waiting for the lab results. And what did we get out of the entire thing after shelling out P700? The same things we already knew, plus a prescription for Maalox, of which I had a stock in my ref, anyway.
Two days ago, when I myself had to see a doctor for a minor affliction, I could have easily gone to this neighborhood hospital. But remembering too-many unpleasant episodes there, I decided to wait for my son’s classes to end so he could accompany me to another medical center in Quezon City—even if that meant going out in the rain, getting caught in rush-hour traffic and bearing the pain for a few hours more. In this other hospital, I dealt with a doctor—no flocks or onlookers this time—who sounded certain and authoritative. She explained my condition, gave it a name, identified what may have caused it, and told me how we would try to cure it. She prescribed something my neighbor wouldn’t probably know.
On the way back, the cab passed the neighborhood hospital. I saw hordes of students in their white uniforms, carrying their books, chatting with their friends or texting. It was a typical scene from a college campus, and everything would have been perfectly normal—except that they were blocking the driveway of the hospital entrance, and people who looked like patients had to make their way past through the sea of whites.
I was glad I decided to break old habits. I felt so much better.
