Life Scrabbles

Alas! Age has finally caught up with me. The recent status of my hair has been giving me sleepless nights. I’m rather certain my hair has lost some it’s natural volume and thickness which used to really bother me. I’m not imagining it. I have this nightly habit of running my fingers through my hair (even as I’m typing now, it really helps to have two hands). I definitely feel the difference.  So far, it still looks OK. I’m more distressed by the thought of how soon I will see a bald patch on my head. Something which is undeniably in my genes. I remember my dad having it. It would take a miracle of nature to be spared of this fate. I knew it was coming, but never in my wildest nightmares did I imagine it to be this soon. I’m still 33 for hair heaven’s sake! 

Unquestionably, I have zeroed in on the culprit that hastened the inevitable. Hair products. This long-standing hair affair all started with gel. Then mousse and hair-holding spray. And clay. Now it’s wax or leave-on conditioner. Why oh why can’t it be possible to just step out of the shower, dry and sculpt your hair and expect it to be still? 

So what can a desolate man like me do now? I’ve listed some options:

a.) Dash to the nearest drugstore and buy two gallons of Minoxidil.

b.) Google Hair Implants, re-allocate next year’s major trip budget and schedule an appointment with the nearest hair doctor.

c.) Photoshop a current photo, remove all the hair and assess/accept your bald self.

d.) Gather all the hair products and create a mini explosion in your back yard (or your annoying neighbors’). 

e.) Look into the possibility of doing a Trump comb over.

F.) Get yourself a good kick in the butt and rouse yourself from the narcissism. Stop messing with nature and let it take its course!

Well right now, I’ve decided to allow myself a little more time before resorting to any of the choices above and see how it goes (of course, pun intended). Trust me, it hasn’t been at all pleasant lately, seeing all the loose strands on my pillow, clogging the bathroom drain, and even on the keyboard while I’m writing this. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy (kidding).

And boom! I just thought of another one to add to the options. Do the Carmelite sisters in Mabolo accept all kinds of petitions? Even of the hair kind? Seriously, I’ll double the eggs dammit! I’m desperate!

I was about 21 when my Tatay passed away. The year was 1996. We never saw any signs nor had any premonitions. Totally unexpected. I still vividly recall that day when I got the news. I was at a hospital in Cebu, circling doctors’ offices, barely six months into my first job as a Medical Representative. It was in one of the halls that I bumped into my cousin. I would never forget the expression on her face that day. All she ever said was, “Bhoy, your Nanay is at home, crying. She got a call. It’s about your Tatay…”. Without thinking, I just headed for the nearest exit and took the first available cab without realizing that my cousin was running to catch up behind me. Not a single word was exchanged inside the cab. My mind was just swirling with images of Tatay. The last moments I’d spent with him.

We got home, and immediately I saw my Nanay, like a wounded bird, crying uncontrollably, saying, “Bhoy, imong (your) Tatay, in his room, they said lifeless…”. I instinctively hugged her and told her maybe they made a mistake and he’s probably in a hospital. Only a few minutes later, another call confirmed what we dreaded. My father was found lifeless by his roommate, inside the bathroom of the room they were renting in Manila. I struggled to hold back my tears, I saw my brother did too. We knew we had to be strong that moment, for our Nanay who nearly passed out hearing the news. We had to arrange everything first, tickets for the next possible flight, contact our Aunts and Uncles in Manila to help us get around there, break the news to my sister working in Chicago and of course, to bring his body home. When everything was done, my brother and I finally went up to pack. My brother finally broke down on the bed while I opened our parent’s closet. I reached for the barong and pants my Tatay had to wear in his coffin, held on to them for as long as I could and cried like I’ve never cried before.

Tatay had been in Manila for almost two weeks for a month long training when his heart suddenly gave up on him. He had been struggling with diabetes for more than two years and wasn’t really that religious with his medication. Stubborn, without a doubt, he was. An advocate of self-medication, he rarely heeded his doctor’s prescriptions and advice, including my Nanay’s, who was in fact, a doctor.

Such stubbornness, I’ve greatly inherited from him I must admit. But there are far more greater things my father’s passed on to us, to me. And it is only with sharing some of our memories that I can rightfully explain them.

My Tatay wasn’t born into a life of comfort and access to even the most basic of things.  From a young age, he had learned to work to provide for himself and his family.  He finished school, graduated from college, became a Certified Public Accountant, earned his Masters in Business, and finally, became a lawyer, all by his own means. I often think that if only I’d possess half of his intellect and drive, I would, perhaps, be far more better than what I am now.

But in spite of these things he’s single-handedly achieved, he remained simple in his ways. He’d be more comfortable walking instead of driving, he’d be better off with his flip flops than wearing dress shoes and would rather stay home and fix things that don’t really need repairing. We somehow knew that what made him happier was seeing us experience all the things he never had the luxury of having. We weren’t rich, but my parents were able to provide us with all that we ever needed.

Tracing back to my childhood, I always knew I was a Tatay’s boy. I’d sit on his lap for hours until his legs could barely support my weight (I’d reached 140 lbs and already 10 years old when I realized I had to outgrow the habit). And I would perpetually ask him questions about anything that ever crossed my mind.  It was in one of those days that I noticed a protruding bone on his hand. I touched and felt it and asked him about it. He said he got it when he was about my age working as a carpenter in a factory. The ax slipped and landed on his hand. And I asked why he had to work at that age. I couldn’t get it. That day, he instilled in me the values of hard work, sacrifice and determination to get to where you want.

Often misunderstood for his attitude towards money, relatives and co-workers often tagged him as stingy. But still, they couldn’t take away the fact that he had a big and generous heart. How else could he have provided us a decent lifestyle and extend help to his poor relatives if he maintained an extravagant life? Growing up poor, he embraced the value of living within your means, a lesson that he’s permanently embedded in me. Even at times when I get swayed by the temptations of materialism, the sight of him in his simple clothes and flip flops would instantly erase the longing for all things branded.

Feelings of guilt would sometimes engulf me for not really achieving much academically.  Here I was, surrounded with all the books and resources I ever needed, a more than sound family atmosphere, yet, I couldn’t even attain half of what he had accomplished. He consistently made it to the top of his class from grade school to College. And this, he managed by reading borrowed books and writing reports in their makeshift home using a kerosene lamp while juggling his time between all sorts of odd jobs and his studies. But he never pressured us to conquer this feat. He only wanted us to appreciate the small luxuries he could afford us and expected nothing from us but to be ourselves. He wanted us to have the best education and give our best for every opportunity. He always had our future in mind and made sure we never get to go through what he’d been through. 

On the plane to Manila, I still couldn’t believe it. The man who had the answers to all my questions, my walking encyclopedia, my life teacher, was no longer with us. For a long time, a question hounded me unceasingly, “Tay, have I ever made you proud?” I was angry with life for abruptly snatching him from us. For not being given the chance to let him witness my own little successes. This left an empty space in my life and kept me from completely letting go.

Now 12 years’ passed. I look back again at my life. I peek into his. I now have the answer. How could I have not known? 

I find myself sitting in his lap again, circling my fingers around that odd, prominent bone on his hand. This time, it’s him asking me a question, “Are you happy anak?” Mildly surprised, I throw him a smile to assure him that I am. He acknowledges with that old, familiar smile, and goes, “Then, It’s all been worth it”. 

Deep down in my heart, I now know, this was his life’s work. 

Ever had one of those days when you planned your day in precise detail and thought everything was going to fall perfectly in its place? Well, I had one the other day, but things just totally went the opposite direction.

Allow me to share. As planned, my friend Yeast and I would start our day at 7 in the morning (way too early for my standards, I’m pretty much nocturnal by nature). We had a problem with the car’s air-conditioner,  had it fixed but a day later, bogged down again. Yeast would drive the pick-up to the shop and I would follow him in the car. While the car was getting fixed, we would head to the gym and stay for an hour, grab breakfast for 30 minutes and then drive back to the shop to retrieve the car, and then drive back to the house to leave the pick-up and go on an hour drive to another town.

And so our day started. Half-way to the shop trailing the pick-up, I saw Yeast making a hand gesture. It appeared to me like he was prodding me to go ahead. Strange. Was he serious? He does know how bad I am with directions (totally no sense of direction at all, I seriously suspect my yaya Nita must’ve dropped me at some point during my sensori-motor stage). I’ve gone to the shop days before, though. And he did it again, the same hand movement. Okay, so he wants me to go ahead. Maybe he needs to pick up something at his mom’s or drop something off the last minute. Very typical of Yeast, I thought. No problem, just straight ahead I recalled. So Yeast made a left while I drove on to this long stretch of a road. Then it occurred to me, I didn’t have my driver’s license. It’s in my wallet which was in the gym bag in Yeast’s pick up. Great. And my phone, as usual, left in the house (never really had much need for it, till that time). So no license, no money and no phone. Better yet, my Thai speaking skill is, to say the least, utterly pathetic if non inexistent for someone who’s lived in the country for close to five years. 

Well, you guessed it, I drove for 20 minutes and the shop was nowhere in sight. Maybe I missed it, I thought, so I made a U-turn. With the traffic (Yes, even Hatyai has its awful share), it would take me another 20 minutes to get there. Damn, Yeast would already be there and would start to worry. I pressed on. The same stretch, still no shop. I was starting to panic. I was lost, I knew. I pulled over 10 minutes from where I made my U-turn. I had to contact Yeast somehow. I don’t even know his number! WTF! Already sweat-ridden from panic and the heat in the car, I rummaged through every compartment hoping to find a document that would bear Yeast’s number. Finally, a ray of light, I found a credit card receipt with his number. Now for the hard part, convincing someone to lend me his cellphone in sign language. An Amazing Race moment, I sighed. My first attempt was unsuccessful, though the woman understood I needed to make a call, she directed me to the nearest phone booth. Ugh! I walked on and went inside a small store, displayed the best of my sign language ability to the man in the counter, thankfully enough, he understood me (God bless him). He must’ve seen the desperation on my face. 

I got through Yeast who I expected, was more incensed than worried because of this fiasco. It turned out, he had spent the last 45 minutes circling the city looking for my sorry ass. I couldn’t blame him for nearly igniting me into flames with his stare as he came over to fetch me, I knew it was my fault. But as a last attempt to rid myself with some of the guilt, I confronted him about the hand signal, what that was about. Ah, as it turned out, he was just dancing in the car, he explained through his clenched teeth. Geeezzzzz… 

Well, as so often told, experience, good or bad, still gives the best lessons.

Self-Realization: Bring that damn phone with you all the time! And your wallet, don’t ever let it out of your sight or touch. And for the love of God, work on your Thai (you had more than enough time and have run out of excuses). And yes, definitely no more dancing in the car. It can send wrong signals. Seriously. 

Let’s call him N. I’ve met him only once in KL through our mutual Malaysian friend J. He’s a “kababayan” based in Kuala Lumpur and living in with his Malaysian partner Z. We hung out with him last May for the Maydays parties in KL. Quite an animated fellow who simply teemed of life. One of those people who just kept on going and going, the life of the party so to speak. A hardcore party boy.

So it came as quite a shock when J broke the news to us about N’s condition barely 5 months after we’ve met him. We were in BKK that time and J told us that N was diagnosed HIV positive and was in very critical condition in a hospital in Singapore. His lungs were barely functioning. We also learned that he’d broken up with Z, his partner, a few weeks before he was hospitalized. 

J updated us with N regularly. Somehow, although we don’t really know N that much, we felt very sorry for him. Two weeks passed and N was brought back to KL. Doctors regretfully expressed that there was nothing that could be done for him. His lungs will eventually fail.

Without hesitation, Z brought him back to the pad they once shared for almost 2 years. Took care of him like he always had. Requested friends to give them the last few moments, alone, together.

Last week, N finally passed away. I’m not really sure what his religion was, but he was given a Muslim last rite and burial. J told us that they couldn’t reach any of N’s relatives.

In a Muslim burial, my friend, who happens to be Muslim, told me that the person who would hold and lay the dead body to the ground is the person closest to the deceased. Z, who was struggling in tears, was the one who laid N to his last resting place.

26. That was how young N was when his life was suddenly nipped. Sad story? yeah, sure, absolutely. But for me, overshadowing all those tragedies is a beaming love that this couple shared and N was very fortunate to have. Someone held on to him till his last breath. Someone accepted him entirely for who he was. Someone deeply cared for him and loved him till the end.

And so I have this thought, when our time comes, will we be as lucky?

When you’re at my age, it’s not unusual to go tracing back on your years. A particular point in my life that truly stands out is my college years. Nope, not for the wonderful memories. In fact, for the exact opposite. It wasn’t exactly the best years of my life. And it would be my most obvious answer to the the age old question “If there’s one thing you would change in your life, what would it be?”

Although those four years signaled many “firsts” (I’d care not to elaborate on this), I had never felt so lost. And it’s only now that I can openly talk about it. How alone and unhappy I was. Finding my way in a world I wasn’t prepared to face at that time.

The symptoms were all there really. Although I quite suspected that a few people who mattered had taken notice. Finishing only with mediocre grades (not really what I’m used to, allow my modesty to take a back seat). Submitting to being just another face in the crowd and quite willingly fading into the background. Preferring to eat at home to eating alone in crowded cafeterias. Avoiding the busy halls and the spots where the “cool” dudes would hang out. Constantly fixating on the most exciting part of my week, spending Saturday afternoons with high school friends, at the mall.

For years it haunted me. Why had I allowed myself to be such a, well, loser? And why I just let it happen. Then it dawned on me (my light bulb moment fellow Oprah fans). I had been lost because I didn’t know exactly where to place myself at that time. I lingered in the shadows because I didn’t really know who I was, yet. I didn’t have any confidence because I couldn’t bring myself to trust in me. I single-handedly managed to convince myself that I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t “cool” or rich enough to hang out with the cool college kids, wasn’t smart enough for the elite dean’s listers circle, wasn’t fit enough for the hailed varsity members pool. Yet, somehow, I made small success utilizing my writing flair to land myself a coveted spot on the staff of the school paper. But even then, I felt I wasn’t creative enough for the core group, the editors. Needless to say, I never made it through the editors pool. Frustration after frustration. It reduced me to the faceless, invisible bloke who walked face down along less-chartered corridors. It was so severe that I once bumped into a batch mate months after graduation at a job interview. He was in utter disbelief when I told him we were in the same batch and once sat a few seats away from him in our Statistics class.

It couldn’t be farther from the truth. Your thoughts eventually become you. What you believe, inhabits you. But life is fair. There’s no fairy tale ending coming here, only the welcoming assurance of change. Without any help from pricey shrinks, Oprah’s book picks or a range of SSRI’s, I pulled myself out of this black hole I oddly created for myself. Took me awhile though. And it’s true, most often than not, it takes another set of eyes to help you see who you really are. I’m quite fortunate to have met that person. Knowing and accepting who you are, being comfortable in your own skin, lines we often meet. At some point, I finally did more than just read or murmur the lines. I ingested it and heralded the journey to self discovery (Whoa! deep. Real, nonetheless).

That’s the beauty of the past. Though you can’t change it, you can sure as hell learn from it. I know what I’m worth now. Not being good enough, nah, such bunch of crap. You’re only as good as you allow yourself to be. I have found my place. And it feels awesome to belong here.

I’m not really quite sure what to make of this. This wouldn’t qualify as a poem I guess. Never had poetic sensibilities to start with. But this quite captured my thoughts for tonight… Something I wrote for my intro note at Multiply.

Just sharing…

On a wild journey.
Life it’s called.
A day at a time.
Capturing moments one can never bring back.
Time doesn’t stop for you.
Who knows what the future holds?
I love surprises.

It has been ages since my last entry. Oh such an over-used line but quite undeniably such a perfect opening. I do find this strange, because every time I go to bed at night, my mind is just bombarded with thoughts. Line after line, word after word. They all just swish through my head like speeding bullets. What really gets me though is when I wake up the next morning and all the things I’ve conjured up in my head the night before, simply vanishes. Just like that. My mind becomes as blank as the A4 bond paper lined up on my printer tray. So it has been my secret wish that one day, a brilliant scientist would come up with a machine that you could easily attach to your brain and would seize all those flying thoughts. And in the morning, you could just effortlessly arrange those lines and do some simple editing. And voila! Your next entry is done and ready for posting. But I strongly doubt such technology would be within our grasp in the near future.

It’s 1:16 AM on my clock now, and it took me 20 minutes on my bed, rolling from one side to the other (struggling to fall asleep) before finally accepting that sleep would be unattainable at this moment. Instinctively, I went for the computer, half-charged, and started tapping on the keyboard as fast as I could before all the lines and words escape me again. Oh no, not tonight.

I read some of my entries the other night, and the one that really left an impression on me, and perhaps to others who bothered to read, was the one about my nanay. A person who’s been integral to my life and whom I truly hold dear. I had a serious thought. I think my real forte’ is not really writing about whatever is going on in my life, as complicated as it seems right now, nor my opinions which I unsparingly shared in more than half of my entries. Now it seems, I always hit a blank wall every time I make an attempt to write such. You folks should see my desktop, it’s full of unfinished writing, which I sadly accept, will never ever be finished.

Writing has always been my passion and will continue to be. But what good is your passion if there’s no worthwhile production. I don’t really need loads of inspiration to get me writing. And I’m definitely not running out of things to write about. Oh, if you could only enter and roam my mind at night time (restricted access to some areas of course and only if you’d fancy or dare to). You would know what I mean. And so, I’ve made some big decisions. If the juices flow at night, so be it. I won’t waste any of it and make every effort to milk it even if I stay up all night and be grouchy the entire morning. Some sacrifices are definitely worth taking.

I guess tonight, with this entry, will mark a new genre’ for my writing. Will the efforts guarantee better outputs? I really don’t know. But one thing I’m quite sure of is, I sure as hell wrote this entry in record time. And that I think, is already an improvement.

I had one of the most interesting experiences last Saturday night.
One that I wouldn’t relish ever replicating again.

Attending a friend’s birthday party in one of the local clubs,
booze was literally flowing in. After continuous shots of tequila, a barrage of
vodka tonics and whatever concoctions there were available at my reach, I found
myself dancing on the ledge doing a coyote.

And then the unexpected thing happened. A fellow ledge dancer found himself out of balance attempting to hop to another corner, dragging me with
him. Our descent seemed very animated and unusually slow, like the "Neo dodging
bullets" scene in the Matrix, clearly induced by the overwhelming level of alcohol
in my system. My! It was a nasty fall. Broken ceramics everywhere as we landed
on a table and eventually on the floor. I winced and writhed in unimaginable pain, clutching my ribcage
which fatefully caught the table’s edge. I was finally able to get myself up after what felt like a few minutes and over rounds of “Are you OK?” and “Are
sure you’re not hurt?” from the small crowd that gathered around us. After a hazy but careful assessment of the state of my
ribs, I gathered everything was still intact, thank goodness. And then the
thought of shame had sunk in. Damn! But then, interestingly enough, I realized the
club we were at is named “Corazon”, the Spanish equivalent of love.  Instinctively, it reminded me of Carrie Bradshaw’s iconic "fall in Dior". Hell, I thought, it couldn’t have turned out more
fabulous than this. We will forever be the guys who "fell in LOVE"!

Talk about marking a first experience unforgettable, I’ve
definitely succeeded on this one. 

CAUTION: This entry
contains several thoughts jammed into one, hence the title. Try not to get lost.

Feeling rather sad these
days. And sadly enough, I can’t seem to put my finger on what’s causing it.
Maybe it comes with the age. I just realized I’ll be tipping out of the
calendar numbers in a few of months (two months to be exact). I remember my
late aunt vividly saying “I stopped counting after age 31”. Well, not that age
really matters to me, it’s mainly how you’ve grown with the years and what has
been lost along the way. Some innocence perhaps (cheesy humor intentionally
injected for the sole purpose of making myself feel better). I did lose some.
Really. 

I watched “Never been kissed”
the other day. Swept me to tears again. Geez! What is wrong with me? I find it
rather strange, but lately, I’ve been relating to a couple of movie characters.
Well, it’s mostly their lines that grab hold of me. When 30-something Josie was
standing in the field for five minutes to wait for her very first kiss from the
man she loved (or falling in love with), in true Hollywood style, the man
showed up a couple of seconds late, and delivered this line: “I’m sorry I’m
late, It took me forever to get here”. An ecstatic Josie goes, “I know what you
mean.” Bam! It just shook me to the core. It truly is a powerful line. I mean,
How many of us dreamt and waited so long for that life-altering moment to enter
our life? How many of us took the trial and error route just to arrive at the
destination? I guess the more pressing question is, How many of us waited this
long, only to discover you’ve been waiting for something that isn’t really that
significant?

I’ve started smoking.
Partly to blame for the gloomy mood that’s been looming over me I’d say. What
started out as a harmless (?) clubbing habit, found it’s way to my domestic
routine. Trust me, it’s not easy to shake off. The body simply craves for it
and keeps wanting more. I’m usually on the PC most of the day since I work only
at night. The moment I chance a glance at the green pack, the urge to grab a
stick easily overpowers me. What’s worse than a man starting an unpopular
habit? Well, a 30-ish man who just caught on with it. Well guess what? I’m
feeling the urge to intoxicate my lungs again just by thinking about it. Damn.

Rwanda. Before watching the
documentary yesterday, I practically knew nothing about this African country.
Now, the thought of Rwanda delivers scenes of the
most gruesome massacres, countless innocent lives lost over man’s shameful
ignorance and greed, a chilling look at man’s innate dark nature. A Genocide
happening at this modern age. Who would have thought? Well, for a time the
world believed that we would never let such atrocity ever happen again. But it
did. And the world just stood and watched in 1994 as 800,000 men, women and
children were savagely murdered over a span of 100 days. A staggering 5 lives
per minute. Mostly hacked to death in their homes, on the streets, even
churches, in the hands of their neighbors, co-workers, even friends.  A
war fueled by ethnic division and a mission to exterminate the less superior
race.  Will we ever learn from the lessons of history? One can only pray
and hope that we will finally get it.   

On a lighter note, another
thing did catch my attention watching the documentary. An author of a book on
this horrific event gave this comment: “800,000 single individuals, murdered
to death…” Hmmm… It’s my strong belief that she couldn’t have meant that
the individuals weren’t married or divorced. Nor was she implying that it’s
also possible to murder someone to life. Perhaps a play of new metaphors. One
that I’d never use.

So there you have it,
burgeoning thoughts of a temporarily clouded mind unloaded. Okay, now time for
that smoke.

A regular dinner with
friends unexpectedly turned out to be a really insightful one last Wednesday. Feasting
on our favorite Kuay teaw pet (roasted duck with noodle), a doctor
friend who joined us suddenly poured out his frustrations about his job. The
man did look really stressed out. So we engaged in some casual talks to lighten up the
mood. Well, his mood. Instinctively, I found myself sharing some of my
experiences with doctors a few years back while I was still in the
pharmaceutical industry. What started out as a random exchange of experiences
ended up in thought-provoking revelations that kept the wheels on my head
turning all night, well, several nights actually.

I  was particularly perplexed
at the overwhelming disparity of these two pharmaceutical industries, back home
and here in touristy Thailand. I was automatically transported back to the time I
was toiling at doctors clinics to “promote” my branded medicines so that I
maintain a big chunk of the market. We were, so to speak, at the mercy of the
tips of these doctors’ pens. Their prescription was the lifeblood of the
company. And back there at home, every ounce of effort and resources from the
companies were directed to influence that mighty pen. Ethically and otherwise.

I narrated to the doctor friend
the usual and unusual practices drug representatives would do to earn those
prized prescriptions. And what some doctors would actually demand for them.  It seemed, most often than not, to boil down
to a price. He was obviously shocked, putting it mildly, with what I just told
him. Well, at least he felt better about himself knowing how much dignity he
still puts into his job compared to some of his South East Asian counterparts.

It made me look back at what
I used to do, what was I really? On my business card it says Professional Sales
Representative (SR). But in retrospect, the only times I really felt I was a
professional was whenever I had on my company-issued crisp shirt and tie,
tugging on to my company-issued leather bag, entering a doctor’s office to execute a well rehearsed detail only to be shunned five seconds into my stint.
The doctors just didn’t have the time
for it, especially if you have 50 more SRs waiting for their turn to strut
their stuff with the exhausted doctor.

And so companies resort to
"other" stuff. They become more creative. Too creative in fact that such ideas mutate into something “dirty”. You have a string of resources at your disposal with the sole purpose of generating
prescriptions. Throw that in a notoriously competitive industry. It comes as no surprise that the projects and offers tend to become inappropriate. Yet, enticing enough not to be easily turned down by the receipients.

I have no intentions of
spilling out the bad deeds here, I only want to stress that they exist and
continue to proliferate as part of the “unofficial” marketing scheme. I was once told by a true veteran of the
profession that it wasn’t always like this. There was a time when SRs did
entirely what was printed on their job descriptions.  Those were the glory days, Unfortunately, I
came at a time when the profession was sometimes modified to DRIVER, SERVANT, TRAVEL
AGENT, CATERER, TOUR GUIDE, PERSONAL SHOPPER and what have you. My job extended to whole lot of other fields.

But I must admit, it wasn’t all bad. The most cherished times were when we evolved from an SR into doctors’
FRIEND, PARTNER and rarely, even FAMILY. Those were the most gratifying
times. It was what kept me struggling and hanging on in this industry for five years.

What is sad though is the
thought that these overpriced medicines are a direct result of these machinations. It’s sad that on top of the research cost the
companies mark up their drugs with, marketing cost definitely bumps it up a
notch higher. And we’re not talking about advertising costs here, it’s mainly for
the “prescription costs” if I may so call it. In the end, the consumers,
the patients, pay that price.

Which brings me to this
atrocious and malicious event that a doctor recently subjected my nephew to. My
nephew was born with a congenital defect that required him to go under the
knife to have it corrected. After waiting for the right age and the right time
(in the Philippines you need to prepare a ton of money for a major
operation), my brother was finally ready for it. Several
consultations later with a supposedly competent/experienced surgeon and a barrage of
tests, my nephew was scheduled for an operation in one of Cebu’s premier hospitals. The operation was scheduled on a Monday morning, but they were advised to check in on Saturday which we, without objection, obliged to.
Monday came, my nephew was wheeled in to the operating room and was put on
general anesthesia as early as 6AM. Everyone in the family was frantic, especially my brother. 

And then an unexpected call
from his doctor, demanding that the operation be postponed because of a lacking
test. A CAT scan. My nephew, already anesthetized and minutes away from his first major operation, was wheeled
back  into the recovery room because his doctor had missed ordering him a test.
Or did he. He had two whole days to order that test. Two freakin’ days to prepare, and he
had to wait on the day, the scheduled hour of the operation, to postpone it to order a CAT scan.  You can only imagine the emotional turmoil the family went through with this blunder. My brother was literally
incoherent and hysterical when I called to ask how the operation went. I found
myself reduced to tears with unfathomable rage and frustration learning what
had happened.

And I couldn’t help but
think that maybe, just maybe, this doctor wasn’t ready to perform the operation because he
was out wining and dining with his SR friends the night before. The thought
just makes me sick to my bones. Whatever the reason was, the trauma is forever
embedded in my nephew and the family. My brother cancelled the operation, no
way were we allowing this doctor to lay a hand on my nephew. But still managing
to look at the bright side of things, perhaps this was a blessing in disguise,
Lord knows what could have happened if the doctor decided to push through with
it, grossly unprepared. Right now, we
are still trying to recover from the experience and considering the proper legal
action to take up against the negligent doctor.

Ironically though, we still
had to pay for the hospitalization cost that ran to a ridiculous 30 thousand pesos
for an operation that never materialized and in turn, ended up paying for
the trauma that came with it. A classic case of the victim getting more victimized.

And then another thought struck
me. A few months ago, a driver who worked in my friend’s trucking company was rushed
to a private hospital for heart complaints here in Southern Thailand. He never had to make any substantial cash deposit
nor did he pay a dime after checking out. All he had to do was present his ID
and everything was taken cared of. Yes folks, a driver of a medium-sized
trucking company. I remember a time when I too had to be hospitalized. Though I
didn’t make any cash deposit, I sure as hell footed one half of the outrageous hospital
bill (thanks to pricey branded medicine and professional fees).

Here in Thailand, people aren’t scared to go to hospitals. Government
hospitals are just as efficient and offers medical services that are at par
with the private ones. And you don’t have to be rich to be able to check
yourself in a private hospital. People here can definitely buy quality medicine
at a fraction of the price of the branded ones from multi-national companies.
I’ve tried the branded (from local companies) and generic medicines myself and they
work as good as the multinational brands.

The Thai government gives top
priority to the health of it’s people. Healthy people = Healthy country = Healthy economy. And it has clearly paid off.  We’ve seen how Thailand has overtaken the Philippines in other aspects than just economic growth over the last two decades. And it is for the same reason that the country has taken some bad rap these days for violating drug
patent laws. But think about it, which side should we be on? A friend or family
member who’s been battling HIV for years and in dire need of new retro-viral
drugs but doesn’t have the buying capacity for them or the billion dollar companies that produce
these pricey drugs and have a 20-year protection to sell them exclusively? 

My talk with the Thai doctor
friend really inspired me to write this. I feel so strongly about this because I am still hopeful for some
changes in the industry culture, a change that would ultimately benefit all
Filipinos. When I left, things had been
started to correct some of these bad habits. Guidelines had been drafted and
set out by the PHAP, the largest pharmaceutical organization in the Philippines. It’s a long
shot but at least an effort has been made.

And it has to work both ways,
too. Taking cue from the famous animal protection line, “When the buying stops,
the killing does too”. It’s a thought
that should be taken seriously to heart. Saying “NO” will eventually put an  end to these unethical practices. It doesn’t
require unlocking the age-old “Chicken or egg” mystery. It has to start somewhere.

If it is in fact true that there’s no such thing as a free lunch, dignity sure is a senseless and terrible price to pay for it.