By RAMON P. PATERNO
It was a bright sunny Thursday morning when we left Diliman on board an amphibian for San Luis, Pampanga. From the weather, one would think that there had been no floods in Pampanga that week, but the evening before we had received a report from the Concomsa people that the waters were still up to the rooftops in some places and that it was going to be a wet trip all the way.
We were a mixed group leaving that Thursday. The amphibian crew, made up of navy and civilian personnel, stayed mainly upfront. The Diliman relief team sat on or sprawled over the stack of relief goods and medicine, distributing themselves in the middle and back of the amphibian. In between them stood the medical team from the UP-PGH. With us were two UST medical clerks, all in white, including their white shoes.
“Hindi yata nila alam kung saan sila mapapasabak," commented an intern who had been with the relief team in 1972.
After the usual verbal exchanges, we all settled down, each one finding his own comfortable place. My thoughts went back to the previous day.
I had been part of the first medical team formed. We were on standby waiting for the call from the National Disaster Control Center (NDCC) that never came. I had volunteered for the first team because I had wanted to cover the floods photographically, besides the medical services I could offer as a third-year medical student. But it was only upon hearing the reports of still high floodwaters that I too realized that I had no idea what situation I was putting myself into.
Could I handle myself physically in the floods? I was certainly no athlete. I could swim but never in strong currents. Would I be the first to come down with pneumonia ahead of the flood victims? Would the people accept me as a doctor? Could I put into practice the medical knowledge that I knew mainly theoretically? Could I take it?
Not finding anyone to share my fears with that night, I kept my thoughts to myself. And upon finding out that two female members of our team were backing out, there was no turning back.
So we were on our way that Thursday morning. We did not have as much rain as expected. When we reached San Luis, we could see the bancas, waiting in one flooded street. But the market street which faced our temporary Medical Center, a convent, was dry.
Our team decided to divide up that afternoon, covering the two nearest barrios, Sta. Cruz and Sto. Tomas, both accessible by foot. When we reached Sto. Tomas, I was on my own. Each house was still separated by water, and we had to ride a raft to reach each house.
The first patient I saw was a child with fever. The mother wanted me to see the child but I felt some hostility from the father. I wrote down my diagnosis and prescription which were supposed to be presented at the convent so that they could get the medicine. I climbed out of the house not knowing if they had believed me.
The second house I visited, I slipped upon entering after climbing through the back door. As quickly as possible, I tried to recover my poise, and with all the medical confidence I could muster, asked, “Sino ho ba ang may sakit?”
They showed me a child with fever and rashes. “May tigdas ho yata, doctor.” That's a hint. Immediately, I tried to review all that I knew about measles, fever, rash–was it from the face spreading to the trunks or the other way around–Koplik's spot. I took the history and did the physical exam. Finally I decided that the child indeed had measles. I wrote down the prescription. Before I left, the couple invited me to have coffee with them.
The next house I went to had again a feverish child. After I examined the child, the father showed me his left hand, which had lost the feeling of sensation over an area that corresponded to the ulnar nerve supply. I was on familiar ground. He told me he had consulted a doctor who could not diagnose his disease, and that he was going regularly to San Fernando General Hospital but no one had told him what this disease was. I gave him a neurological exam. With a pin I confirmed the area which had lost the sense of touch and pain. Then I explained to him that his disease had apparently affected this particular nerve, but that he should go to the center for further examination. Before I left, they again asked me to stay for coffee. And we started to talk about his family, his job, and his barrios.
“Ano ho ba ang pangalan ng anak ninyo?” I asked.
“Joe Luis Taruc.”
And dami yatang Taruc dito, I thought. "Bakit naman yan ang pinangalan ninyo sa kanya? Diba pangalan yan ng—"
“Oho, pangalan nga ho ng boxer,” said the father.
Leaving that house, I was brought to more patients, from house to house. It was easier now. “Dok, magkape muna kayo…” “Dok, alam ninyo ang sama ng baha ngayon sa barrio namin…” “Dok, mayroon na silang ginawang flood outlet… Bakit nila sinarado, dok?” “Salamat, Dok.”
When I had covered all the houses with sick patients, I headed back for the convent, tired but satisfied.
The next day, we went house to house again, this time in barrio San Juan. I do not know exactly when, but sometime during that day the confidence came among the flood-waters and the mud that made me feel: I could be a doctor to our people.
When one joins a relief team, one may begin to feel that the aid we give our people is minimal. They have survived many floods, and they will continue to survive more floods. More than the aid we give, we give more to ourselves, towards the cohesiveness of the particular relief group itself and the self-knowledge we acquire.
For some of us, it was getting to know our own people, how they live, how they responded in times of crisis and how we could work with them. Some of us dealt with them on a straight hand-out basis. Others tried to overcome our own limitation in numbers by involving the community itself, such us the youth club, in the distribution of relief, thus attempting to leave some more lasting effect to the barrio. For us in the medical field, it was perhaps more than acquisition of self-confidence as future doctors of our people.
We left San Luis, not knowing too many of the barrio people. It was too short a stay. But we got to know each other as fellow travelers in the amphibian. There was Danny in his red jacket, Alex with his “toothy” smile, Beth who was the “commander” of the amphibian, and many others. Even the navy soldier, though we never said a word to him, by our smiles we felt we knew each other.
Saturday evening, 8:30 p.m. We reached Manila, looking untouched by the floods. “We are having a petition to keep classes suspended until next week…” “Sana wala pang pasok para makabalik na naman tayo.”
Monday morning, 7:30 a.m. Class. All around you, everybody is taking down notes.
According to the studies of Richards in the United States…
The definition of carcinoma-in-situ by Patten…
According to Koss… ●
Published in print in the Collegian's September 2, 1974 issue.
