THROWING UP was the last score. The wife had to rush me to hospital early, very early at 2:55 a.m. Wednesday last week after the legs got too rubbery from the hourly trips to the john since the previous day, plus the recurring fever that started Monday.
She dropped me by the emergency entrance of Mother Teresa of Calcutta Medical Center to look for a place to park.
Woozily, I entered and found the helping hand of a hospital aide who guided me to the admitting counter.
First question: Nilalagnat po kayo? (Do you have fever?)
Yes. And I immediately sensed some apprehension from the staff, the hand of the aide propping me easing not just a bit.
Nanggaling po kayo sa ibang bansa? (Did you come from travel to another country?)
Yes, from Thailand. The aide’s hand suddenly let go, nearly toppling me to the floor had I not held onto the counter. Surgical masks immediately covered the faces of the reception staff.
I’ve been back from Bangkok for over three weeks now. I don’t have any sore throat, no coughs, none of those symptoms in the Influenza A (H1N1) protocol sheet. It’s my damned free-flowing ass that’s bothering me, so will you please attend to this?
There, putting everything in perspective, I got laid down on a gurney: blood, urine and fecal samples taken; temperature check: 37 degrees Celsius; blood pressure check: 130/90; dextrose plugged into my veins. Then, got wheeled to Room 233, where the toilet treks continued, with the added burden of lugging the suero.
As the wife had to excuse herself from work in keeping with her marital “…in sickness” vow, the city hall got wind of my condition and cared enough to tell the wife that an ambulance would be dispatched to take me to the Jose B. Lingad Memorial Regional Hospital for some throat swabbing, just to make sure it’s not really A (H1N1).
No need at this time, counseled Dr. Anton Vittorio Lugue, very good doctor and very good friend. It’s no swine flu. It’s “infectious diarrhea.”
The body rested, the spirit buoyed up by Doc Vic, constancy set in: blood pressure: an enviable 120/80; temperature: a steady 36 degrees; going to the john: lessening in frequency.
It’s not sickness that one has to most contend with in hospitals. It’s boredom. The forever blaring television provides but limited distraction. In our haste, I forgot to bring one of the things I just could not live without – books.
Bless the wife, used to her cranky old me, just let pass my getting even crankier by the minute.
“Think what day this is, and see some signs in all these,” she told me.
Allah, it was June 17, our 31st wedding anniversary! Celebrating such milestone in a hospital! Can there be any greater novelty?
As though on cue, a knock on the door and the delivery of two beautiful baskets of assorted fruits from a rarely seen friend. How he got to know of my confinement, I really had no idea.
So there, a happy climax. But no happy ending yet.
Thursday morning, Doc Vic gave me a clean bill of health and signed my discharge with the prescription: Just finish the anti-biotics, and continue rehydrating at home.
The hospital bill: less than P300 short of P7,000 for a 31-hour stay. And Doc Vic did not charge me a centavo for his services at that!
Even the surgical masks of those guys at the emergency room and those at the nurse station were charged to me. Ain’t surgical masks part of their uniforms?
Just be happy you’re back to normal, said the wife. So obey I must. I’m happy.
She dropped me by the emergency entrance of Mother Teresa of Calcutta Medical Center to look for a place to park.
Woozily, I entered and found the helping hand of a hospital aide who guided me to the admitting counter.
First question: Nilalagnat po kayo? (Do you have fever?)
Yes. And I immediately sensed some apprehension from the staff, the hand of the aide propping me easing not just a bit.
Nanggaling po kayo sa ibang bansa? (Did you come from travel to another country?)
Yes, from Thailand. The aide’s hand suddenly let go, nearly toppling me to the floor had I not held onto the counter. Surgical masks immediately covered the faces of the reception staff.
I’ve been back from Bangkok for over three weeks now. I don’t have any sore throat, no coughs, none of those symptoms in the Influenza A (H1N1) protocol sheet. It’s my damned free-flowing ass that’s bothering me, so will you please attend to this?
There, putting everything in perspective, I got laid down on a gurney: blood, urine and fecal samples taken; temperature check: 37 degrees Celsius; blood pressure check: 130/90; dextrose plugged into my veins. Then, got wheeled to Room 233, where the toilet treks continued, with the added burden of lugging the suero.
As the wife had to excuse herself from work in keeping with her marital “…in sickness” vow, the city hall got wind of my condition and cared enough to tell the wife that an ambulance would be dispatched to take me to the Jose B. Lingad Memorial Regional Hospital for some throat swabbing, just to make sure it’s not really A (H1N1).
No need at this time, counseled Dr. Anton Vittorio Lugue, very good doctor and very good friend. It’s no swine flu. It’s “infectious diarrhea.”
The body rested, the spirit buoyed up by Doc Vic, constancy set in: blood pressure: an enviable 120/80; temperature: a steady 36 degrees; going to the john: lessening in frequency.
It’s not sickness that one has to most contend with in hospitals. It’s boredom. The forever blaring television provides but limited distraction. In our haste, I forgot to bring one of the things I just could not live without – books.
Bless the wife, used to her cranky old me, just let pass my getting even crankier by the minute.
“Think what day this is, and see some signs in all these,” she told me.
Allah, it was June 17, our 31st wedding anniversary! Celebrating such milestone in a hospital! Can there be any greater novelty?
As though on cue, a knock on the door and the delivery of two beautiful baskets of assorted fruits from a rarely seen friend. How he got to know of my confinement, I really had no idea.
So there, a happy climax. But no happy ending yet.
Thursday morning, Doc Vic gave me a clean bill of health and signed my discharge with the prescription: Just finish the anti-biotics, and continue rehydrating at home.
The hospital bill: less than P300 short of P7,000 for a 31-hour stay. And Doc Vic did not charge me a centavo for his services at that!
Even the surgical masks of those guys at the emergency room and those at the nurse station were charged to me. Ain’t surgical masks part of their uniforms?
Just be happy you’re back to normal, said the wife. So obey I must. I’m happy.
