The medical properties of youth
September 19, 2001 | 12:00am
I woke up wracked with chills and then the fever broke. "Not again," I thought, stumbling out of bed, searching in the dark for blankets, pills, anything that might take the edge off my discomfort. The left side of my face felt heavy, throbbed with pain. On the verge of delirium I wondered – when did Jackie Kennedy die?
I was in Bacolod sick this way when Jackie Kennedy died. The US-trained doctor at local Riverside Hospital told me it could be anything from mumps to non-Hodgkins lymphoma. "What’s that?" I asked. "It’s what Jackie Kennedy died of," my friend, who took me to the hospital, snapped, before she began to scold the doctor in Ilonggo. She didn’t think he should have scared me that way.
Finally it was diagnosed as an infection of the parotid gland and treated with antibiotics. But I didn’t want to take antibiotics, which have been getting bad press, now. I called my anti-antibiotic daughter. "I need an MD who won’t prescribe antibiotics." She knew of one who prescribed garlic and honey. "Only raw, wild honey is a natural antibiotic. I shall send you some," my anti-antibiotic daughter said authoritatively. I dutifully took my garlic and honey (tasted like lumpia sauce) until I awoke to find that half my face – mouth, tongue and teeth included – was numb. That’s when I went to my doctor who prescribes antibiotics.
Dr. Paul Tan, my friend’s younger brother, wanted to kill me but he had taken an oath so he sent me to "the best ear, nose, throat specialist." To my delight this turned out to be Randy Lopa, son of Tony and Cora Lopa, who are old friends. I knew Randy as a little boy and it thrilled me to see him all grown up. His uncle, Titong Bautista, who had cured my last parotid infection, was abroad so I fatefully became Randy’s patient.
After spending a lot of time riding up and down elevators in an unattractive hospital gown worn under an unmade up lopsided face, x-rays and diagnoses indicated an urgent need for surgery. I asked my young doctors what my options were. They firmly said I had no other options. The infection from the abscesses the CT scan detected could go up to my brain or down to my heart and cause a stroke. I squared that with what I felt whenever my painkillers wore out. I felt three sharp fingers of pain shooting up my nape reaching for my brain. When they asked who I wanted as anaesthesiologist, I didn’t protest. "I don’t know any anaesthesiologists," I meekly answered. Dr. Lopa said he would love to work with his classmate Dr. De Jesus. "Let’s ask him then," I said.
They wheeled me into the operating area fully conscious. There I met Dr. De Jesus. We looked at each other, sized each other up as Dr. Lopa briefed him about me as if I were in the next room. Dr. De Jesus felt light, naughty, Puck-ish, a sprite, not an anaesthesiologist.
"What do you think?" he asked after Dr. Lopa left us a while.
"We have to do this, right?" He nodded emphatically. "Then, we’re going to do it."
"Okay," he pointed to one of the outlets on the IV plug attached to my hand. "When it’s time I’ll use one of these."
I was wheeled into the operating room wide awake. It felt awkward, like that moment when you arrive at a party and you haven’t found the people you know. The operating room lights were blue. Looking at them I realized they could be the last things I’d see. I could die. How did I feel about that? A soul search assured me that my bags are packed, I’ve been ready to go. Anything more I should have done? I should have thanked the people who loved me for loving me. If I see them again, I will thank them. . .
"Let’s get started," Dr. Lopa said. I clambered onto the operating table unanaesthesized. Dr. De Jesus gave me an inquisitive look. "Let’s go," I said.
They seemed to be calling me. "Go, it’s time," they seemed to say. There I stood, a little girl waiting behind a velvet curtain for her cue. As I waited eagerly for the curtain to open, I realized I had been playing in the kitchen of my country home all the time. Then the curtain opened and I was in brightly lit room. Dr. Lopa was talking to my daughters, Sarri and Panjee, telling them the operation went well, ran shorter than envisioned. I was alive.
I won’t lie to you: It was a harrowing experience. I thoroughly enjoyed being cared for by my children and doctors closer to my children’s ages than to mine. It was healing to have your doctors burst into your room full of youthful humor and energy. They were highly professional and competent, at the same time they had this informal, joking playfulness that must be the emergent brand of bedside manners. This youthful spirit assisted my recovery tremendously.
So, if you’re planning to get sick, look for young doctors. They bring a new spin to recuperation. It must be their youthful chi or life force. I sound like a dirty old man – a health dirty old man.
I was in Bacolod sick this way when Jackie Kennedy died. The US-trained doctor at local Riverside Hospital told me it could be anything from mumps to non-Hodgkins lymphoma. "What’s that?" I asked. "It’s what Jackie Kennedy died of," my friend, who took me to the hospital, snapped, before she began to scold the doctor in Ilonggo. She didn’t think he should have scared me that way.
Finally it was diagnosed as an infection of the parotid gland and treated with antibiotics. But I didn’t want to take antibiotics, which have been getting bad press, now. I called my anti-antibiotic daughter. "I need an MD who won’t prescribe antibiotics." She knew of one who prescribed garlic and honey. "Only raw, wild honey is a natural antibiotic. I shall send you some," my anti-antibiotic daughter said authoritatively. I dutifully took my garlic and honey (tasted like lumpia sauce) until I awoke to find that half my face – mouth, tongue and teeth included – was numb. That’s when I went to my doctor who prescribes antibiotics.
Dr. Paul Tan, my friend’s younger brother, wanted to kill me but he had taken an oath so he sent me to "the best ear, nose, throat specialist." To my delight this turned out to be Randy Lopa, son of Tony and Cora Lopa, who are old friends. I knew Randy as a little boy and it thrilled me to see him all grown up. His uncle, Titong Bautista, who had cured my last parotid infection, was abroad so I fatefully became Randy’s patient.
After spending a lot of time riding up and down elevators in an unattractive hospital gown worn under an unmade up lopsided face, x-rays and diagnoses indicated an urgent need for surgery. I asked my young doctors what my options were. They firmly said I had no other options. The infection from the abscesses the CT scan detected could go up to my brain or down to my heart and cause a stroke. I squared that with what I felt whenever my painkillers wore out. I felt three sharp fingers of pain shooting up my nape reaching for my brain. When they asked who I wanted as anaesthesiologist, I didn’t protest. "I don’t know any anaesthesiologists," I meekly answered. Dr. Lopa said he would love to work with his classmate Dr. De Jesus. "Let’s ask him then," I said.
They wheeled me into the operating area fully conscious. There I met Dr. De Jesus. We looked at each other, sized each other up as Dr. Lopa briefed him about me as if I were in the next room. Dr. De Jesus felt light, naughty, Puck-ish, a sprite, not an anaesthesiologist.
"What do you think?" he asked after Dr. Lopa left us a while.
"We have to do this, right?" He nodded emphatically. "Then, we’re going to do it."
"Okay," he pointed to one of the outlets on the IV plug attached to my hand. "When it’s time I’ll use one of these."
I was wheeled into the operating room wide awake. It felt awkward, like that moment when you arrive at a party and you haven’t found the people you know. The operating room lights were blue. Looking at them I realized they could be the last things I’d see. I could die. How did I feel about that? A soul search assured me that my bags are packed, I’ve been ready to go. Anything more I should have done? I should have thanked the people who loved me for loving me. If I see them again, I will thank them. . .
"Let’s get started," Dr. Lopa said. I clambered onto the operating table unanaesthesized. Dr. De Jesus gave me an inquisitive look. "Let’s go," I said.
They seemed to be calling me. "Go, it’s time," they seemed to say. There I stood, a little girl waiting behind a velvet curtain for her cue. As I waited eagerly for the curtain to open, I realized I had been playing in the kitchen of my country home all the time. Then the curtain opened and I was in brightly lit room. Dr. Lopa was talking to my daughters, Sarri and Panjee, telling them the operation went well, ran shorter than envisioned. I was alive.
I won’t lie to you: It was a harrowing experience. I thoroughly enjoyed being cared for by my children and doctors closer to my children’s ages than to mine. It was healing to have your doctors burst into your room full of youthful humor and energy. They were highly professional and competent, at the same time they had this informal, joking playfulness that must be the emergent brand of bedside manners. This youthful spirit assisted my recovery tremendously.
So, if you’re planning to get sick, look for young doctors. They bring a new spin to recuperation. It must be their youthful chi or life force. I sound like a dirty old man – a health dirty old man.
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