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the doctor didn't say i was dying
You're not sick until you see a doctor. And if you're sick, consider taking time for your own healing. Even a tree embraces the loss of its leaves because it knows it's just a season.
This is a personal anecdote.
It was the 10th of December last year when I had to see a doctor. I knew in the past few months that I'm sick because I haven't been feeling well. I have been in so much pain, both physically and psychologically.
It has been merely three months since my aunt and I moved to a new province at the foot of Manila, where she's visiting for her daily medication.
I walked into a clinic, which I only visited once, when I fetched my sister for her medical job requirements. I was alone in the lobby around nine in the morning and waited for the doctor for a medical consultation. After the front lady processed my payment and minor interrogations, the doctor took me to the X-ray room and shortly conducted the process. The doctor told me to receive the results at three in the afternoon, so I went back to the apartment, just five kilometers away, to have lunch and snooze for a while.
I took assorted boiled veggies, which were my comfort food back in my hometown. It tastes like home, like living and well-being. After taking my lunch, I took a short nap, but I was disturbed by so many thoughts and worries.
I decided to go back to the clinic early at two, so I was left with one hour to almost drown myself, thinking what I could be if I got bad news.
When the doctor handed over the results, he had a few words and elaborate eyes, suggesting I take another X-ray since my first one had been seen to be suspicious.
So I went back to the clinic the other day and patiently obeyed what was being told. Before the final release, I headed over 45 minutes earlier. I waited alone in the lobby with some patients and aggressively asked the front lady why he got sick, despite the fact that he had good hygiene and lifestyle. The other two women next to me were talking about the cost of medical requirements while I was closely looking at my phone's time, with many question marks bubbling over my head. It was that moment—the same moment when I was waiting for the results of my bar exam—the most difficult one—when I realized that I had to change myself.
At 3:15, the front lady turned in the results, saying that I needed to undergo long-term medication. She had no further instructions. I was standing while reading the paper from the brown envelope.
I couldn't move a muscle, and I felt like the darkness consumed my whole body into despair. I walked down the stairs and hit the exit door.
I was counting my footsteps on the long overpass. I saw those young men, pedicab drivers, and vendors smoking at the foot of the overpass. I tried to compare myself to them. I don't smoke. I don't drink alcohol or soda. I eat healthy food, and I move my body enough, yet I am sick. What more do these people have?
I suddenly stopped walking. I looked around the new place and watched those big trucks and buses go back and forth from the crossing. I smelled burning fuel over my facemask and some cold air from occasionally dancing trees. With all of my fears and disappointments, I found my eyes pouring down.
People are passing, and it was the first time that I cried in the past three years; the last time was when my grandpa died. I kept my feet moving while wiping out the tears from my face, and I went back to the apartment.
Since the doctor had no further instructions, I had to research it on my own. After two weeks, I've decided to go back to my hometown; it's a 12- to 14-hour bus trip away from my apartment. I had to settle for at least six months of medication.
© ubik
Postscript:
I didn't have any medical history; therefore, learning about this kind of problem really depressed me. I hope this story will be a lesson for everyone to always prioritize their health.
Maybe this is the reason why I couldn't reply to your comments quickly, and it may also be the reason why I couldn't read your beautiful writings in the past few days. Thank you for your endless understanding.
This is a personal anecdote.
It was the 10th of December last year when I had to see a doctor. I knew in the past few months that I'm sick because I haven't been feeling well. I have been in so much pain, both physically and psychologically.
It has been merely three months since my aunt and I moved to a new province at the foot of Manila, where she's visiting for her daily medication.
I walked into a clinic, which I only visited once, when I fetched my sister for her medical job requirements. I was alone in the lobby around nine in the morning and waited for the doctor for a medical consultation. After the front lady processed my payment and minor interrogations, the doctor took me to the X-ray room and shortly conducted the process. The doctor told me to receive the results at three in the afternoon, so I went back to the apartment, just five kilometers away, to have lunch and snooze for a while.
I took assorted boiled veggies, which were my comfort food back in my hometown. It tastes like home, like living and well-being. After taking my lunch, I took a short nap, but I was disturbed by so many thoughts and worries.
I decided to go back to the clinic early at two, so I was left with one hour to almost drown myself, thinking what I could be if I got bad news.
When the doctor handed over the results, he had a few words and elaborate eyes, suggesting I take another X-ray since my first one had been seen to be suspicious.
So I went back to the clinic the other day and patiently obeyed what was being told. Before the final release, I headed over 45 minutes earlier. I waited alone in the lobby with some patients and aggressively asked the front lady why he got sick, despite the fact that he had good hygiene and lifestyle. The other two women next to me were talking about the cost of medical requirements while I was closely looking at my phone's time, with many question marks bubbling over my head. It was that moment—the same moment when I was waiting for the results of my bar exam—the most difficult one—when I realized that I had to change myself.
At 3:15, the front lady turned in the results, saying that I needed to undergo long-term medication. She had no further instructions. I was standing while reading the paper from the brown envelope.
I couldn't move a muscle, and I felt like the darkness consumed my whole body into despair. I walked down the stairs and hit the exit door.
I was counting my footsteps on the long overpass. I saw those young men, pedicab drivers, and vendors smoking at the foot of the overpass. I tried to compare myself to them. I don't smoke. I don't drink alcohol or soda. I eat healthy food, and I move my body enough, yet I am sick. What more do these people have?
I suddenly stopped walking. I looked around the new place and watched those big trucks and buses go back and forth from the crossing. I smelled burning fuel over my facemask and some cold air from occasionally dancing trees. With all of my fears and disappointments, I found my eyes pouring down.
People are passing, and it was the first time that I cried in the past three years; the last time was when my grandpa died. I kept my feet moving while wiping out the tears from my face, and I went back to the apartment.
Since the doctor had no further instructions, I had to research it on my own. After two weeks, I've decided to go back to my hometown; it's a 12- to 14-hour bus trip away from my apartment. I had to settle for at least six months of medication.
© ubik
Postscript:
I didn't have any medical history; therefore, learning about this kind of problem really depressed me. I hope this story will be a lesson for everyone to always prioritize their health.
Maybe this is the reason why I couldn't reply to your comments quickly, and it may also be the reason why I couldn't read your beautiful writings in the past few days. Thank you for your endless understanding.
