The Pharmacy(TM)

Sorry for the long post. But this is Classic Night City shit. In my face…

Thursday Blues

On Thursday, Rica was absent going on three weeks already. What I didn’t know then was that she was lying barely alive in her apartment, helpless—watching her TV with eyes that were already too tired from crying. Rica was in a lot of pain. Rica was bleeding.

And by the way, just so we are all clear, Rica is not her real name.

Thursday morning was not my best of days. I had not had much sleep the previous night, no thanks to a Rotary meeting that I reluctantly attended on behalf of a friend, who was incoming president. So I deliberately decided not to share a ride with my dad, who left very early that day to beat the traffic color-coding scheme (yep, it’s that day of the week). And with my drowsy head getting the better of my frugality, I decided to take an extra hour of sleep instead and drive myself to work on the gas guzzling benz….

Which, in hindsight, was probably not the smartest thing to do because I suddenly remembered that morning that I was poor. I had only 200 in my wallet and a net balance of Php90.51 in my account that day because yesterday I purchased 255 British Sterling from my ex-boss who had just returned from London on a business trip. Actually, a week ago I was the one who sold her those same pounds at a rate of 98.35:1, and now the going rate was 98.1, so it didn’t seem like a bad deal to get it back at the time, from a purely economic sense, of course.

Actually, those are the kinds of decisions that may sound sensible at first hearing, but prove to be quite a drag later on, as I would learn…

Anyway, later on, I’m driving to work, and Rica sends me a text: “Won’t be working today. Still sick. I’m so sorry.”

Business Partners

By the way, in case you are curious, Rica works for me. She is a telemarketer at a call center I recently formed with a foreign partner. She works in the day calling leads I provide her to sell townhouse units I’m developing with some friends on a real estate venture I’ve also formed just as recently. Rica and I met only last March at an evening event at a bar, where I just half-jokingly floated the idea of getting into business with her. By April, the ink was dry on my real estate deal and by May the call center was up and running and Rica was doing the calling.

Which was fine for a few weeks, until she called in sick going into June…

So again, this is almost three weeks later, I’m drowsy, I’m poor, and way way at the back of my head, I’m also a bit worried that business is not going as smoothly as planned.

I hate traffic, so let’s fast forward the boring Thursday morning and get into the heat of the matter, which was Thursday night. I’m at the call center discussing with my foreign partner on the details of his work visa when I get my second text from Rica that day:

“God help me please call.”

Not exactly the best text in the world, if you know what I mean? And of course, seemingly on cue, my mobile phone was running on empty (like my wallet), so I send a text back: “Low batt. What’s your landline?” A number pops my phone in a minute later and I call to hear a frantic voice on the other end answer at mid-ring:

“Doc, please come, it’s Anne, I’m Rica’s neighbor. She’s bleeding really bad. I don’t know what to do. Please.” Hmm, neither do I, but of course I said instead: “Ok. Give me a few minutes. Tell her to wait for me.”

Half an hour later, I arrive at Rica’s studio to a scene best reserved for CSI, or maybe just the bad cheesy, dramatic shows (i.e. Lovingly Yours, Maala Mo Kaya, you know the type). My very pale telemarketer, sprawled near-lifeless on her bed, the TV blaring non-sensical and tons of what appeared to be tissue papers and cotton in a wastebasket near her bed, in varying shades of pink and red.

How Do You Know

In the benz minutes later, Rica is on the passenger seat, shivering, while I’m thinking of the nearest hospital to take her, trying to pry the last hour’s events from her incoherent rambling. “Doc, I thought it would go away… I’ve been bleeding for weeks now… I’m was fine yesterday… something… came out an our ago… where… you know… you know where…”

Nope, I don’t. But what the eye can’t see and the ears can’t hear, the brain pieces together ever so creatively. Nope, none of this sounded good. I quickly phone Jo, my stockbroker, who also ran an internet café near Rica’s place. She tells me the nearest medical facility is Ospital Ng Makati, where I drive my delirious passenger.

“Rica, listen to me. We’re here at the entrance to the ER. I want you to go in and tell the first person in white you see that you have internal bleeding. I’ll park and join you in a minute.”

My ward shuffles through the OSMA glass door and I find a nearby alley to park the benz, which I noted was running just as empty as my phone and my wallet (argh, these endlessly repeating themes). I quickly lock the doors and run for the ER, past the guard who thought I was probably a doctor (I’m still wearing my shirt-and-tie-white-collar bank attire by this time) in time to see…

A shivering Rica standing in the middle of the ER, helplessly unattended. Not a doctor nor nurse withinin shouting distance. Which, given the circumstance, felt worse than dining at a badly managed restaurant…

“Doc, the duty nurse didn’t believe me. She asked me how I knew that I had internal bleeding…”

Um… maybe the trail of blood you are leaving on floor could clue her in? I shook my head in disbelief. A girl comes up to you and says she has internal bleeding, you have to at least presume that she believes that there is blood involved. I’m not a real doctor, but blood outside the body isn’t a good thing in any book.

I glanced around helplessly for a minute to look for anyone who might be of assistance. I catch sight of the guard I nearly bowled over looking in our direction, his face beginning to betray the hey-come-to-think-of-it-that-guy-doesn’t-look-like-a-doctor-after-all look.

I quickly grab Rica by the arm and lead her out. You’re already ten minutes in an ER claiming to have internal bleeding and if by then you’re not on a gurney with people in white at least looking down your throat, then there’s something wrong with that picture.

“Let’s go Rica. I’m taking you to Marikina.”

Running On Empty

The Sta. Monica Hospital is a small private medical center along Bonifacio Avenue near the border of  Marikina and Quezon City. A stone’s-throw from my place, the members of my family have been treated here at one point or another. It’s no Medical City, but it’s well-staffed and capable. Also, likely not to be as crowded as OSMA.

Thirty minutes after we left the infernal OSMA ER, my telemarketer was lying on a gurney and the Sta. Monica ER had her on saline drip and was taking her blood for tests. The cute Dr. Joanne, the ER doctor on duty was telling me the awful truth what just happened to Rica.

“Are you the patient’s guardian? She has severe uterine bleeding. I don’t know if you know this, but she was six weeks pregnant two weeks ago, and she attempted a self-abortion. It has worked, but it has resulted in complications. She needs a D&C procedure immediately.”

By the way, I read later on that D&C stands for: Dilation and curettage. It’s done for miscarriages, post pregnancies, and for abortions.

Surreal shit.

Just this morning the worst thing on my mind was coming to work late.

“By the way, we’ve spoken to our OB-Gyne on call. Dr. Dizon says the package will cost Php25 thousand. Is this ok? We only take cash, by-the-way.”

I left Rica in the capable hands of Sta. Monica and left for home. In an hour I was dressed into more comfortable clothes and was driving around the streetlamp-lit avenues of Marikina, Dr. Dizon’s prescriptions in my hand, looking for an open Mercury Drug. The benz was running hopelessly on empty.

Sheesh, Twenty five Gs. Where the heck am I going to get that on short notice?

Reluctant Trade

A very long Thursday turned into a long Friday as I dressed to report for work the next day. I found the money needed to bring Rica across the next day when the Peso-Sterling rate opened at 98.9:1, which brought my 255 Pounds to just about Php25k. I promptly liquidated that afternoon and drove back to meet Rica, who by then was already in her hospital room, joined by her neighbor Anne, who paid watch that morning.

That evening, I joined my family for dinner at Burgoo in Gateway mall where I told them the hectic events of the previous evening.

“I paid my first staff benefit today. Rica’s going to be out for a while. I’m always going to remember British Pounds when I see her.”

“That’s ok, son. It’s only money. You’ll earn it back. We’re proud of you.”

Later that night, I joined the HSBC finance department on their semi-annual celebration at RedBox Club in Greenbelt, where I watched my oblivious staff sing the night away with overflowing beer, iced tea, and melodramatic love songs.

Much later that night, I joined my college crew in Seattle’s Best Rockwell and listen to my batchmates bitch about losing weight, traveling, relationships, guy-bashing, shopping, and traveling again.

I had two toasted ensaymadas and an strawberry-mango iced tea that night. My first real meal in 24 hours.

My batchmates kidded me about my “healthy” dinner and one of them even asked me when was the last time I saw my waistline. “In the interest of public welfare I shall not retaliate to anyone of you on the topic of weight, ” I half-jested.

And, if any of you knew what I had been through in the past two days, maybe you might cut a poor guy like me some slack. But of course, I simply ate my meal silently while they proceeded with their non-sensical existential dialogue.

It was past midnight when we all parted. After dropping off a batchmate in Malate before heading home, I suddenly felt the lack of sleep catching up. Not wanting to risk plowing into a lamppost in my drowsiness, I found an dark alley in Fort where I parked for a few minutes to catch a short nap.

By 1:30am I was home, dead asleep.

Epilogue

On Saturday, I drove Rica back to her hometown of Bocaue, Bulacan, where her very grateful mother fed me menudo and handed me an envelope reimbursing half of my expenses for Rica’s operation. We chatted for a while before I bid my goodbyes, but not before Rica’s mother handed me a bag full of some native desserts in hand.

I told Rica that our business relationship would temporarily be on hold. She needed to recover and I told her I didn’t want to see her again for at least a month. She quietly agreed, still overwhelmed by the recent events and more than a little embarrassed at the stress she put me through.

No sweat. Anyone in position would have done the same thing. Or maybe not.

“Thank you, Doc. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

Yep, this was one of those dramatic soap endings alright.

Minutes later I was driving home again. Small consolations: turns out after I sold British Pounds Friday morning, the peso strengthened to 98.3:1 again. Practically nothing, but small things like these help to keep me sane.

At least I should be getting some good sleep for now.

Sometimes, I feel the fear of uncertainty stinging clear.
And I can’t help but ask myself how much I’ll
let the fear take the wheel and steer.
It’s driven me before,
and it seems to have a vague,
haunting mass appeal.

But lately I
am beginning to find that I
should be the one behind the wheel.

Whatever tomorrow brings, I’ll be there
with open arms and open eyes.

- Incubus

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