
21/09/2025
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ข๐
๐ท๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: ๐จ ๐ฉ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐พ๐๐๐๐
๐ฐ๐ ๐ท๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
Medicine has always been taught as a war against death for the most part.
Knowing their history with every question asked. Defining and sculpting the human out of the once indistinguishable mass before you.
Examining them and getting to observe their features โ the way they look with all their symmetries and peculiarities, the way they feel upon the touch of your hands, finding where their heart beats loudest or how their breath sounds when you listen intently.
Ordering tests to confirm what the senses have observed, gathering evidence
Finally, we move on to prescribing this drug or that drug โ with all their mechanisms of action, dosages, kinetics and what have you, all to solve the malady existing in every patient that sits right in front of you in the consultation room.
There comes a time however that despite everything, deathโs inevitable cold grasp pulls away at the strings of the tapestry of your patientโs life story. Each string unraveling a worsening condition โ a complication, a metastasis, an unstoppable force. We are taught to be the gentlest of ferrymen with all our calming presence to those departing, and all our reassurances to the about to be bereaved. We give them drugs to numb the pain of this voyage.
We are somehow given an image, that all men are equal in this experience.
I couldnโt be more wrong.
How could I be right when the halls of hospitals ring with the agonizing cries of the desperate? How could I be right when a child, with all their hopes and dreams and innocence, deteriorates while waiting for tests and procedures whose lines last for weeks and months?
How could I be right when mothers, fathers, sons and daughters lose their lives on the road while traveling to get access to another center that will inevitably make them wait again for treatment?
How could I be right when daily wage earners continue to wait for free medical assistance despite their hands being strewn with lacerations already, or they cough with such intensity as if to expectorate whatโs left of their weary soul?
All this happening only to realize that a different world exists on the other side of the socioeconomic curtain, one unimaginable to the hoi polloi. A world where hypotension secondary to an investigational hearing is met with immediate medical attention at an overseas center. A world where cervical injury secondary to evidence of plunder is managed speedily with a neck brace and wheelchair combination. A world where butchers of men are treated with utmost humanity in stark contrast to their unfortunate victims - starved, shot, mutilated, left to die.
The powers that be ask us as healers to show up and soak this all in unquestioningly. Our voices stifled, our complaints invalidated. Demanded to smile in the midst of it all โunder the bludgeoning weight of restless shifts, sometimes with no food nor water, they wring every last bit of your labor and your soul. Smile still, because you were foolish enough to choose a profession that demanded every bit of sacrifice on your end.
When you decide to pack up your things and leave, youโre selfish, only interested in the money. When you stay, youโre a martyr in every sense of the word โ forced to acquiesce to the wishes of local overlords who fancy themselves kings of their local fiefdoms in the provinces; forced to bow down your head in the face of unjust compensation โ even as weโre made to spend hundreds of thousands, and years of our lives as weโre meant to accept lack of funding for our education as a โharsh reality.โ
To add salt to wounds, a better world would have been possible โ a better world is possible! If only justice and accountability reigned supreme. If the peopleโs money didnโt go to lining the pockets of bureaucrats and dubious contractors. If human rights like healthcare and education werenโt treated like commodities, locked and gatekept behind a paywall by the avaricious who would rather see people die than lose a chance for another horse, Rolls Royce, yacht, or trip abroad.
If only.
But a better world is still possible. How can I lose hope when there are those who continue to spend their time and life serving the underserved despite everything that is going on? When there are those who show their passion in fanning the flames of hope in the newer generation?
How can I lose hope, when there are those who are sick and tired of being force fed the notion of the status quo being normal?
A hope for a better world exists, not because of any individual nor bureaucrat, but because the masses continue to move despite the seeming impossibility of changing things โ after all, things always seem impossible before theyโre done.
Perhaps in the birth of this better world, death can truly be equal for everyone.
Written by Patrick John Benedict Limos
Artwork by Chloe Reynaldo