MANILA, Philippines - When World War II broke out and the Japanese invaded our country on Dec. 8, 1941, all schools and colleges were closed. I was then a senior in the UP College of Education and was looking forward to my graduation. On the eve of Christmas 1941, Intramuros was bombed and my father was one of the casualties. He was confined in the Philippine General Hospital. I practically lived in PGH for a month while caring for my father. It was then that I thought of taking up Nursing since the PGH School of Nursing was still open for student nurses. Nursing at that time was not the very popular course that it is today. Although it is one of the noblest professions, it was most demanding and financially unrewarding. It was even looked down upon as a menial occupation.
It was during the darkest period of PGH when I enrolled in the PGH School of Nursing, in April 1943. The first six months in the School of Nursing was called the probationary period. It was supposed to test our mettle for coping with the rigid requirements of the school. Indeed it was the most trying of times. We had to attend classes and still go on duty in the hospital.
The most difficult ward assignments were the Emergency Room, the Male Surgical Ward, the Pediatrics Ward and the OB Ward. In the ER, we had our fill of casualties of bombings and air raids― bleeding and agonizing as they were. We wiped off the blood from the patients’ faces and bodies before the resident on duty could attend to them.
Ward 10 or the Male Surgical Ward was always filled to capacity. I had to brace myself while administering to patients with their festering wounds and amputated legs. Every time I perceived their helplessness and agony, I seemed to die a little.
In the Pediatrics Ward, especially in the Ileocolitis room, infant mortality was high. Most of the infants confined there were emaciated, malnourished and in serious condition. We often stood in prayerful watch as a child no longer responded to our ministrations. On the other hand, the Nursery was such a cheerful place. We savored the smell and feel of the babies as we tucked them in their cribs after rendering care to the newborn.
Our favorite ward was Ward 9, the American Internees Ward. There we could relax as no one was seriously ill. We felt so relieved when the internees would give us good news of the forthcoming liberation of our country. We also relished the chocolates we had not tasted for so long. One enterprising internee sold toasted peanut butter sandwiches which sold like hot cakes in one corner of the ward.
We were excited when we were finally assigned to the Operating Room, because we thought of it as the most glamorous place. We also felt apprehensive, for we had heard of surgeons who would throw away wrong instruments handed to them.
While hospitals function for the health care of patients, doctors, nurses and the hospital staff and personnel make the hospital go round. We were like family as we all lived under the same roof. The PGH then was greatly handicapped by the lack of medical supplies, medicines and equipment. We had to improvise a lot. Oxygen was dispensed by the Pharmacy in a balloon (the size of a basketball) with a regulator and catheter. Food was also scarce, and we would have starved without supplies from our families. In spite of all these inadequacies and difficulties, the PGH carried on its service to the people.
During the Battle of Manila, the Nurses’ Home was bombed and we had to evacuate to the hospital. I was lucky to room-in with a family friend who was a patient in Ward 21―a private ward. From the porch of the room I actually witnessed Ateneo burning. On the night before the liberators came, we slept in the basement of the hospital, as the shelling got heavier.
It was early in the morning when we heard shouts of joy proclaiming the arrival of American soldiers. Amid the joy and excitement of liberation, we were saddened by the news that Rety Quisumbing, the well-loved intern, was shot to death by an American soldier while Rety was running toward the Cancer Institute to get some needed medical supplies. The American mistook him for an enemy. The male interns’ residence at the PGH has been aptly named after him.
When the Commonwealth government was reestablished, we went back to the battle-scarred PGH to resume our studies and clinical experiences. We finally graduated in April 1946. We never thought we would experience “such sweet sorrow” until we came to the parting of ways. We had lived together for three unforgettable years and shared so many memorable experiences in PGH.
The PGH has become a significant part of my life. I spent many memorable and happy years within its hallowed walls and grounds. As a student nurse it was my second home. I also spent 16 years in the PGH as a faculty member in the School of Nursing. I am also happy that all my children were born in PGH. and were delivered by our former professor in Obstetrics―gratis et amore.
All these fond memories of PGH will forever be etched in my heart. They consist of memorable incidents and people I had cared for and loved during my student days in the hospital. I had experienced the gamut of life, from birth to death, and known people from all walks of life.
To cap this nostalgic recollection, there was this incident which sets me to wistful thinking whenever I recall it. It was a strange brief encounter in a corridor of PGH with a dear friend from the past. As we clasped hands in greeting, he whispered under his breath: “If you only knew ... If only these walls can tell.”
Virginia B. Malay, 87, is a retired college professor.
