Inside the walls of purgatory

The only constant thing in our humanity is our vulnerability to sickness, and how at one point in our lives, we have all been to the hospital. Hence, I would like to foreground my stories of science in my idea of what a hospital is based on the experiences I accumulated growing up—which isn’t that pretty, to say the least.

Hospitals, for me, do not live up to what they’re supposed to stand for: a place for healing or treatment; a kind of safe space for people who share physical or emotional vulnerability. But for years and years of being in a hospital, not because I am prone to sickness (but because my mother works in one), I have seen what being confined within the walls of an institution does to a person, especially with the current state of our health-care services.

One of my earliest memories of being in a hospital involved being a patient. This experience was quite academic. It was around 2008, I was in first grade when I was admitted because of amebiasis. I remember liking the experience, for all I had to do was rest and eat most of the time. My entire stay was pretty laidback as I mainly focused on my recovery. One thing I dreaded, however, was having to study so I could keep up with the rest of the class when I got back. I still made efforts to go through my notes despite getting the most cruel stomach aches anyone could imagine. Although I liked the leisure of being taken care of, what I was feeling internally wasn’t much of a help. It was a pain to drag my aching body across the room just to release waste. The needles did not help with the experience either as I felt it through my skin the entire time.

I did not return to the hospital for a while after that. My next major return to the hospital was quite mandatory though. Filipino culture demands that boys need circumcision before entering manhood, so it was an inevitable fate on my end. Fortunately enough, I had a proper medical procedure for my operation. Growing up, I came across several stories detailing the different methods of circumcision, especially at the time of our parents, and I am quite sure that most of them do not satisfy the current medical standards. Nonetheless, I had mine in an operating room in the hospital. There, I witnessed different individuals and families from various walks of life—most of which were disheartening to see. The operating room was an imagery of the dystopia. People were barely accommodated. Patients were panicking left and right. Screams and cries echoed to the end of the hallways. There were barely any doctors on site. Not to be pessimistic, but it was a chamber of hopelessness—the worst part is that it was a private facility. I myself added to the already chaotic environment. I let out screams as the doctor cut incisions to the remainder of my youth. It was an awakening: the sight of the site; the feel of the peel.

The case remained the same whenever I had a schedule for checkups. The only thing more dreadful than the anticipation of the result, possibly manifesting the worst-case scenario for my symptoms, is the long cue of anxious patients waiting for the doctor to check-in. There were times when patients had to wait for five hours in line before the doctor would arrive. I cannot fathom the idea of making symptomatic people wait. Being sick is a burden in itself. Making patients wait in a lifeless corridor is much more cruel as it leaves them to their own thoughts, wrestling with the possibility of the worst possible scenario, even death. Does it not resemble the concept of purgatory? The place where suffering souls wait for their resolve. At what point does the helpless become hopeful?

I wish to recall an experience not of my own but of a close relative’s. As my aunt was nearing her death back in 2021, the person in charge of taking care of her witnessed some kind of a paranormal miracle perhaps, within the confines of the admitting rooms. My aunt could barely speak or move by then as she was already bedridden. Until one evening, she spoke of seeing her long-deceased mom coming to lead her to some place she hadn’t seen before. Of course, the guardian was left in shock and tremor after hearing this. Even I would be clueless if I witnessed this first-hand. My aunt somehow explained that she was ready to go with her mom and that she had to get dressed immediately. Whether it was true or not, the instance was out of the ordinary—for us humans at least. Maybe it’s just my way of giving her the peace she sought for so long, but this episode might be her way out of her dire situation in that hospital. It was rest; it was peace; it was salvation.

My thought goes out to the possibility of life on the other side. Perhaps the possibility of a utopia awaits those who are tied in the hospital. But for a Filipino, the hospital is a real and living purgatory—a case of helpless suffering; a testament to poor health-care services; a remnant of a failed government.

As long as we fail to meet the standards of basic and quality health-care for Filipinos, the other side might be our only salvation.

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Joshua Zamora, 21, is a communication arts student at the University of the Philippines Los Baños. His writings often explore his ruminations about mundanity and social realities.