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Especially coming off Easter, just about the entire
nation may have commiserated with the Arroyos when Mike went under
the knife. We have to assume sincerity in feeling their pain. It is
human nature, if only because in our own personal crises and hurts
we can use sympathy from the community as much as anybody.
I have never been hospitalized
all my life, by the grace of a compassionate Providence. As it seems
everyone else close to me has been, I know exactly how it feels. It
is easy to empathize.
Dulce, my ever-loving wife, is a
breast-cancer survivor. How well I remember that day when she called
from the hospital 10 years ago. She and Alma, a younger sister, had
cried a river before calling us to relay the bad news. Faith in God
and the solace and support of kin and friends helped—and how (they
donated what was needed). She may live to be 90 yet.
Some years ago, when our eldest,
Rebo, banged his knee and writhed in pain in a keyhole collision
near the basket in inter-law-school cage combat, his dear friend and
classmate, low-key Dato Arroyo, unhesitatingly had the presidential
security unit detailed with him use a government vehicle to rush our
son to a hospital. For that we will eternally be grateful to Dato.
It is good to know that Mike may
live for as long as he wants and may never want for as long as he
lives. For senior citizen Mike, another 20 years would seem all
right. But, I was envious, even resentful, that per his doctor, he
may get to be 90 too. That is too long a time to be a First
Gentleman. And he could make people eat their hearts out, by echoing
Iconic Justice Holmes, who, at that age, saw a sweet young thing and
blurted, “Oh, to be 70 again!”
This, 70, President Erap will be
on the 19th (he must be wishing he were 60 or even 50 again).
My own fantasy is to realize some
supposed Irish dream that I die in bed at 100, shot to death by some
jealous husband.
The larger picture is that in
this country, when young people dream dreams, they see the
bureaucrats and the generals as role models.
Somehow, they are creative enough
to have nice homes and fancy cars and travel often, and have the
best medical care too, here or abroad. On loose change as pay. As a
senator, my take-home pay was P14,612.50. I could hardly wait for my
term to end. This is one reason, among several, I declined a formal
signed appointment to be a Supreme Court justice in January 1987.
Honesty needs an economic
foundation, as in Singapore. I have not run again because of the
risk of winning which may compel me to demand a recount in case of
victory.
The Arroyos, Estradas, Ramoses,
Aquinos, Marcoses, down the line, will never fret over medical
expenses.
For those of us on a budget and
not creatively in the government, the billing might be enough to
trigger a fatal relapse.
Last year, thanks to a very
generous doctor and some friends, our youngest brother had a bypass
at little expense to the family, which pooled the loose change we
had. (No one among us really became prosperous. Dr. Camilo
Porciuncula, a fellow Bedan, understood, and gave tips on how to
save on expense; I have yet to thank him properly.) That has been
the story of my life. When I do go to consult doctors who are even
total strangers, they have been kind and generous beyond belief. St.
Jude has long been my Court of last resort.
I don’t know what the good Lord
has for me but one of the clearer weaknesses in our system is the
lack of proper health care. We can only look at other countries
where their welfare system take care of you from the cradle to the
grave.
When Mike gets well, and he will,
I hope he takes it real easy. There is no point in pursuing all
those libel cases which would only make him erupt on the witness
stand and rupture a vein. These are hazards to health. Indeed, the
incredibly extensive play-by-play coverage of his condition erases
any lingering doubt as to whether he is a “public figure,” fair
game for fair comment.
When my time to get sick and
report to the Lord comes, I would not be surprised if people flock
to my huge wake and funeral, but only to make sure I am going, or
gone. At the rate I am going, given my being demented and dementiaed,
I may get land in the National Center for Mental Health. I may get
to the pavilion which was the only one which did not cheer after
First Lady Imelda Marcos campaigned there in 1978, unlike in the
other pavilions, where she was applauded wildly.
She was to learn there was no
cheering because it was a halfway house, the place of the cured
about to be released.
For now, to the Arroyos, our
prayers and sympathies.
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