Fear of Firsts

By Dr. Emmanuel II. G. Ruiz

The discovery of the novel coronavirus did not concern me and my colleagues then. I was the sole physician in a state university with fourteen thousand breathing souls to care for. I merely brushed aside the news, going about my grueling routine of health education and history taking, diagnosis, and treatment. I would go home each night and spend a few hours with my family at dinner and over the late-night news before retiring to bed, recalling the cases I saw earlier, hoping I made the right diagnosis and treatment.

The invaders were coming

As the coronavirus slowly inched into neighboring countries, taking a more definite shape, the thunder of cannons became audible, but the warning signs came from afar. We were tempted to join in conversations among campus employees that this virus would never cross the oceans that surround us nor survive our erratic climates. We recalled the earlier epidemics that never reached our shores. At that point we were more concerned of the detrimental health effects of the ash fall from Taal volcano, as winds swept the sulfuric ash towards Manila.

Then the first case of COVID-19 was identified in Manila. Then there were two . . . three cases—then came the announcement that there was local transmission already. It was as if the barbarians were already here, not only in our gates, but among us. Pieces of concrete were already falling on our heads as artillery rained around us. If this was a legitimate war, I would gladly surrender and shake hands with the conqueror to save the lives of many, but this was not.  The victims were innocent people.

The first action that our leaders did was to announce the suspension of work and classes. Everyone must stay at home. But we—together with security, janitorial personnel and the top brass— in the clinic remained. We stayed behind to make our campus free of the invader. We implemented protocols handed over to us by our health and national leaders. We were our own small circle of Schutzstaffel. Our campus became our fortress.  Anyone outside our circle would be considered an alien unless proven otherwise. And people hated us for this, but we stood fast, or at least I thought we would.

It did not take long before the non-medical personnel within our circle switched sides with the rest, questioning the protocols which we so faithfully followed. We pleaded for them to do likewise. The top brass no longer heeded our advice. They committed breaches of protocol whenever they wished. An unknown hand would sign and authorize actions that would unnecessarily expose others to the dreaded spiked foe. Finally, when the virus was found to be among us, our circle dissolved.

We in the clinic were frustrated but we pushed on. Let those who wished to listen follow. We reached out to those at home by creating videos and other materials. We posted them on social media platforms established for our university personnel and students.

Learning how to cook

We did not forget our families. Like pigeons with secret messages, we reached out to colleagues who were in the frontlines to include our families in the list to be vaccinated. Going home to our families was not easy at all. We had to make sure we did not bring the virus to our homes. Most of the time we stayed at home with our families. Our children had online schools. Our work on-site was limited. We hunkered down in our bunkers: we had our own circle here.

Since my wife and I were both physicians and were obliged to go to work, one of us finally brought home the virus. My wife tested positive. The whole family was instructed to stay on home isolation. She stayed in one room; the rest of us stayed together in another. I was promoted overnight—I became the household cook, a position I dreaded. I no longer had to cook canned goods and fried eggs or hotdogs. I had to cook a legitimate meal for everyone. YouTube was my online teacher. I was able to prepare adobo, tinola, nilaga—name it! My proudest moments were the times when I said, “Kainan na!

I made sure I put all ingredients with utmost care. Knowing my boys ate anything I cooked, and laughed about how darker the food looked after I fried it, I was a little concerned when they both exclaimed in unison that it was salty or too sour. My wife ate everything without objections. Thank God for ageusia.

In reality, the circumstances would have been bleak as the promised food supply from our barangay came a week late. If it weren’t for friends and siblings who handed fresh produce over our steel gate regularly, I would not be able to churn out freshly cooked ‘delightful’ meals for my family. When my wife finally finished her quarantine, I got kicked out of the kitchen, to the relief of my sons, but they hated the thought that the threat of my possible takeover as household cook still loomed as long as the pandemic was with us.

Family bonding

Aside from this nightmarish thought, the lockdowns, isolation and home quarantines did not produce negative reactions from our children. We bonded in all aspects. We waited for each other during meals, placed Netflix on pause until everyone had their butts glued to their seats and agreed to continue a movie some other time when one of us started nodding sleepily. Not that anyone was the least concerned, but no one wanted to relate the rest of the story to someone who slept through the rest of the movie. We saw everyone’s move, habits and got reprimanded for a deed gone wrong but saw good results. We were happier. We got used to the routine that watching the news show us the gradual loosening of restrictions resulted to mixed emotions. Returning back to the world was like entering the yawning jaws of the unknown, like my first day in clerkship, my first day of work, the first days of everything.

If the pandemic had any positive impact, it was knowing that my family was safe at home. I knew I would come home to find them where I left them. I knew that a sudden call on my mobile phone from one of my sons would just be to ask for the snacks we bought earlier, and not because someone mugged them in school. I knew that if I called them and on their mobile phones and no one answered, it would be just because they were busy with online school activity at home and not because their bags were snatched from them by another mugger.

Back to school

Now that daily face to face school is imminent, I feel my abdomen churn with anxiety. It feels like I’m sending my kids to school for the first time. This time, I’m having separation anxiety, not them. I may have prepared our university for the new normal by having most of our school population vaccinated.

But one thing is staring at me glaringly: the fact that I am not ready to let go of my kids. I have always been the resilient type. I adjust as I go along. I  make do with the meager supplies and personnel. I’m hopeful that I can keep myself preoccupied with my old routine and keep myself from worrying about my sons in school.

I thank God for having spared my family from COVID-19, but I am even more grateful for the realization that nothing is more important than family. Continuing to protect them when others would see it unnecessary was worth it. God has given me a time to reset, to teach, not only my children but also the fourteen thousand souls at work, and send them back out to the world again.

Emmanuel II G. Ruiz, M.D. is from the Technological University of the Philippines (Manila Campus). He writes, “I am as interesting as anyone else from the PCP.”

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