Have you ever
wondered how bagoong can contribute to the US economy by way of the
health care industry?
When bagoong makes
a Pinoy sick in America he/she goes to a hospital ER to be seen by
a doctor who might very well be a Pinoy or Pinay. An economic chain
reaction springs to life.
The hospital,
the laboratory, and the doctor send separate (ouch!) bills. The bills,
prepared by clerks, go to the insurance company. Clerks at the insurance
company fill out more forms. Accountants check the numbers. The clerks
and the accountants get paid with which they buy cars and all kinds
of stuff. The doctor buys a Mercedes. A mechanic maintains the Mercedes.
A gas station supplies gas. Etcetera, etcetera...
And the lowly
bagoong had a part in all these!
But let's back
up a bit. As it happens bagoong can hurt your tummy. Equally bad is
that it could potentially hurt your sanity, too, once you receive
the bill after you seek medical treatment.
Anyway, all my
life I had been eating bagoong. One day, however, I must have overdone
it. The bagoong I used as a dipping sauce for broiled catfish kept
me sleepless all night with frequent trips to the john.
In the morning
the diarrhea stopped. But the pain got worse. I went to the emergency
room of a nearby hospital where someone handed me a form to fill up.
She interviewed me, took my temperature and my weight and my height.
In the meantime
I writhed in pain.
The interviewer
then passed me over to a clerk at a window whose first question was
if I have insurance coverage. I produced my insurance card.
In the meantime
I writhed in pain.
Then a fellow
led me to an examination room where he asked me to lie down on an
examination table. He left.
In the meantime
I writhed in pain.
After an eternity
a doctor came in. I half expected a Pinoy or a Pinay so I could whimper
in Tagalog but no such luck. The guy that came was very friendly.
Very young. He introduced himself and after asking a few questions
he examined me. In a very soothing Marcus Welby voice he said he will
come back. He left.
In the meantime
I writhed in pain.
Another eternity.
In came a nurse, all smiles, who promptly proceeded to take several
blood samples with a ferocious needle for various tests. I could not
decide whether she smiled all the time because
(a) she is innately
friendly or
(b) whether my insurance card was in order or
(c) whether she was sadistically enjoying that I was suffering pain
not only in my tummy but also from her needles.
Yes, she was pretty.
Just like all nurses are pretty on TV and in movies. She promised
that the doctor will come to see me again in a few minutes. And she
left.
In the meantime
I writhed in pain.
The doctor reappeared
but this time there was an attendant with him. In his best bedside
manner the young Marcus Welby said I will be wheeled in to the x-ray
room. He left, again promising to come back after I am returned from
the x-ray room. I was wheeled out.
In the meantime
I writhed in pain.
After pictures
of my abdomen were taken another attendant wheeled me back to the
examining room. Another nurse came in. Also pretty and very friendly.
She hung a plastic bag by a pole on wheels, connected it to a long
plastic tube. The tube ended into a needle. She cheerfully stuck the
needle into my arm and I was about to scream but she smiled at me
sweetly. She said the doctor will come back shortly. Then she walked
out.
In the meantime
I writhed in pain.
"Shortly"
was another eternity. But the doctor did come back - whew - and brought
me the good news that all the tests showed there was nothing seriously
wrong with me except a simple case of food poisoning. I almost screamed
"bagoong" but I kept my mouth shut. Bagoong stink is akin
to the acceptable foul smell of anchovies on a pizza but that will
not cut it as an explanation of what bagoong is. Nor would it justify
why I ate bagoong as a dipping sauce for a heavenly broiled catfish.
So I didn't tell
him. I spared myself the embarrassment of explaining that bagoong,
if analyzed in a modern laboratory, is simply fish or shrimp fry whose
rotting process is stopped by salt at the "right" stinkiness.
Blue-eyed and
blond and WASP and all, he would not understand why this character
from Southeast Asia would eat something so foul. I escaped the other
embarrassment that in my part of the country in the Philippines where
I grew up bagoong is the poor man's caviar.
I did not ask
for something to ease my pain earlier because the doctor was always
smiling and he knew I was in pain and he must know what he was doing
by not doing anything. But when I sensed that he was about to discharge
me I finally reminded him that my tummy is still raging with cramps.
At which, almost as an afterthought, he wrote a prescription, shook
my hand, wished me well, and left.
The nurse who
stuck the IV needle in my arm came in, still smiling, and disconnected
the IV bag (one and a half bags of yellowish liquid was fed by gravity
into my system). She bid me a pleasant goodbye and left.
By some miracle
I no longer writhed in pain! I didn't take any medicine yet except
that intravenous fluid. Did the smile of the pretty blue-eyed nurse
blow my pain away?
Fast forward...
A month later
the bills came pouring in. Hospital bills. Doctor's bills. Laboratory
bills. It turned out that my five-hour brush with the medical profession
cost a whooping $1,885.39! At these rates I don't know why some hospitals
claim they are losing money.
Like caviar bagoong
is expensive after all even if it is only the poor man's caviar.
I was fortunate
that there is this other necessary fact of modern life called insurance
that helped me pay the costs of eating bagoong.
By the way, does
your doctor drive a Mercedes or a Rolls? Has your accountant and his
nurse wife acquired a nouveau riche life style?
Fred Natividad
Livonia, Michigan
Email address:
frednati@earthlink.net
