"Dok Kumakain Ka Pala Nito?" and Other First Impressions as a Barrio Doctor

I'm almost four weeks into my first ever job as a Doctor to the Barrio, and it's been an amazing ride so far.

When I first found out about my assignment sometime in January, I was apprehensive. When you google Gigaquit, Surigao del Norte, there's not much information you can find. It's mostly just news articles about their recent spate of NPA attacks. As a baseline anxious person, I had a never-ending list of worries: What if I'm kidnapped? What if I'm killed? Or worse, what if there's no Internet???

I had no idea what I was getting into, and I would soon find out.

1. I'm a town celebrity - whether I like it or not.

"Doctora, what's your complete name?" read the text from Gigaquit Municipal Health Officer, Dr. Roland Mira. Yup, I thought to myself, he's definitely making me a welcome tarp. 

We'd never met in person before, but I'd heard much about him from mutual colleagues. A veteran doctor who'd spent most of his medical career as the only physician in town, Dr. Mira was about to have company in the form of me. 

We chatted a bit on the phone, where he warmly offered to tour me around his hometown of Claver, Gigaquit's next-door neighbor, on my first weekend off. Having grown up in a shy, introverted family, I was taken by the hospitality. 

The next day, I arrived at the Rural Health Unit to find this: My beaming face along the margins of a giant tarpaulin, with the words Welcome to Gigaquit in bright red lettering. They had used my profile picture on Facebook, and I found it hilarious that my hamster Maisie got to share the spotlight. 

Literally the next day after I arrived, I get this Facebook message from someone from the Mayor's Office. 

Uhm doc, mag invite lang unta an amua kapitan if OK lang sa imuha nga mag judge for BB. ALAMBIQUE 2020 tomorrow.

Translation: You are cordially invited to be a judge for Miss Alambique 2020 tomorrow. 

It sounded like a fun thing to do. I'd spent most of my grade school and high school life passing judgment on other girls - as was the standard thing to do before feminism became a thing - so I did have some qualification.

But I promptly turned down the invitation. Aside from wanting to keep a low profile, I'd already made important, un-reschedulable plans (mainly involving my bed, some junk food, and Season 3 of The Good Place).

Today, I'm three weeks into my stint as barrio doctor, but still I feel like somewhat of an outsider. People offer me a place to sit the moment they catch me standing, as if unable to bear the thought of me supporting my weight with my own two legs. Random townsfolk greet me good morning doktora! as I pass them on the street, reminiscent of the Provincial Life scene in Beauty and the Beast. People openly stare at me as I bike to and from my health center.

While I'm flattered by all the extra attention, sometimes I feel like I'm in a panopticon. Like I'm being watched and monitored all the time by people I can't see. Which leads me to my second point...

2. News travels fast. 

For a town with spotty cellphone reception, news sure does travel fast.

Before I started taking meds, my social anxiety made me feel like people were criticizing and judging me on a daily basis. A couple of months into treatment with sertraline, plus self-administered cognitive behavioral therapy, has helped me to realize that this was simply not true.

Now though, I'm back to believing that I am indeed being watched and discussed by people in town, much like Truman was in The Truman Show. And I have a preponderance evidence to confirm it.

Exhibit A: One time, my foster mom asked me about my religion, specifically whether I was Catholic or not. I said I wasn't. I guess news traveled around of my non-Catholic status, and now for some reason, the whole town assumes I'm an Iglesia Ni Cristo. I get invited to INC masses and meetings all the time, and it's pretty awkward (and tiring) having to explain my religion situation over and over. (If you must know: I don't have a religion, but I'll just tell everyone I'm Catholic now to avoid the whole discussion on religion.)

Exhibit B: I once went shopping around for houses and rooms I could rent. I visited 3 houses - let's call them house 1, 2, and 3 - before finally settling on my current room with a foster family situation. One night, as my foster parents and I had just finished dinner, someone came knocking on the door, looking for me. They wanted me to confirm a death in their household. I grabbed my phone and rushed out the door. Later in the night after the whole thing was resolved, one of the relatives told me the longer story of how they had traced me: They had asked around the neighborhood, and went from house 1 to house 2 to house 3. Kinda creepy.

3. Why do people think I eat caviar for breakfast?



In my first week here, I suffered through a lot of pre-meal awkwardness: From the health center staff to my foster family to random barangay people, almost everyone I ate with would constantly apologize for the food they've prepared.

Dok sorry na, ganito lang yung pagkain namin dito.

Pasensiya ka na dok, ito lang kasi yung nasa palengke.

Dok simple lang po talaga yung handa namin.

(Note: They weren't really speaking Tagalog; they speak a local dialect called Gutgut - a mix of Bohol-anon, Bisaya, and Surigaonon.)

As they go through this litany of apologies, I begin to worry about the food to come. By the way they talk so remorsefully about it, you'd think they were about to serve something truly terrible, like just three cups of rice garnished with just salt, or boiled secondhand tires.

But of course, it's just their way of showing humility. Because the food is always amazing. It's fresh, cooked from scratch, and delicious: humba, paco salad, kinilaw, shrimp, bamboo shoots, banana hearts, and my ultimate favorite so far: pangat. It's like laing, but instead of shredding the gabi leaves, you eat them stacked on top of each other like a chewy green lasagna with coconut cream sauce. SUPER. YUMMY. As someone who's gotten used to microwaved meals and fastfood, all this fresh homemade food is a welcome upgrade.

4. I can finally put myself first.  

Today I broke an old rule. I ate food while seeing a patient. I asked their permission first and explained that I couldn't take my scheduled meds on an empty stomach. The patient, a kind old lady, went full gear into lola mode and told me to take all the time I needed. When I had gotten a couple of bites into my sandwich and started to pack it away, the lola insisted that I finish it, because breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

Interactions like these can be jarring. During my med school training, you weren't supposed to be seen eating - it can seem unprofessional, as if you're slacking off and putting your own needs first instead of the patient's.

I've spent the last 2 years being trained to put other's needs first. You want to sleep? Do that tomorrow; there's 5 new patients who have just come in and they all need to be seen immediately. You want to eat? Wait til someone comes to take your place first, and starve until such time. You need to sit down? Too bad, there's only so few chairs, and the nurses and residents get priority.

Hospital life can be so dehumanizing. When that sweet old lola insisted I finish my sandwich, I felt seen. She had recognized that I was hungry, and she insisted I take that small moment to care for myself. This would never have happened in a hospital setting.

I can't say this enough: working in the barrios has been a breath of fresh air. Here, I can finally put my own needs first. I can come in a little past 8 and it's okay. I can take hour-long lunch breaks now and eat in peace. I can leave at 5 pm, or even earlier if there's nothing left to do. I get 8 hours of sleep every night. I have the weekends off to do whatever I want.

But aside from the perks of the job, my transition into this new chapter of my life has been made so much easier by the love and kindness of the people I've met. Almost four weeks ago, I was a stranger in town. Now, I'm the new doktora, who rides her blue bike to work every day, takes the time to talk to her patients, eats carinderia food, loves stray dogs.

When I needed a place to stay, my nurses went out and helped me find one. When I biked out in the pouring rain, my staffers gently scolded me because they didn't want me to get sick. When I was ready to spend a Friday night by myself, my new friends reached out and pulled me out of my shell.

Thanks to the people of my barrio, I'm finally human again.

And I can honestly say: I've never felt better in my life.