Confessions from the Kids’ Table: My first convention

 

I attended my first Public Health Convention (PHCON) yesterday, and it was wild. 

I mean, there weren't any keg stands or fellows in cheeky shorts dancing to Gnarly. But it did open my mind to the possibilities of what a public health doctor can achieve in 2025, and those possibilities are wild. 

Public health doctors have been fighting for legitimacy and recognition in a world dominated by traditional medical specialties. To many people, being accepted into a specialty society counts as the highest achievement you can possibly get as a doctor. You can only join a "society" once you've proven yourself worthy as a physician - having undergone 3 or 4 extra years of residency training after passing the medical boards, perhaps 2 to 3 years of further subspecialist training, and passing rigorous oral and written exams, before you can finally call yourself a specialist. 

And although the word specialist itself connotes that you are indeed quite unique or special, there are still bound to be a few more like you out there, which is why there are specialty societies for every medical specialization you can think of.  Some can be broad, like the Philippine College of Physicians for internists, and some can be very specific, like the Philippine Society of Colon and Rectal Surgeons.

I used to be guilty of such mentality. I would often look on in admiration at pictures from my aunt, an internist who sub-specializes in cardiology and sub-sub-specializes in 2D echocardiography, jetsetting from one convention to the next, wearing glamorous dresses paired with the latest colorful Nike shoes. 

Before the Philippine Society of Public Health Physicians came along, public health was not widely regarded as a "specialization," and I would often be met by quizzical looks whenever I described my line of work.

"Oh so you're a doctor?" relatives would ask me. 

"Yes!"
"Good! What's your specialty?"

"Public health."

"Hindi, what's your specialty ba? OB ka ba?"

"No, I do research and policy work and stuff. I write a lot."

"Ano ba yan? So sino yung ginagamot mo? The public??"

"Uhhh... in a way?" 

At which point they would be running in the opposite direction, screaming for help, frantically dialing for the barangay tanods to come and haul me away. 

As for me, a generalist who could not stomach the idea of further subjugating myself to 3 more years of hospital and academic slavery (AKA residency training), I had long accepted my fate as an outsider to medical high society. I just didn't have the grit needed to grind my way to a glamorous specialist life, and I have found public health work so much more fulfilling. 

So this public health convention felt like such a leap forward for legitimizing the practice of public health in the Philippines. We actually witnessed the inauguration of the first-ever set of public health fellows. 

Because I found myself in the company of incredibly smart people - vaccine researchers, epidemiologists, health economists, policy reform advocates who also doubled as event stylists - I tried hard to contain my own stupidity. But on the first day of the event, I'd arrived late, gotten separated from my peers, and had to be seated at a table of random attendees. Next to me was an older woman in an elegantly embroidered black dress. She was warm, kind, and we got to chatting about common work. "I've been using AI a lot to help me structure ideas," she said, "but I'm trying to cut it out of my life because it's making me stupid. I feel like magkaka-dementia ako." We took a selfie together so she could show her pamangkin, who happened to be my former boss/current friend.

Later from Doc Cyrus I learned she was none other than the brilliant Dr. Mianne Silvestre, the amazing neonatologist who invented the Unang Yakap Essential Newborn Care protocol that saves countless newborns every day. I wanted to cry from the embarrassment of not knowing, feeling like a public health newborn in need of a life-saving protocol myself. 

At the end of the day everyone went out for fellowship night at an expensive bar. The bar owners must also have been public health advocates themselves, since the drinks were priced exorbitantly high, like they wanted to take the current Sin Tax to the next level. 

"How much for a bottle of San Miguel?" I asked.

"That will be 500 pesos po," said the waitress, without batting an eyelash extension. She must have practiced saying this with a flat affect, knowing full well the look of customers who can't afford it.

I contented myself with the 200-peso lugaw and filled up instead on a healthy discussion on the merits of "professionalizing" public health. With the first set of fellows now installed, the next steps for the Philippine Society of Public Health Physicians would be to figure out the remaining pieces of the puzzle: How do we certify public health practitioners? Should there be a set of written and oral exams? What will we ask during the exams? Should there be a definitive textbook of public health? And if there were, wouldn't this need to be updated every year to keep up with the ever-evolving landscape of the times? 

In a failed attempt at humor, I whispered to Doc Myx, "Doc you should leak to us the exam questions so we can produce reviewers out of it and sell it to the future unsuspecting public health babies. We'll give you a kickback don't worry."

Doc Myx thought a bit then said, "Wait why would I even leak it to you? I could just do that myself." Then he grinned.

Despite the lack of alcohol, my stupidity had still managed to show.

. . . 

The next day, I managed to be seated with my friends at the back of the conference hall, at what I internally referred to as the "kids' table." During the business portion of the day, one of the main topics discussed was how to foster the development of the Young People in Public Health. As the speaker said this, she gestured to us at the kids' table. And in that moment, I felt so fortunate - not because I'm part of a collective that takes proactive steps in furthering my development, but because I could still be counted as "young."

The dinner that followed was spent swapping wild stories from our time as barrio doctors. I warmed up the crowd by recounting the weirdest - and only - things I've received as gifts from patients: a mysterious diamond-shaped woody seed the size of a basketball, and an old man's used basketball shorts. 

Sarah brought it home with her anecdote about a patient she had seen during her time in the Dinagat Islands, known for being a hotbed of weird cults.

The patient was complaining of right lower quadrant pain, a classic sign of appendicitis. The patient protested. "Dok, tinanggalan na po ako ng appendix dati pa." 

Sarah examined the patient's abdomen and found no evidence of a surgical scar. "Paano po tinanggal? Wala naman po akong nakikitang peklat."

The patient replied, "Sa spiritual ko po pinagawa."

The appendix had been spiritually removed!

. . . 

I feel like when you're a public health doctor, you are just naturally given a vast wealth of material for comedy. There is so much to make fun of: stupid lawmakers, cults, patient mishaps. And while this conference was far from a comedy show (it was actually brilliant, well-organized, and relevant), it felt amazing to share a laugh with people who lend a sense of lightness despite the gravity of the work. Thank you to PSPHP for giving us a seat at the table, even if it's at the kiddies' table for now. :)