Two Harrowing Hospital Days

“Go see a gastroenterologist!” my friends nagged. But you know how lightly we take—or deny—things of great importance.

I’ve been having these recurring tummy troubles for months—flatulence, gas pains, general discomfort, which were robbing me of sleep. But I attributed them to busyness or a series of unfortunate events—including the death of my friend Mila and the typhoon that inundated hundreds of thousands in the Philippines—which caused stress and therefore, tummy troubles.

The symptoms, however, were stubborn; so I blinked and heeded my friends’ nagging.

“I wouldn’t prescribe anything until I know what’s wrong,” the gastroenterologist said. “I advise you to immediately undergo endoscopy and colonoscopy." Big terms which so scared me, I lost more sleep. He didn’t say this, but I read it all over his face (or mine), “Something could be terribly wrong.”

Harrowing Day 1:

Emergency room—there I was interviewed by three doctors and a nurse separately, with the same questions. I wondered why they couldn’t read each other’s notes! Then on to a cubicle where I could hear hurried footsteps and moans of woes. I looked up to the lights. Down to my slippers. And all around, to blue shiny curtains.


Here, white-clad vampires sucked my blood with needles; clamped my wrists and ankles, and read zig-zag lines on long, thin papers spewed by a tiny machine.

Then in my room, more white-clad pollsters filed in, with the same questions. I could have saved myself trouble by recording all my answers. A voodooist in white also came, mistaking me for a doll and piercing me with another needle attached to a bottle of clear liquid. Short of force-feeding me, she watched me drink 240 ml of laxative, which kept me racing with maximum speed to the toilet all afternoon and all night, till I felt like a prune.

Harrowing Day 2:

On a cold, narrow bed with rollers, my blood pressure was taken at too-short intervals, then I was wheeled by a masked man through a long hallway and into the Operating Room, where I was pierced anew on the arm by a voodooist, making my mind fuzzy, half aware of all the on-going surgeries in an endless line of ORs on both sides.

“I will put you to sleep now,” the anesthesiologist told me when I reached my assigned OR.

“Okay, but be sure to wake me up,” I countered.

Sure enough, the next thing I heard was his voice, “Wake up Ms. Chong, the procedures are over.”

“I have talked to your husband,” another voice came through from somewhere. I was too sleepy to care what he told Tony. But he rambled on and on anyway.

Back to my room, my husband's  face—or what seemed like it—was grim. I was deep in stupor and all I wanted was to sleep some more.

When the fog of sedative was gone hours later, I woke up ravenous enough to eat a horse, or two. Tony began to tell me what the doctor said. Instantly my subconscious came to the fore and I remembered what he had said after the procedures in the OR.

“You have ulcers and diverticulosis, both can be cured in time.”

Tony confirmed this. And I bowed my head in thanksgiving for the generous globs of grace that I, my friends, and loved ones had prayed for before I checked in the hospital.

Suddenly, the people in white crowding my room morphed into angels—taking the needle off my wrist, giving me instructions on what to do, and handing me a wad of prescriptions.

Despite the desire to keep sleeping, pain, and exhaustion from all the needles, laxative, a slew of tests, and unending interviews, I summoned enough effort to text all my prayer partners, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow!”