Close to home
Pandemic becomes personal for family of Filipino doctors working long hours
MANILA Scrubs. Shoe covers. Suit. Gloves. N95 mask. Goggles. Face cap. Face shield. Gown.
Theodore Joseph Ablaza, 28, starts another gruelling shift attending to young patients in a COVID-19 ward in Manila. Although the public hospital is air-conditioned, all the gear makes conditions oppressive.
“I always joke to people that it feels like being an astronaut,” said Ablaza, who goes by T.J., a pediatric resident at Philippine General Hospital. “But in reality, it feels like being in a sauna.”
Medicine runs in T.J.’S family, and their lives, like countless others, have been transformed by the pandemic. Across town, his parents Ted, 60, and Mita, 62, both pediatricians, meet children and their parents at a private maternity hospital in Tondo, one of Manila’s poorest communities. The couple also has two daughters, Nadine, an economics student, and Tin, who runs a small business.
There is no end in sight for the pandemic in the Philippines, which in mid-march instituted a lockdown that is now among the world’s longest. With more than 15,000 cases and 900 deaths, the country has suffered one of the most extensive outbreaks in Southeast Asia. Officials have faced criticism for not conducting enough tests, but a spokesman for President Rodrigo Duterte said recently that authorities are expanding testing capacity.
T.J.’S parents’ workplace, Amisola Maternity Hospital, is not a
COVID-19 facility, but patients still show up for common concerns, including colds, coughs and fevers — potentially symptoms of the coronavirus.
The health system is severely undermanned, with roughly one doctor for every 33,000 patients, according to the Philippines’ Department of Health. Some 35 health workers have died of COVID-19, the disease caused by the coronavirus, and more than 2,000 have contracted the illness, the World Health Organization has reported. Medical workers face shortages of personal protective equipment and a lack of transportation during the lockdown.
The Philippine General Hospital, which caters to many of Manila’s urban poor, allows its staff to take a mid-shift break before returning to work with a new suit. But many doctors, including T.J., choose to stick out their duty without bathroom or food breaks, careful to conserve the gear they have.
As they monitor each patient’s progress, T.J. and his colleagues refer to consultants for the next course of action. This could include blood extractions or intubation.
While he battles to save others, the virus has hit close to home for T.J., too.
His Uncle Gene — a lawyer who was healthy and active — fell ill after coming into contact with an infected colleague who was asymptomatic. The last time his family saw him, he was hooked to an oxygen tank; the next thing, they were informed he was dead.
Heart-wrenching events play out in the COVID ward. In normal times, parents would accompany their children — but the contagion risk means sick children have to be isolated.
T.J.’S parents have felt fear, too, following Gene’s death — but they have decided to knuckle down to work. With public gatherings banned and tight restrictions on funerals, they couldn’t say a proper goodbye.