CHAPTER 38:THE OUTSTANDING BALANCE
838 Words
One week inside the hospital felt like an entire lifetime. For seven straight days, the ward became our temporary home, marked by the smell of antiseptics, the strict schedules of doctor's rounds, and the slow, agonizing process of Papa Renato's recovery.
But throughout that exhausting week, one variable remained absolutely constant: Reuben.
He never missed a single day. No matter how brutal his university schedule was, or how draining his mock board exam reviews became, Reuben always found his way to the hospital by afternoon or late evening. He would arrive with warm food for Mama and me, a quiet presence that immediately put Papa Renato at ease, and a willingness to run errands without a single complaint. He became our silent anchor, refusing to let us sink into isolation.
On the seventh day, the attending cardiologist finally gave us the news we had been praying for—Papa Renato was stable enough to be discharged and continue his recovery at home.
Relief briefly washed over me, but it was instantly replaced by a familiar, cold dread. The billing.
Leaving Mama Eliza to pack Papa's clothes, I took the stairs down to the ground floor and walked toward the crowded billing section of ITRMC. My palms were sweating as I lined up, tightly clutching my student ID and our PhilHealth documents. When my name was finally called, the clerk handed me a long, computerized sheet of paper.
I scanned the rows of numbers, my eyes searching for the final amount.
My breath caught in my throat. Even after the PhilHealth deductions and the initial down payment from the five thousand pesos Reuben had forced me to take, the remaining balance was staggering. It was a massive sum—an amount that our family's meager daily earnings from the automotive repair shop could never cover in a short span of time.
A heavy, suffocating weight pressed down on my chest once again. The structural integrity of my composure began to crack. I stood frozen in front of the glass window, staring at the five-digit figure that stood between my father and our ticket out of this hospital.
"Miss? Ika-clear na po ba natin ang account?" the billing clerk asked, her voice businesslike and impatient, completely immune to the silent panic breaking inside me.
I swallowed hard, my fingers trembling as I held the paper. I was a brilliant engineering student, capable of calculating complex load distributions and designing massive structures, but looking at this piece of paper, I felt completely powerless. I couldn't engineer my way out of poverty.
"M-Miss, sandali lang po," nanginginig ang boses na pakiusap ko sa clerk, pilit kong pinipigilan ang pag-init ng mga mata ko. "P-Puwede po bang makiusap? Hindi po namin kaya itong buong halaga ngayon..."
The clerk gave me a look that was a mix of pity and routine fatigue. "Kung hindi pa ninyo kayang bayaran ng buo ngayon, kailangan niyo pong dumaan uli sa Social Services sa taas para kumuha ng Promissory Note. Sila po ang mag-a-approve kung puwede kayong makalabas ngayon."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded weakly. Clutching the heavy billing sheet against my chest, I slowly walked back up the stairs. Every step felt like I was carrying concrete blocks on my shoulders.
In the Social Services office, the atmosphere was thick with the quiet desperation of other families facing the same financial wall. I waited for my turn until a social worker signaled me to sit across her desk.
What followed was a grilling, clinical interview. She asked about our family's monthly income, the nature of my father’s small automotive repair shop, and my status as a student. Every single question felt like a magnifying glass stripping away whatever pride I had left. I had to bare our poverty to a stranger just to prove that we were desperate enough to deserve mercy.
After evaluating our records and seeing the PhilHealth deductions, the social worker finally sighed and stamped a document.
"O sige, Malia. Bibigyan namin kayo ng Promissory Note para mapirmahan ang discharge paper ng Papa mo ngayon," she said, her tone strict but fair. She slid the paper across the desk, tapping her pen on a specific date written in red ink. "Pero tandaan mo ito: pansamantala lang ito para makauwi ang pasyente. Sa araw ng follow-up check-up ng Papa mo rito sa ITRMC, na eksaktong dalawang linggo mula ngayon, kailangan niyo nang bayaran ang buong remaining balance niyo. Kung hindi, magkakaproblema kayo sa susunod na transaksyon niyo rito."
"Opo... opo, ma'am. Maraming salamat po," I whispered, holding the piece of paper as if it were both a lifeline and a ticking time bomb.
Two weeks. I only had fourteen days to look for that massive amount of money. I walked out of the office with my father's ticket to freedom, but the countdown to our next financial ruin had officially begun.
- Writer
