Visions of St Lazarus Chapter 7

THE CREEP OF PALAWAN

I cannot cast the past into oblivion. It made me. It shaped my thinking, hardened and softened my mind in equal measure. It is the sum of who I became. And so I will not forget Palawan—nor the lepers, properly called Hansenites, whom I served there.

I will not forget the journey: the violent South China Sea, its waves battering our small boat, nearly hurling us against jagged rocks and sea caves carved by centuries of water and coral. I will not forget the impossible beauty beneath—schools of fish moving in perfect synchrony, their colors flashing like living mosaics, responding to the drums of wind and wave. Sea snakes striped like warnings. Birds mating midair. Crocodiles yawning along muddy banks, tears glistening in their ancient eyes. Swiftlet nests hidden in cave walls. Millions of bats erupting into the night sky like smoke.

I will not forget the roads—narrow, cliff-hugging, unforgiving—where our van crept forward, the jungle pressing close, breathing, alive with the music of insects and unseen creatures. I stooped to examine sea cucumbers and starfish; I lifted my eyes to watch monkeys torn apart by eagles. I remember my solitude, purple and heavy, beneath century-old trees, beside cold waterfalls and steaming hot springs.

I lived in an isolated sanitarium, deep in a forest, on an island stretched like an arm among the Philippines’ seven thousand islands. The water there was as blue as the sky—so bright it seemed unreal. At night, the stars hung low, multiplying themselves in the sea until the moon rose full and silver, communing with the water. Only at dawn did the sun intervene, separating sea from sky once more.

I lived there. I served there.

My work was to care for lepers in a small hospital and scattered cottages where medicine was scarce and supplies arrived by air drops—there were no runways. We lived far from the world.

The night that returns to me now was one of countless brownouts. Electricity failures were common then. I carried a candle as I assisted the Sisters of Mary in the morgue. They were preparing the body of Guillermo Makalusong, who had died on Christmas Eve.

With bare hands—our gloves long depleted—the Sisters washed his body using sulfur soap. Blood was swept toward the metal bed’s gutter, dripping steadily into a bucket below. Guillermo had stabbed himself in the neck five times. He was drunk when he killed himself.

“Hurry up, Sisters,” I said, impatient. “I still have exams to grade.”

I held two roles at the sanitarium: assistant to the nuns and clinical instructor to nursing students on affiliation from Manila. Our hands were always full. There were the living to tend to—and the dead to prepare and ship home.

We begged the world for help. Letters went everywhere. We taught patients vocational skills—making stuffed dolls, ceramic figurines, assembling hammers and mallets—anything we could sell. Still, money was always short.

Lepers, after all, were not machines. They needed food, shelter, clothing, water—beyond medicine. They fell in love. And being Catholic, they were denied contraception or abortion. Babies were born. More mouths to feed. More cribs to build. More caregivers to hire.

We took infants from their mothers for the first years of life. There was no sentimentality about it. Infants had no immunity. We could not risk them. We ignored the parents’ cries.

I also welcomed young nursing students—fresh from Manila, reluctant and resentful.

“We’re only here because it’s required,” they told me openly. “We hate it.”

I apologized for the conditions. I thanked them repeatedly for being there. I lectured anyway.

“Leprosy—Hansen’s disease—is found only in humans,” I began. “It is caused by Mycobacterium leprae. It is treatable with combination therapy: Rifampicin, Dapsone, and Clofazimine.”

While I spoke, one student filed her nails. Another reapplied lipstick. A third wrote a love letter.

After six months, I broke.

I was exhausted by their contempt—for the patients, for the work, for the dignity of care. I decided to teach them what nursing truly meant.

First, I informed their department heads that I was raising passing scores. Failures would repeat the course.

Second, clinical evaluations would include patient feedback.

Third, they would learn everything—how food was cooked and served, how autopsies were done, how supplies were inventoried, how skills were taught, how babies were cared for.

They called me names. Students with powerful parents withdrew using political pressure. Others were pulled out after threats to withdraw donations.

Those who remained—the powerless—called me The Creep of Palawan.

The administration wanted to fire me.

I told them plainly: in healthcare, you don’t choose your patients. Stroke, leprosy, AIDS—it doesn’t matter. If you avoid suffering because it’s inconvenient, you have no business in medicine.

What saved me was this: the remaining students studied harder. Patients began to voice satisfaction. The administration hesitated.

These thoughts followed me as I left the morgue, candle still burning. The nuns covered Guillermo’s body with a white sheet. In two days, he would be shipped home.

Home.

Where had I first met Guillermo?

Legazpi.

I remembered Mayon Volcano’s perfect cone rising behind a city still scarred by eruption—its Catholic belfry standing alone amid ruins.

We came for Guillermo at midnight. The safest hour. No neighbors watching.

He denied his identity. Tried to flee. Jumped from a window.

We caught him.

“Get away from me!” he screamed.

Dr. Montes was firm.
“Guillermo, it’s illegal to remain in the community with active leprosy. You’re endangering your family.”

His wife shook in a corner, clutching their children.

He cursed us.
“You sons of bitches!”

“It’s temporary,” Dr. Montes said calmly. “Treatment takes months. At most two years.”

I echoed him, eager to impress.
“You’ll be home soon.”

He wasn’t.

The disease worsened. Side effects ravaged him. His skin darkened. Lesions erupted. Steroids bloated his face. Nerves died. Fingers clawed. Feet numbed.

He was cured—but destroyed.

When he returned home, his children fled. His wife had moved on.

He came back to us drunk and broken.

He descended through the cottages—Acute. Sub-acute. Chronic.

Finally, Cottage D.

The Desperados.

Locked doors. Restraints.

I visited him.

“What more do you want, Guillermo?” I demanded.

“I want to go home.”

I stared at him.

Out of pity—or loneliness—I returned. I drank with them. Bought them music. Videos. Beer.

The nuns warned me.
“You’re crossing a line.”

The students left.

I insisted: they were still human.

Then came the autopsy.

Guillermo’s body lay on the table. The students watched, eager for spectacle.

The Y-incision was made.

And then—

The corpse moved.

Guillermo sat up.

Grinning.

Holding his organs.

“Home,” he whispered.

He collapsed.

Pandemonium erupted.

The students screamed. The Sisters ran. The monks prayed.

They blamed me.

They called me the Devil.

I did not defend myself.

I was expelled from Palawan.

The memoir ended there.

Reality returned as Lazaro’s foot struck the creaking stairs of the Dade Rest tunnel.

A door opened.

A man lay on a bed.

Lazaro sat beside him.

The man whispered,
“Hello. I’m Bill. I’m dying of AIDS.”

It was Guillermo Makalusong again.

The same soul.

A different face.
2026-01-21 14:13:09
visions