Manghihilot of Consolacion

November 30, 2007

Manghihilot of Consolacion
(First of two installments)


Reprinted from the Asian Journal (Article #10)


By Edgar A. Gamboa, M.D., FACS





Santo Nino de Cebu



It started with an email of nostalgic pictures culled from the 1950s --- WW II toy soldiers from Kellogg's Corn Flakes boxes, 45 RPM records, Studebakers, 15 cent McDonald hamburgers and 5 cent Coca-Colas, Brownie cameras and aluminum Christmas trees, etc., with the daunting remark: "If you can remember these, you have lived!" To which those who regularly avail of senior discounts at Denny's and movie theatres resoundingly responded in the affirmative.

Not without a hint of cynicism, my brother Robert commented that none of the above qualifies one "to have lived" more than having your frail chest and back greased with hot coconut oil and plastered with gabi leaves to get rid of "panuhot", the all-encompassing diagnosis for childhood ailments. Which commentary in turn initiated a flurry of emails regarding native Philippine remedies.

Medicine in the 1950s was not exactly that primitive. Growing up in Cebu City, the "Queen City of the South", there were excellent family doctors and pediatricians to go to when we got sick. I remember my father bringing me very early in the morning to the residence of Dr. Ramon Arcenas on several occasions.

Dr. Arcenas was a general surgeon who trained at Cook County Hospital in Chicago. He also practiced general medicine and cared for patients who traveled from all over the Visayas. He was my father's paisano (they both grew up in Bantayan Island) and he readily got out of bed in his pajamas to treat me before his schedule of rounds and operations. He was a great man. In no small measure, I became a surgeon because of the kindness and goodness I saw in him.

However, on certain days, when Dr. Arcenas was out of town or busy in the operating room (or when my father was not looking) my mother, whose faith in both Eastern and Western medicine were equally unshakable, hauled us to the clinic of a popular native healer, 12 kilometers north of the city, in a town aptly called Consolacion. Back then, it was a nice little town along the breezy Northern coast. At present, the municipality of Consolacion, with a population of over 60,000, has integrated into greater Metro Cebu.

The manghihilot of Consolacion was a gentle middle-aged Cebuano. He held clinic in the basement of his nipa hut, which was larger than the average bahay kubo. We usually arrived at midmorning. Typically, one of us would wake up with a fever or a hacking cough. My mother would then telephone the school to inform the teacher we would be absent, and then she would arrange for the driver to transport us to Consolacion.

By 9 or 10 AM, the waiting room would be packed; several patients would be standing outside. There was no receptionist. As soon as you arrived, you picked a number fashioned out of tansan (Coca-Cola or Pepsi tops hammered flat and engraved -- by tiniltil method -- with numerals) and awaited your turn. Speaking of tansans, you could, if you planned on going Christmas caroling, nail stacks of tansans together to a piece of wood and enjoy your own handmade percussion instrument.

When your number was called, you were led into the examining room. Dr. Consolacion -- my anesthesiologist brother Alan remembers patients calling him Nong Aurelio -- would take a brief history ("how long has the child been sick?", "did he fall down the stairs?", "has he been vomiting?"), then he would gently place his hands on your chest and back, close his eyes, and say a brief prayer.

Nodding his head, Nong Aurelio would sit back and tell your parent(s): "Your child has panuhot or lisa (sprain)... he must have fallen down a flight of steps". He then poured warm (or hot) globs of thick, greasy coconut oil on his hands and rubbed your chest and back to exorcise your illness, while reciting more prayers.

Soon, the dreaded moment came. Nong Aurelio would summon his "physician assistant" who promptly lifted and carried you on his back, rocking you back and forth to stretch your spine and hips. After the judo-like routine, the muscular medical assistant would grab you by the ears, lift you clean off the ground, and sway you back and forth until your neck cracked. Luckily, none of us ever got paralyzed!

Then it was back to the manghihilot's examining chair for more goops of oil. Taking a handful of gabi leaves stacked by his side, Nong Aurelio would run them over a lantern flame, toasting them ever so slightly, before plastering them against your chest and back. I guess the idea was to keep the oil from evaporating too quickly and to use whatever medical properties the leaves had.

We would thank Dr. Consolacion and leave money in a donation box. He never charged for anything. That would have risked losing the healing powers God gave him. There were no insurance papers to fill, no billing claim to be sent, no co-pay. There were no middle managers, no HMO authorization process, and no bureaucracy whatsoever. Native medicine was purely a sacred traditional relationship between the healer and the sick.

The best part for me was going home tired and sleepy (from the long 12 kilometer car ride), and going to bed with the latest DC Comics copy of Superman or Batman (one of the perks of getting sick) and sipping a glass of Welch's grape juice or 7-up. We had the choice of keeping the gabi leaves stuck to our bodies the rest of the day or my mother would peel them off and exchanged them for tinastas nga panapton (pieces of cloth left over from her sewing chores) caked with pink yucky Numotozine.

Dr. Consolacion's ICD list of diagnoses was limited to "panuhot" (strained muscle or air trapped in body cavities) or lisa (strained joint). Likewise, therapeutic measures were confined to coconut oil, gabi leaves, and prayer. But, somehow, sick children got better....and survived to adulthood (all my eight siblings are alive and well, thank God). Luckily, no one got paralyzed from the vigorous physical therapy. Bottom line is: we were cured.

I did hear many years later that none of Nong Aurelio's kids took over his "hilot" practice. They all became either physicians or nurses.

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"Dear children! God sent me among you out of love that I may lead you towards the way of salvation. Many of you opened your hearts and accepted my messages, but many have become lost on this way and have never come to know the God of love with the fullness of heart. Therefore, I call you to be love and light where there is darkness and sin.

I am with you and bless you all. Thank you for having responded to my call." -- Message of October 25, 2007

The Medjugorje Web http://www.medjugorje.org