The Doctor from Toclong
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Dr. Olimpio Hembrador at work: Early 1950s. (with mother and child) (Photo courtesy of Judith Hembrador-Benzon)
Upon graduating from the University of Sto. Tomas College of Medicine in 1939, Dr. Hembrador was immediately assigned to serve in a Bicol town as a community health physician.
His daughter, Judith Hembrador-Benzon, says in an interview that her father got exposed to all sorts of medical cases, including that of a farmer who was gored in the stomach by the horns of a carabao. He operated on the man, whose intestines were damaged, using only instruments and medical supplies available then in a small health center. The farmer survived.
The young doctor’s stint at the health center was cut short by the outbreak of the Second World War. He had to go back to Toclong, particularly because his father was diagnosed with cancer. Despite his father’s indifference to his medical training, Olimpio took charge of all the latter’s medical concerns—from hospitalization to home care until he died. It was said that whenever the old Matias would cough, blood clots would form in his throat and only his son could get the blood out. “Daddy was very good in improvising,” Judith recalls.
After the war, Olimpio was influenced by a prominent military doctor in his town to enlist in the Philippine Army. This doctor, an EENT specialist, served as his model. Another prominent doctor later encouraged him to do cosmetic surgery (eyelid repair) on wealthy Chinese residents. Thus, Judith says, from time to time, the young doctor would go to the private cosmetic clinic after work and earn extra income. He would go home later than usual, tired, but happy to give an added boost to his family’s budget.
Dr. Hembrador’s first army assignment was at Fort McKinley (now Bonifacio Global City). He was later given a scholarship and obtained his diplomate in EENT in Texas, USA. Years later, he would be assigned at V. Luna Medical Center as assistant head of the EENT Department. He rose to become chief of professional services.
In San Antonio, Texas, U.S.A., when he was granted a scholarship and pursued his diplomate in EENT, 1958-1959. (Photo courtesy of Judith Hembrador-Benzon)
Until his retirement, says Judith, her father would do surgery every other day. “Many, many interns and residents came and went under his mentorship, and they were all happy because not only did they learn from him, but he was also like a father to them, giving them professional and personal advice. Moreover, he was the favorite doctor of the big-time generals, particularly then-General Fidel Ramos (who later became president of the Philippines}, who fondly called him ‘Impiong.’”
One of Dr. Hembrador’s last photos while in military service, with top brass of V. Luna Medical Center, 1971. (Photo courtesy of Judith Hembrador-Benzon)
Judith reminisces: “They would summon him to their personal residences for consultation, including for their families. When Dr. Hembrador died, the doctors, nurses, and staff of V. Luna Medical Center came in several buses to pay their last respects to their former comrade.”
When he was still in active service, says Judith, there were nights when her father would be the only one awake and writing while listening to the radio. “I later found out that he was preparing articles for presentation in their medical conferences. He was constantly doing research to improve his craft.”
The days of her childhood, adds Judith, were filled with memories of her father driving daily from Imus, Cavite, to Fort McKinley, later to V. Luna in Quezon City, using his old Mercury car.
“When he arrived home, we took a simple snack together; afterwards, he would attend to waiting patients, if any. We have a small clinic in the living room of our small house. These were mostly relatives and neighbors needing medical attention of all sorts. Daddy did not charge a single centavo from them. And there were instances when he even gave them medicine if they were available from samples given by medical representatives. And would you believe, if there were cases needing further medical attention, he would take them with him the following working day, in his car, to V. Luna where he would schedule them for EENT operation under his care or refer them to the other specialty doctors. All these for free, pakikisama (fellowship) lang. Often, he would even take care of their food for the day.
“There were also instances when we would be awakened at night by patients requiring emergency treatments: mostly foreign objects in the eyes, ears, and nose, nosebleeds. Never did Daddy reject any of them, even if he still had to get up early in the morning to go to work.”
Because he was a well-respected personality in the community, young children would often fetch Dr. Hembrador to mediate in their parents’ quarrels. He gave advice, just like a barrio captain.
The gentle doctor did not charge patients for all his medical services, but accepted food items, fruits, and vegetables from grateful patients.
“Because he was a well-respected personality in the community, young children would often fetch Dr. Hembrador to mediate in their parents’ quarrels. He gave advice, just like a barrio captain.”
Immediately after retirement, Dr, Hembrador accepted a post as retainer physician at a local clinic in Makati City. The pay was not much, but it kept his mind productive, says Judith. On his rest days, he would visit her eldest brother, Eleazar, who was also an EENT doctor, at the Philippine Air Force Hospital in Pasay City (Eleazar would later head V. Luna Medical Center and later serve as Surgeon General, Armed Forces of the Philippines). At the clinic, their father would sit in at medical conferences as a visiting doctor, giving comments and professional advice.
After a year, Dr. Hembrador decided to open a modest EENT clinic at home. As usual, no professional fee for relatives and friends, only gifts. For other patients, he would charge a minimal professional fee. He would then give 50 percent of his earnings to Judith’s mother who was then also retired, to spend as she wished. Eventually, the number of patients increased; some even came from distant places.
In 1984, Dr. Hembrador suffered a stroke. He recovered for a while, and the first thing he did when he returned from the hospital was go to his clinic. That is how much he loved his profession, says Judith.
“After he died, patients still kept coming. They were sad to learn that the doctor was no longer there. I heard them saying, ‘Ang dami kong napuntahang doctor, si Dr. Hembrador lang ang nakagaling sa akin,’ or ‘Saan pa tayo hahanap ng kasing-husay ni Dr. Hembrador?,’ and ‘Sayang, hiyang na hiyang ko pa naman si Dok.’” (“I’ve been to so many doctors but only Dr. Hembrador made me well,” “Where will find a doctor as good as him?” “What luck, Dr. Hembrador suited me well.”)
It rained so hard when the good doctor was interred, but so many people came to the funeral and walked under the rain from the Hembradors’ house to the church and to the cemetery, a distance of about a kilometer.
Sidebar
Dr. Hembrador as a father as told by Judith Hembrador-Benzon
Dr. and Mrs. Olimpio Hembrador’s wedding portrait in oil, 1942, Nuestra Sra. de Guia Church, Ermita, Manila. Mrs. Hembrador was formerly Mamerta Villarama Ventura, from Angat, Bulacan. (Photo courtesy of Judith Hembrador-Benzon)
My father worked the whole day, from Monday to Friday, and half a day on Saturday. But usually, every Sunday, after going to church and having lunch at home, he would take us somewhere to relax, “make pasyal”— usually to Tagaytay, or to Tondo to visit my mother’s sister, also to Luneta Park, carnivals and fairs, even go as far as Baguio City.
He never failed to give a cash gift to each of us his children during our birthdays. When he was confined at the hospital before he died, it was my birthday. So I told him—joking—that it was my birthday. He was already disoriented then due to a brain stroke, but he reached for his wallet as if it was there on his pajama pants and pretended to give me cash.
I remember vividly one rainy night— it was brownout, frogs and crickets were croaking—my youngest sister and I were lying in bed and talking nonsense. Daddy then lay on the bed between us and told us stories of his childhood, and we ended up covering ourselves with the bedsheet because the stories got to be about ghosts, dwarves, and aswangs.
Patria Rivera is a writer in Toronto, Ontario, in Canada.
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