02/11/2024
What makes me think you would want an insurance plan?
My answer? Personal experience.
Let me tell you something about myself.
I grew up poor. My family had a brief taste of luxury when it was whole. After that, I pretty much had the same rough going as the average Filipino on the street.
With my mother being the only one who could make an income, I was entrusted to my grandmother, who practically raised me all the way to college.
As the firstborn of all her grandchildren (and the first male), she had high hopes for me as the future breadwinner of the family. She also spent most of her life in poverty, and wanted desperately for me to escape the slow torture of a world that upheld the law of "isang kahig, isang tuka."
Even then, I knew things would never be as easy as me graduating and then carrying my family to the top of the corporate ladder into bliss.
Also, she didn't exactly equip me with the skills and mentality needed to be make it big in an unpredictable market. Like many other Filipinos today, she subscribed to the idea that a diploma alone was enough to secure "success" and save you and your loved ones from money problems.
But she had invested so much into me, doing everything she could with my mother's limited pay to put a roof over my head.
So it only made sense to make good on her dream with a starting salary of just 12,000.
Like most other Filipinos, I was ready to sign my life away as a "back-up plan."
And as I predicted, it didn't go as planned.
My grandmother was diabetic. A small pinprick on her heel led to a terrible case of gangrene. Already, she hoped to cash in on our shared promise, but pay raises were woefully slow where I first worked. There was no choice but to try and hold off treatment as much as possible.
That didn't last long. After a few months of squeezing out what little I could from increasingly scant OT pay, I received a call to go straight to the hospital. My grandmother's foot pain had grown worse, and they had to take action.
One of the first words I heard from her when I walked into the crowded, noisy, dimly lit ward was, "I'm very sorry."
It was a slow descent from there. The extended family knew it was only a matter of time before my grandmother would need an amputation. Soon, there was tension over who would shoulder the expenses for the procedure, the ambulance, the hospital transfers, the medicine, and the upkeep after that.
All the while, I felt like everyone had their eyes on me, wondering what I was doing to solve this. What happened to the breadwinner? What was the point of him getting a degree? What was the point of giving him all that food, water, clothing, and shelter? Why couldn't he help?
The answer? I simply couldn't. I earned barely above minimum wage.
Also, I was in my early 20s, and I realized that maybe I didn't want to be a back-up plan for the rest of my life.
None of it mattered in the end. The procedure went through, and payment was given after several negotiations through tight fists. Then, the lockdown occurred. Tensions were high over how I was supposed to deal with the situation.
And then my grandmother passed away.
Many people think that for those who lived such hard lives, death would be a relief.
Supposedly, that would extend to the family members, who now only have to deal with the cleanup.
But who knew cleanups could be expensive?
My grandmother's funeral had to be funded through donations. What little benefits she got from her short stints at employment could barely scratch the surface of all the bills that piled up. I vividly remember my mother crying after receiving around 10+k on GCash. My aunt even had to give up her lot in the nearby cemetery because we couldn't find a burial spot for her.
As it turns out, death wasn't a relief. It just pushed your problems to other people.
Everybody cried at the funeral except for me. I already grieved for her long before she passed as I watched her waste away in her wheelchair, full of fear and despair at the prospect of leaving us behind with so many loose ends.
They made me write her epitaph on the same day. I made sure to use the best possible words for her to be remembered by.
In truth, I was just as spent and hollow as she was; the final result of our promise.
When they finally filled up the grave, I couldn't help but remember what she said to me.
"I'm very sorry."
For what? Being poor? For raising me poor?
It wasn't like we could do anything about it. Those were the cards we were dealt with. I'm sure she didn't even have an idea on how to actually secure herself and all of us when this happened.
But what if she did?
When my mom, my brother, and I visited her grave on the first of November, we joined the company of hundreds upon thousands of people in the memorial gardens. We sat on sacks and snacked on junk food while everybody else had tents, lawn chairs, and tables laden with lechon, pansit, and humba.
I looked at each of them, the adults sharing stories in loud, laughing voices while the kids ran around in costumes for some last-minute trick-or-treating, and wondered if they were prepared for the same thing.
What would they do if they got a chronic diagnosis? How prepared are they for all the costs of testing, treatment, and maintenance?
And if they pass away, how protected are their loved ones from the fallout? How about the cost of work postponed and bills foregone? The tuition, car payments, and rent?
Well, they aren't the ones people are lighting candles and holding feasts for. They still have time.
How about you?
Would you wait until the same thing happens to you and your family to start thinking about being future-proof?
This isn't just a sob story; it's an authentic plea from someone whose life has been changed forever.
How much time do you have before you need help from an insurance plan? Because you can't get it once the inevitable happens.
Please give yourself and your family a shot at secure living.
This way, "I'm very sorry" won't be the only words you say to each other.
