Part 3: The Refund Olympics at BAMC — The Event No One Wants, Needs, or Should Ever Have to Repeat

If anyone ever asks me what rock bottom looks like, I will confidently answer: “It’s waking up at 5AM to rising flood water, a screaming husband with a fresh fracture, and realizing you can’t outrun life even when you try.”

Let me take you back to the morning after the accident — because apparently, the universe wasn’t done with me yet.

The Flood Woke Us Up Before Our Alarms Did

At around 5AM on November 25, I woke up to the sound of nonstop rain hammering the house. Ralph was already awake, helpless in bed with his cast, waiting for me like an injured baby bird.

I got up to help him pee and he told me to check the drainage outside our bedroom.
I opened the bathroom door — and froze.

The water was rising. Fast.

Outside our bedroom, the drainage was already overflowing. Water was creeping toward the door like it paid rent.

This was normally Ralph’s job — lifting the drainage cover, clearing any blockage — but since he was now in the “broken ankle and zero mobility” package deal, I had to brave the rain alone.

I opened the door to the outside and nearly screamed.

Water was rushing IN from the street.

Not dripping. Not pooling. Rushing.

I immediately rang Ken and Jenjen. It was chaos. Ken bolted outside and saw his car already sitting in water. And if you know Ken, you know his car is his emotional support animal — so he was MINUTES away from a mental breakdown.

He ran to adjust the parking, driving the car back and forth until he finally got it inside the garage — the only place high enough to keep it safe.

Unfortunately, that did nothing for us, because:

The water level continued to rise
The inside of the house began taking in water
The bathroom drainage was backing up
And Ralph was shouting instructions like an injured general on the battlefield

At that point, there was only one option:

EVACUATE. NOW.

Operation: Get Out Before We Float Away

Ralph instructed Jenjen to pack clothes and toiletries for a day.
I grabbed my phone and immediately called Sukro to book rooms — because when you’re about to flood, you don’t ask questions. You leave.

Thank God Sukro still had two deluxe rooms available and agreed to let us check in early.

But the evacuation wasn’t simple.

We needed to use the truck — because Ken’s beloved car was now in “No more adventures for today” mode.

So we:

Left Ken’s car inside the garage
Loaded Ralph into the truck
Used a metal construction bar as an emergency crutch
Squeezed the entire household (me, Ken, Jenjen, and John Mark) into the truck
And drove out of our street which looked like a river auditioning for a disaster movie

And here’s the funny part…

Not all of Gardenville was flooded.

Just our street. And two other sad, low-lying, unlucky roads.

By the time we were nearing the subdivision exit, people were literally walking around like it was a normal Tuesday, while we looked like we had just survived a sinking ship.

But we made it. We reached Sukro. We checked in early and we exhaled.

And then the next mission began.

Supplies, While Our Souls Rebooted

Once we settled into Sukro, Ralph tried getting comfortable with his cast and steel bar. Meanwhile, I tried getting comfortable with the idea that we had officially lived through a disaster montage.

After resting a bit, Ken and I set out:

Medical supplies shopping
- Crutches
- A cane
- A bedpan
- A urinal
- And whatever was left of my patience
Deliver supplies to Ralph
Because the man deserved real equipment, not improvised hardware-store solutions.
Return to BAMC
Because refund day had come — and I had no idea I was walking into battle.

The Refund Olympics: Level 1 — The Waiting Games

I got to BAMC early, only to learn (SURPRISE!) that the Refund Department opens at 1:30 PM.

Thank you so much for not mentioning that the night before. Truly. Thank you.

Since I was already there, I waited like someone doing penance for past lives.

Then came the PhilHealth disappointment, where they explained that Ralph’s injury wasn’t covered because he slipped — as if gravity is now an exclusion clause.

I walked out of that office spiritually defeated.

The Refund Olympics: Level 2 — The Chika Hour

At 1:40 PM, the woman who handles refunds finally arrived.

Instead of opening the window, she sat down and started chatting — full telenovela-level chika — with the PhilHealth girl beside her.

I watched. I listened. I aged five years in ten minutes.

Eventually, I asked when refunds would start.

She acted surprised — surprised! — that anyone was there for a refund even though I was holding a printed queue number like a lost soul clutching a ticket to salvation.

The Refund Olympics: Level 3 — The Authorization Disaster

I finally got inside. I presented the ₱10,000 receipt that my own hands paid.

And then she asked: “Ma’am, do you have an authorization from the patient?”

The patient who was in Sukro lying down with a fractured ankle unable to even walk and DID NOT pay the ₱10,000?

What authorization???

Imagine standing there, sleep-deprived, rain-soaked, traumatized from a flood, holding the evidence of your own payment — only to be told you cannot receive your own money without authorization from a man who, at that time, could barely lift his leg without screaming.

I explained — calmly but with the energy of a woman on the brink — that I paid the money, from my wallet, because their system failed.

Refund Girl sympathetically nodded and delivered the punchline: “Yes ma’am, but the patient is not you.”

I let out a laugh so sarcastic it vibrated through the floor tiles. For dramatic effect, I muttered (loud enough for her to hear): “Definitely not coming back to this hellhole.”

And honestly? It felt therapeutic.

The Marriage Contract Saves the Day

Ralph, furious from Sukro, recorded a video showing his ID and authorizing me to claim the refund.

Rejected. Because apparently video is too modern for their internal policies.

Desperate, I asked: “Will you accept a marriage contract instead?”

This — hilariously — worked.

So I stepped outside, held my phone to the heavens like Simba in The Lion King, hunted for signal, and somehow managed to download our marriage contract from an old email thread.

Once submitted, the refund was finally processed. ₱2,500.

And honestly? That was fine. I didn’t expect a full refund because services were actually rendered — the X-ray, cast molding, and the surprisingly consistent check-ins by Ms. Messenger of Delays.

But should it have taken a marriage contract, a spiritual awakening, and 30 minutes of waiting for someone who was ten steps deep into office gossip?

No. No, it should not have.

I left the building with the relief of a woman who had finally passed the toughest level of a video game. Then I handed the full P2,500 to Ken as a token of appreciation for driving us around.

Back to Sukro, Finally Breathing Again

I returned to Sukro, collapsed onto the bed, and declared myself done with society for the day.

Our neighbor confirmed the water had subsided. Jenjen checked the pets — safe, dry, alive. The weather improved. But we stayed at Sukro anyway, because: