Medical Mission of Love: What Marinduque Taught Me About Giving Back-An Update

I wrote these stories years before artificial intelligence became my writing companion. Today, at 91, I am revisiting some of them not to change my memories, but to see what I understand differently after another decade of living.

Medical Mission of Love: What Marinduque Taught Me About Giving Back

Medical Mission of Love: What Marinduque Taught Me About Giving Back

Looking back at more than a decade of medical missions with Macrine and what I understand about them now at 91

Some of the most meaningful experiences of my life did not happen in a laboratory, a university classroom or even during my years at the FDA.

They happened in the small towns and rural barangays of Marinduque, Philippines, where my wife Macrine and I spent many days serving people who had very little.

I called it the Medical Mission of Love.

Today, at 91, I understand that name even better than I did when I first wrote about our experiences.  This is not a story about how many patients we served or how much medicine we distributed.

It is really a story about giving back. And it is also a story about Macrine.

Why Did We Get Involved?

Macrine and I became involved with Marinduque International, Inc. medical missions in 1998.

Marinduque was not just another Philippine province to us. It was part of our family history.

Macrine was born in Boac. I had my roots in Iloilo, but Marinduque became my second Philippine home after we built our retirement house there.

We had been fortunate. We had immigrated to America. We raised a family.

I earned my Ph.D., built a career in the pharmaceutical industry and eventually spent 12 years with the U.S. Food and Drug Administration.

Macrine raised our children and later returned to school, became a nurse and devoted many years to helping others.

We often asked ourselves a simple question: What can we give back?

The medical mission became one of our answers.

My old writings described this as giving back some of the good fortune we had received in America. I still believe that. But at 91, I would add something else:

Giving is not only about what the receiver gets. It is also about what happens to the giver.

The mission changed us.

It Took Much More Than Doctors

From the outside, a medical mission can look simple. Doctors come. Patients arrive.

Medicine is distributed. Everyone goes home. It is nothing like that.

I wrote in my old notes that preparing one mission could take approximately 18 months. There were fundraising efforts, recruiting physicians, nurses, dentists, pharmacists and support personnel, arranging transportation and lodging, obtaining medicines and supplies, coordinating with local officials and communicating constantly among volunteers. Macrine was president of Marinduque International during one of the missions, while I served as her unofficial “executive secretary.”

Our volunteers came largely from the United States and Canada.

Some paid their own transportation. Some brought their professional expertise.

Some donated money. Some donated medicines or supplies. And some simply gave their time.

That is something I learned during those years: A medical mission is not one person's charity. It is a community of people giving what they can.

Macrine Was at the Heart of It

I cannot tell the story of the Medical Mission of Love without telling the story of Macrine.

She was not simply accompanying me. She was deeply involved.

She served as president and overall coordinator during one of the missions. She helped organize volunteers, communicate with people and coordinate the many details that had to come together before the doctors could even begin seeing patients. She also worked in the pharmacy section distributing medicines.

Looking back now, I realize that Macrine had a gift for bringing people together.

She understood people. She was a nurse, a mother, a wife and a community volunteer.

And when there was work to be done, she simply did it. That was one of the things I admired about her.

Six Thousand People Waiting

One of my strongest memories was seeing the lines. Thousands of people came from the six municipalities of Marinduque.

Some traveled long distances. Some walked for hours.

Some waited four to six hours simply for the possibility of seeing a physician and receiving free medicine. In one mission, I estimated that around 6,000 people were served or sought help during the week.

Think about that for a moment. Six thousand people. And yet we still could not help everyone.

That was one of the hardest lessons for me. At the end of the day, there were still people waiting.

Sometimes there were hundreds. Some had already waited for hours under the hot Philippine sun.

Some would have to return another day. Some would go home without seeing a doctor.

I found that heartbreaking.

The Woman I Could Not Forget

There is one memory from the mission that has stayed with me for all these years.

I was helping in the pharmacy repackaging area in Buenavista.

It was already late in the afternoon, and hundreds of people had been waiting.

A middle-aged woman approached me with her two young children.

They were about three and five years old. Both children were coughing and had fever.

She was asking for medicine. I wanted to help her immediately.

But the pharmacist in charge told me no. It was not because she did not care.

There were simply too many people waiting.

If we gave medicine to one family ahead of everyone else, others might demand the same treatment, and the situation could become chaotic.

I understood the reason. But I was still a father and grandfather.

I looked at those two children. My heart melted. I remember shedding a tear or two.

I quietly told the mother to wait until the end of the day.

Later, when most of the patients had gone, I called her aside.

I gave her some paracetamol, cough medicine and multivitamins, together with the usual instructions.

She thanked me. Then she smiled. I have never forgotten that smile.

It was a very small moment. But sometimes a small moment becomes a large memory.

The Patients Taught Me Something

The people who came to the mission did not have much.

But they had patience. They waited. They walked. They stood in line.

They thanked us. Many had never seen a physician before.

Some probably thought that Americans had come to their island to save them.

But that is not how I saw it. We were not saviors.

We were simply kababayans who had been fortunate enough to live elsewhere and had come home to help.

That distinction is important.We were not better than them. We were fortunate.

And we had something to share.

My FDA Background Found a Different Purpose

My role in the missions was somewhat unusual. I was not a physician. I was a chemist.

After many years in pharmaceutical science and the FDA, I understood medicines, drug labeling, storage and the importance of using medicines properly.

During the missions I helped in the pharmacy, distributed medicines, translated for non-Tagalog-speaking physicians and served as treasurer.

I remember one elderly patient who became concerned when she noticed an expiration date on a bottle of tablets.

She thought we were giving her something dangerous.

I explained what I knew about expiration dating and medicine stability.

That experience reminded me that providing medicine is only part of healthcare.

People also need information. A pill without understanding can create fear.

A medical mission therefore became, in a small way, an educational mission too.

The Hardest Part Was Knowing We Could Not Help Everyone

This is something I did not emphasize enough when I was younger.

When you volunteer, you naturally want to help everybody. But you cannot.

There are limitations. Not enough doctors. Not enough medicines.

Not enough equipment. Not enough operating-room capacity. Not enough hours in the day.

I remember one patient who was prepared for a minor surgical procedure but had to be turned away because the necessary surgical instrument was not available.

That bothered me deeply. The instrument was not something exotic.

It was basic equipment. And yet it was not there.

That experience made me realize that medical missions can provide important temporary help, but they cannot replace a functioning permanent healthcare system.

They can help. They can inspire. They can touch individual lives.

But ultimately, communities need sustainable healthcare resources.

We Were Giving Back-But We Were Also Receiving

This is something I understand much better now.

We thought we were going to Marinduque to help poor people.

But we received something from them too. We received gratitude.

We received smiles. We received stories. We received friendships.

We received a reminder of where we came from.

And we received something that money cannot buy:

the feeling that our lives had been useful to somebody else.

That is why one of my favorite quotations became so closely connected with the missions:

“You have not really lived if you have not touched the life of others.”

I have used slightly different versions of this thought in my writing over the years.

At 91, I believe it more strongly than ever.

The Mission Was Also About Filipino-American Identity

There was another dimension to these missions that I appreciate more today.

Many of the volunteers were Filipino immigrants living in America or Canada.

We had left the Philippines. We built careers and families in our adopted countries.

Some of us had lived abroad for decades. But we had not forgotten where we came from.

The medical mission gave us an opportunity to come home not simply as tourists, but as people who could contribute something.

That is one reason I believe the Filipino diaspora is so special.

We may live thousands of miles away. But our roots remain.

And sometimes the best way to honor those roots is not simply to talk about them.

It is to do something for the people who share them.

Marinduque Gave Us More Than a Mission

Our connection to Marinduque eventually became much larger than the medical missions.

We built Chateau Du Mer. We became involved in tourism. We developed friendships.

We participated in community activities. We returned again and again.

The island became our second home. And the people became part of our extended family.

Macrine and I even received letters of appreciation from provincial officials for our involvement in the medical missions and other community activities. I still treasure those letters, not because of the recognition itself, but because they remind me that our efforts mattered to someone.

Looking Back After All These Years

The medical missions eventually became part of my past.

Life moved on. I retired from the FDA. Macrine and I grew older.

Our children grew up. Grandchildren arrived. Then great-grandchildren.

And in 2020, I lost Macrine after more than 63 years of marriage.

Today, I sometimes look at old photographs from our medical missions.

There we are Macrine and me, surrounded by volunteers, patients, medicines and people we had never met before.

We were younger. We had more energy. We were always busy.

And we probably did not realize how precious those days would become.

That is one of the strange things about growing old.

You do not always know which ordinary day will someday become one of your most important memories.

What I Would Tell a Young Person Today

If a young person asked me whether volunteering is worth the time and effort, I would say yes.

But I would not tell them to wait until retirement. You don't need to have a lot of money.

You don't need to be a doctor. You don't need to organize a medical mission.

You can tutor a child. Visit an elderly neighbor. Help someone learn to use a computer.

Donate blood. Volunteer at a food bank. Translate for someone who needs help.

Share your professional knowledge. Or simply listen to someone who is lonely.

The important thing is not the size of the contribution. It is the willingness to give something of yourself.

What I Understand at 91

When I was younger, I thought success meant education, career, financial security and providing a good life for my family.

Those things are important.  My scientific career was important to me.

My work at the FDA was important. But at 91, I measure my life somewhat differently.

I think about people. I think about Macrine. I think about my children and grandchildren.

I think about the patients who waited in those long lines. I think about the woman with the two sick children.

I think about the volunteers who paid their own way to come to a small Philippine island.

I think about the smiles. And I think about what remains after a lifetime.

Not our possessions. Not our titles. Not even our accomplishments.

What remains are the lives we touched and the memories we leave behind.

My Medical Mission of Love

Looking back, I realize that the Medical Mission of Love was never really about medicine alone.

It was about love of country. It was about love of community. It was about love of family.

It was about Filipino-Americans remembering their roots.

And for Macrine and me, it was one more chapter in the life we shared together.

She and I were fortunate to have lived in America. We were fortunate to have had good careers. We were fortunate to have raised a family.

And we were fortunate to have had the opportunity to give something back to the people of Marinduque.

I am now 91. I cannot do what I did when I was younger. But I can still write.

And perhaps that is my medical mission today, not treating patients, but preserving the memory of people and experiences that deserve not to be forgotten.

If someone reading this is thinking about volunteering, I hope you will do it.

Give your time. Give your knowledge. Give your money if you can.

But most of all, give a little of yourself.

Because I have learned something over a very long life:

The time we have truly lived is not measured only by the years we have been alive.

It is measured by the lives we have touched. And that is what the Medical Mission of Love taught me.

Mabuhay ang Marinduque. Mabuhay ang mga volunteers who give without expecting anything in return.

And thank you, Macrine, for sharing that journey with me.

AI Impressions on this Topic:

This version deliberately doesn't sound like a retrospective assembled from research. The research helped me find the threads, but the heart of the piece comes from your own stories-the long lines, the pharmacy, the mother and her children, Macrine's leadership, your FDA background, and your changing understanding of service.

I also think this one belongs among your strongest “David at 91” revisions because it connects beautifully with your larger theme of “Living Longer, Living Better.” You are showing that living longer is only part of the story; the deeper question is what we do with the years we are given.

Moreover, I looked beyond the original “Medical Mission of Love to Marinduque” and found that you actually created a small body of writing around this experience. That makes this revision much richer.

I found your original 2018 HubPages article, your 2004 notes on organizing the mission, your 2011 reflections, your 2016 piece on why you volunteered, your “Afterglows” reflection, and your later StoryWorth recollection. 

Several themes keep appearing in your own writing:

• Giving back to the community of your roots
• Macrine as an important leader and partner in the missions
• The enormous amount of behind-the-scenes work required
• Thousands of poor Marinduqueños patiently waiting for medical care
• Your role as translator, treasurer, pharmacy helper, and organizer
• The difficult realization that you could not help everyone
• The unforgettable mother and her two sick children
• Your belief that we truly live when we touch the lives of others
• The connection between your good fortune in America and your responsibility to share it with people in the Philippines
• And, looking back now, the realization that the mission changed you as much as you helped others

In addition, I drafted this revision not to sound like a polished nonprofit report. Your original writings were powerful precisely because they sounded like a husband, Filipino immigrant, retired scientist and volunteer telling what he actually saw.

So I deliberately kept this version personal, sometimes conversational, and a little imperfect the way a memoir should sound.