Stop calling doctors greedy

She has diabetes, her leg wound slow to heal. Days in the hospital had stretched into more than a week. When the final bill came, the family stared at the total in silence. Even after PhilHealth, help from a government program, and a few kind donors, there was still a balance left to pay. Then, almost in a whisper, the father spoke: “Doc, baka puwedeng pagbigyan na lang kami kahit kaunti…(Doc, maybe you can share with us, even just a little)…”

In today’s climate, it takes only one post to turn a complicated situation into a cheap headline: “Doctors are greedy.” It’s an easy story to tell, but it’s almost always the wrong one. The truth is, most doctors give more than the public ever sees — not just in time, skill and risk, but in the quiet subtractions from our own fees so a patient can go home. That isn’t greed. That’s generosity. And if we’re going to be quick to shame doctors when the bill feels heavy, we should be just as quick — quicker — to praise them when they carry someone else’s burden without saying a word.

This was a paying case. Not an indigent patient, not entitled to No Balance Billing (NBB). Under NBB, eligible patients in government facilities — the poorest, sponsored members, seniors in basic accommodation — shouldn’t pay anything beyond the PhilHealth case rate. That rate is meant to cover both the hospital bill and the doctor’s professional fee (PF). On paper, it’s simple. In practice, the promise is uneven. But this patient wasn’t NBB. She was a private patient.

That matters. Because in self-pay cases, the hospital has its fixed rates for rooms, tests, supplies. Those numbers don’t bend at the bedside. But a professional fee? That’s a human decision. That’s where the appeal for “konting bawas” (Just a small discount) always lands.

I’ve seen how these moments go. The doctor thinks of the hours, the training, the responsibility… then thinks of the patient’s eyes, the family’s hope. The pen moves. A number gets crossed out. Sometimes part of the fee, sometimes all of it. No fanfare, no social media post. Just a quiet “Okay na,” and a handshake at discharge.

Yes, there are discounts we are legally bound to give. Seniors and persons with disability get 20 percent plus VAT exemption, and that includes PFs in private hospitals. That’s fair. That’s the law. But beyond that? Every peso off is a gift — and it comes from the doctor’s own pocket.

Here’s the truth the public rarely hears: PhilHealth and HMO professional fees are not windfalls. PhilHealth pays by case rates. The PF share is fixed and often a few thousand pesos. For some conditions it’s in the low thousands; in primary-care settings it can be under a thousand. HMOs pay from pre-negotiated schedules that haven’t kept pace with costs. Both can take weeks or months to release payments. Sometimes, they never arrive. Many doctors don’t even count these PFs as part of their working income until they physically see them.

So when people imagine the doctor’s PF as a deep well to be tapped, the reality is — it’s not. And yet, when the gap between what’s paid and what’s owed feels too wide, it’s the doctor’s PF that becomes the lifeline.

And then there’s the matter of choice. No one is forced to go “private.” The public system exists. If you qualify for NBB, you should leave with no bill. Still, many patients choose private. Sometimes because the public ward is full. Sometimes because they want faster diagnostics, shorter queues, a private room, or continuity with a particular doctor who has admitting rights there. Sometimes because they believe that if the bill gets too high, the doctor will find a way to absorb some of it. And more often than not, that’s true.

I don’t fault patients for wanting the best care they can get. But we need to be honest: choosing private comes with costs. Those costs reflect the speed, amenities and continuity you value. And when the math doesn’t close, it’s not the building or the system that fills the gap — it’s the person whose name is on the PF line.

I’m not saying we never get it wrong. We do. But the caricature of the greedy doctor living off giant PFs is far from the reality I know. The reality is: small, delayed PhilHealth and HMO payments; weekend rounds that aren’t paid for at all; a steady stream of “konting bawas” requests; and a profession that keeps saying yes because the alternative is sending someone home untreated.

The easy target is the name on the bill. The harder conversation is about why households still pay nearly half of all health costs from their own pockets. It’s about why case rates are too low, why payments are late, and why we’ve turned charity into a policy substitute.

So what do we do?

If it’s NBB, make it real. Enforce it. If it’s not, be upfront about what’s covered and what’s not. Stop making doctors the shock absorbers of a financing system that fails too many.

Update case rates to match reality. Make PF payments timely and transparent. Hold HMOs and facilities to their own timelines. Compassion will always be part of medicine — but it can’t be the only safety net.

And for patients, know this: you have choices. Public care is your right, and when NBB applies, it should mean no bill. Private care can give you things worth paying for — speed, continuity, a bed when you need it — but know too that the person most likely to help you when the bill is too much isn’t an administrator. It’s the doctor.

We call it a “professional fee,” but for most of us, it’s never just business. It’s years of training, nights away from our families, the weight of knowing one decision can change a life. And too often, it’s also the quiet choice to take less so someone else can have more.

That choice shouldn’t have to carry the weight of a broken system. But until it doesn’t, we’ll keep making it. And the next time you see a number on a bill, remember: behind it is a life we fought to save — and behind that signature is a person who has already given more than you will ever know.