Whether on foot along stony roads for hours or by boat under the unforgiving heat of the sun, the journey to healthcare in remote communities is often long and uncertain. Emergencies, however, do not wait for calmer seas.

In Arteche, Eastern Samar, where access to medical care can mean the difference between life and death, townspeople turn to one person: Doc Jhe.

Jhea Allyza Quial, 32, is the only doctor serving more than 50,000 residents — fivefold the ideal ratio according to the World Health Organization — spread across barangays that can take hours to reach. Fresh from passing the physician licensure exam in March 2025, she stepped into a role that demands not just knowledge but also endurance, improvisation and faith. 

Under the Department of Health’s Doctors to the Barrios program, she began her three-year return service in Arteche last July. There was no transition period, no easing into the work. On her very first day, the doctor assigned to orient her had already left.

“When I arrived, I was the only doctor,” Quial said. “I really asked myself, ‘What do I do now?’”

Dr. Daughter

Long before she became the doctor people would call in the middle of the night, Quial was a daughter watching her father endure pain. As a child, she witnessed his struggle with severe migraines — episodes that sent him from one consultation to another, searching for relief that did not easily come.

“I told myself [then], I really wanted to become a doctor so that I could help my father,” she recalled.

It was a simple dream, but a deeply rooted one. It stayed with her from elementary school through the rigors of higher education, eventually shaping her life’s direction and affirming her commitment to public health.

In 2012, she began this journey at the University of the Philippines (UP) Manila School of Health Sciences, where she developed the sense of “social accountability” that now serves as her moral compass. Starting in midwifery, moving on to nursing, and finally to medicine, her path reflects tenacity and the belief in holistic, community-based care.

In UP, learning extended far beyond classroom walls. Early in her training, she lived in communities for months at a time in underserved areas. Beyond anatomy and physiology, the realities of healthcare access shaped her education — and now inform every aspect of her practice.

“UP didn’t just teach me medicine,” she said. “It showed me the realities of healthcare.”

Quial saw firsthand the long distances patients had to travel and the hesitation to seek care due to cost, especially in Geographically Isolated and Disadvantaged Areas. 

“When you see the missing pieces in the system,” she said, “you start to think, ‘How can we improve this?’”

For 13 years, UP shaped not only her skills but also her sense of responsibility. As an Iskolar ng Bayan, she understood that her education was not hers alone.

“The nation invested in me,” she said. “So my skills are not just for me.”

Growing up in a modest family only deepened that conviction.

“We’re not rich,” she said. “So I want to be a physician who empathizes. I treat my patients like they’re family because I want my own family to receive the same care.”

What began as a dream to help her father had quietly expanded. It was no longer about healing one person — it was about showing up for many.

“Once you see the gaps, you cannot unsee them,” Quial added.

Where the roads end

“For 13 long years, UP made me realize: ‘you need to be here.’ Especially now.” This was Quial’s guiding principle that led her to Arteche. Though only a few hours from her hometown, the distance feels much greater in practice. Here, roads are not always roads. 

Being a doctor does not begin and end with clinic hours. “We’re open 24/7,” she said. “Even at midnight, someone will come knocking.”

Her days are structured — immunizations on Wednesdays, respiratory cases on Thursdays and prenatal care on Fridays — but emergencies follow no schedule. Beyond the clinic, she travels to distant barangays, sometimes by boat, sometimes on foot, bringing care to those who cannot reach it.

The challenges go beyond distance. The rural health unit lacks a fully equipped laboratory. Medicines run out. Even writing a prescription becomes a question of access.

“You don’t just give a prescription,” she explained. “You think about how the patient will actually get the medicine.”

Her housing, funded by a local government allowance, sits near the rural health unit, an arrangement born of necessity in a place where emergencies arrive unannounced.

One night, past midnight, an urgent knock woke her at her lodging. A man stood outside, asking for help. His wife was pregnant and bleeding. Moments like this leave no room for hesitation.

The rural health unit also serves as a birthing facility, but resources are limited. The laboratory is not fully equipped, medicines are scarce and ultrasound services are hours away.

To bridge these gaps, she works with what is available. She coordinates with local officials for funding, includes equipment needs in annual plans and builds partnerships — even with private pharmacies — to ensure patients can access medicine despite shortages.

Because in the barrio, care does not stop at diagnosis. It must follow through.

The cases she encounters are often common: coughs, colds, tuberculosis, even leprosy, but the conditions behind them are anything but simple. Distance, poverty and limited access shape every outcome.

“Health is not just about treating the patient,” she said. “It’s about the whole community.”

Quial recalls another patient who came in with light bleeding during pregnancy. It did not seem urgent at first, but experience told her otherwise. She urged the woman to get an ultrasound, even if it meant traveling hours away.

The patient resisted, waiting for her husband. When Quial saw her again a few days after, she insisted once more. Months later, the patient returned to her in tears. 

The mother was with her four-month-old child for a checkup with Quial. “Thank you, Doc,” the mother said. “If I didn’t go, [we] might not be alive.” 

For Quial, it was a reminder that what feels routine to a doctor can mean everything to a patient. “It deepens your commitment,” she said. “That simple ‘thank you’ is so worth it.”

The weight and the why

The work has changed her. “It humbled me in so many ways,” she said. “Being a doctor is not about making people follow you. It’s about understanding them.”

In the community, authority gives way to listening. Decisions are shared and care becomes collaborative: with midwives, nurses and barangay health workers who know their communities best. Here, medicine is never practiced alone.

Despite the weight of numbers, expectations and being the only doctor, Quial stays.

Her assignment to Arteche was not accidental. It was the only available slot in her home province. After years of studying far from home, she chose to serve where the language was familiar, where the people felt close and where she could belong, even while carrying so much.

“My heart is in the community,” she said.

And in that community, she sees more than patients. She sees a system that can still be built, improved and fought for.

“If the healthcare system is poor,” she added, “the community is poor.”

So she pushes: for better roads, for functioning laboratories and for leadership that understands that health is not separate from development but at its center.

Because in the end, being a doctor to the barrio is not just about treating illness. It is about insisting that where a person lives should never determine whether they live. For Quial, the long walks, boat rides, sleepless nights and quiet victories are all part of something larger than herself.

There may be no sign on her door. No banner announcing her presence. But in Arteche, when the night deepens and another knock comes, the doctor is always in.