It’s my 6th day in Mexico City. Early winter.
Soft, warm days; cold nights. On
the way to La Casa de los Amigos I realize I’ve eaten something
that’s not settling well in my stomach.
I’m going to make it into the center, but the long metro ride isn’t
doing much for my intestines.
When I get to La Casa,
I just about race to the bathroom. And
then again 30 minutes later.
I reach into my pocket to get some money, but realize I’ve
left home empty handed. I ask the woman
at the desk. She lends me 200 pesos and
I make my way to the pharmacy on the corner to buy some Imodium. That gets me through the day.
I have little appetite, and what I do eat goes right through
me. Food poisoning, I think. I’m no stranger to this!
Thursday, January 12th
For some reason, Steve is at home and not in school. I text him and tell him I’m sick. Really sick.
I can only get out of bed to go to the bathroom, which I’ve done all
morning. And even that’s an effort.
We agree to Skype. I
keep the computer in bed with me.
“You’re scaring me,” Steve said. I’m scaring myself, because I know I’m super
sick but I’ve got absolutely no energy to get up, shower, organize myself. I know I have to get to the doctor, so I text
my friend Allison at La Casa and ask
her if she’s be willing to go to the doctor with me.
I get out of bed. Shower, I think to myself. This is an effort.
Now you have to
shave. Put on socks. Pants.
I’m having this running dialogue with myself. I have no energy and am exhausted by the time
I’m done.
I call a taxi and meet him downstairs and forty minutes
later I’m in the center of the city. I
meet Allison, and her Honduran boyfriend, and they go to the doctor with me.
I’m grateful to them as I just don’t have the inertia to try
to communicate with the doctor who speaks no English.
She diagnoses Gastroenteritis, prescribes meds. I take
another taxi home and sleep all afternoon and evening.
Friday, January 13th
Things are a bit better.
The meds are doing their work and I have more energy. I manage to go into the city and do a bit of
work, but am exhausted by mid-afternoon.
That evening, my friend Gerardo calls and asks if he can
come by to prepare a meal. I’m certainly
not eating, so I say yes. This is no
small thing that he does. It takes him
an hour and a half to get to Coyoacán, where I live. This city is a monster and getting from A to
B can be an ordeal.
But I do eat, and I appreciate the company, and am grateful
that someone here cares. He leaves for work, I go to bed. It looks as if my body is turning around.
Saturday, Sunday,
Monday, January 14th to January 16th
I feel better, but not what you’d call “well.”
Saturday I stay close to home, but venture to Los Viveros, the nursery near my
apartment, to buy some plants. What
should take 10 minutes, takes close to 30, with a long break in the middle each
way.
That evening I decide to go to the movies. I’m almost back to “normal,” so indulge in
popcorn and a huge vat of Diet Coke.
Three hours later, home, my fragile stomach starts in with
cramps. Horrible cramps for more than
two hours. It’s the only time in my life
I have a small inkling of what a woman goes through in labor. My stomach is twisted and turned and I’m in a
lot of pain. I’m actually afraid, until
they stop almost as quickly as they started.
The rest of the weekend passes well, and I’m slowing slow
signs of recovery, but not as fast as I’d like.
Tuesday, January 17th
I leave my apartment, head into the city and start the
11:00-1:00 weekly meeting of La Casa
volunteers.. I’m not feeling all that
great, but what transpires in those two hours is simply astounding. I slip into remission. It’s the only time in my life that I have
ever used that word to describe something like this. I can feel myself sliding down, sinking into
an abyss of sickness that is frightening me.
I can’t think. I have no strength
and it’s taking everything in me to stay present.
By the end of the meeting I can’t go home. I ask for a bed and sleep for two hours. I’m no better, but at least I have enough
strength to go downstairs, call a taxi and get home where I sleep the rest of
the afternoon.
That evening, my angel-friend texts me. “Can I prepare you dinner?” He comes with chicken, soup and rice, none of
which I can eat. I sit at the table, but
my head is on the placemat. I eat a bite
of chicken and another of rice. Just the
smell alone nauseates me. I can’t eat and
I can’t even sit up straight at the table.
Reluctantly, he leaves at 9:00 pm. He works nights, so I tell him I’ll text him
every time I wake up. Which I do, a lot, because my intestines are in a
full-fight battle and I’m in the bathroom every hour. Surprisingly, though, I do sleep, and my
reports through the night are encouraging.
Wednesday, January 18th
I’m up by 8:00, sicker than I’ve ever been in my life. At least lying in bed I had the illusion that
I felt alright, but the trips to the bathroom have increased. There is radical diarrhea. For every liter of
water I take in, two liters is coming out. I’m honestly frightened.
No one is in the house.
The landlady had left for LA early in the morning, and I’m alone in Coyoacán
without a health plan. I don’t even know
where to find a hospital in then neighborhood.
I begin to experience a deep loss of hope. There is absolutely no way I can get into the
center of the city, and I have to acknowledge that I’m gravely ill. What’s happening is beyond normal.
So I reach out. I
email an acquaintance from Plattsburgh who lives in Mexico City. I know she’s constantly connected to the
Internet via her Smart Phone.
“Amy,” I tell her.
“I’m very sick. Can you direct me
to an English speaking doctor?”
What I didn’t know is that she picks up the email in Boston,
immediately contacts her husband who’s a CEO for a multi-national in Mexico
City, who then contacts his secretary who contacts the driver. Within minutes Amy emails me back and says,
“Marco’s on his way. Be ready in an
hour. He’ll bring you to the hospital.”
I pick up the apartment, pull together things and put them
in a day pack. Somehow I have the
foresight to pack my credit card and passport.
I email a few people at home to pray for me—my Aunt Gloria, my pastor at
church, Ed and Rita Graf. I’m afraid,
but less afraid knowing that I’m on my way to medical help.
Then I wait. I’m
overwhelmed—not only with the kindness that’s directed at me, but that I’m
going to be ok. I start to cry—tears of
relief and tears of gratitude.
Maria, Scott’s secretary, is in constant communication. “Marco’s 30 minutes away.” “Marco’s ten minutes away.”
Then Marco calls, I go downstairs and he picks me up and we
head up and out of the city to Interlomas
and Hospital Angeles. He gets me into
the ER. My Spanish is perfectly fine for
checking in, but not good enough to describe the nuance of my illness.
Not to worry. Two
interns appear, both of whom speak very good English. Scot had also called his internist, Dr. Taché,
who shows up thirty minutes later. These
guys are good. They can see that I’m
dehydrated and they immediately order the first IV. “We suspect something more,” said the good
Dr. Taché. Can you give us a stool sample? “
Dah, I
think. That’s all I’ve been able to do
for the past 36 hours.
I easily do what they ask.
I’m suspecting ghiardia. It won’t
be the first time.
Then I wait. At least
I’m waiting in a good place.
An hour later the interns and the doctor return with an
initial diagnosis—ghiardia. They
prescribe a two more IV’s—hard core Flagyl, a super concentrated antibiotic
that kills the bacteria causing this specific infection, and Pepto-Bismol to
soften the effects of such a strong antibiotic on an already challenged
intestinal system.
“We want you to spend the night,” said the doctor.
I suspected that, and I’m glad for it. I don’t want to be home alone in this
condition.
Within minutes the “men in black” come by. The accountants. Whatever prompted me to bring passport and
credit card? I have to prove my identity and whether I can pay for this service.
I’m wheeled upstairs.
This is no ordinary hospital, and certainly not the hospital that the
average Mexican has access to. My room
is a suite with a fine view of Santa Fe.
These are highly desirable neighborhoods and real estate prices reflect
it. The day is lovely and it’s nice to
check out the high end apartment towers nearby.
I’m a bit worried that this is going to cost more than the
cap on my credit card, so I call home, call the Credit Union, call Visa.
That evening I receive a text from Gerardo: “Estoy en la Catedral en el Zocalo. Estoy
pidiendo a Dios por tu salud. Animo hora por media hora para tu salud.” I’m
in the Cathedral in the center of the city praying to God for your health. “ How am I blessed with such a good local
friend?
Doctor Taché checks in several times, as do the
interns. “We’re not totally satisfied,”
he tells me. “We suspect even more. But cultures take time and we won’t know
until tomorrow.”
I spend as pleasant an afternoon as possible. And I’m feeling better. What with the hydration fluids and
antibiotics, by nighttime I already feel on the mend.
Thursday, January 19th
I’m quite content to spend the day in the hospital, and my
instinct’s telling me I’m not going going home. I have my iPod and both
phones—my Mexican phone and my New York phone.
There’s lots of communication and I feel connected to people at home and
in Mexico City.
I watch movies, ask the nurses if I can take a walk. They unhook the IV’s and I stroll around the
hospital. I sneak downstairs and buy a Diet
Coke which I’m not allowed to have. I
take a look at the cars in the parking lot—BMW’s, Mercedes, a Porsche. This hospital’s designed for those who have.
Those who don’t have do have access to medical via
government insurance, but it’s nothing like this. I thought back a year when I escorted a
friend to his local hospital for out-patient surgery. He came out twenty minutes later telling me
that surgery had been canceled because the wall to the surgical unit had
collapsed.
Mid afternoon Dr. Taché and his interns visit.
He confirms the results of the cultures--E-coli and
salmonella.
E-coli and salmonella?
These on top of ghiardia? No
wonder my stomach was so mightily assaulted.
They tell me that I’m going to spend another night, which is just fine
with me.
I do get a bit worried about how much all of this is going
to cost. I have good insurance, but this
is a cash deal and I’m worried I won’t have enough to pay.
But it’s ok. Whatever
it costs to get better is a much smaller price than death, which was the only
other option.
Friday, January 20th
I am feeling so much better.
I’m served lunch, then Dr. Taché and his interns come by. They ask how I’m feeling, tell me I’ve
progressed well and tell me I can go home.
It’s timeWhat I’ve come to realize is that the doctor has
been keeping in daily contact with Scott and Amy, so I’m not surprised when Maria
contacts me to tell me Marco can pick me up when I’m ready.
I ask for an English speaking accountant, as I want to go
over each item in the 14 page document of expenses. All seems to be fine.
And, to my utter surprise, the total bill is in the
$5,000.00 range.
$5,000.00. In 1995 I
wasn’t feeling well at school, ended up in the ER and the hospital for the
night, and the bill 17 years earlier was $7,000.00. My aunt later told me that she had a four
hour stay in the ER last summer and her insurance paid out $4,000.00. $1,000.00 an hour!
I get home mid afternoon, stay very close to home, as I do
all weekend. I’m better, and that’s the
important thing, but it’s going to take a long time for appetite and energy to
return.
Postscript:
For days after I was released from the hospital the only
things I could eat were apples, ham slices and potato chips. Obviously my body was crying out for
something that it lacked.
I was only in the city six full days when i came down with the first symptoms. Where did i get this tirad of infection? I asked one of the interns, a young Mexican woman who'd grown up in Syracuse. "It was just your bad luck," she said. That seemed the best answer I'd ever get.
It would take a full three weeks beyond the hospital before
my appetite and energy levels were returned to normal levels.
In the end, I could see how people die. I came close to it. If someone is frail to begin with, an illness
of this gravity would wear them out. If
someone lives far from emergency services, what would they do?
My body was assaulted.
On the morning that I went into the hospital, fluid was coming out of my
organs. It was only a matter of time
before I would have gone into shock.
This happens every day among the poor. My multiple privileges were never lost on me:
escorted to the hospital in a bullet proof vehicle; top notch medical care that
I was able to pay cash for; follow-up meds and appointments to make sure I
stayed well.
I am grateful still for the angels in this drama: my local
friend Gerardo who never abandoned me; Scot and Amy who made sure I got to
their hospital and to their doctor; friends and family at home who stayed close
and who prayed for me.
I write this more than three months after all this
occurred. I can honestly tell that not a
day has gone by when I haven’t thought of this.
I wish I could say that my body fully recovered, but t here is something
wrong with my stomach/intestinal system.
It’s just not been normal since January.
But I am grateful! Grateful
beyond mere words for all that was done for me and for the fact that I
recovered and moved forward.
It is always best to think of the glass has half full.
l
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