They always tell you not to drink the water here. They say don't eat the fruits or the vegetables. When you brush your teeth, you better have bottled water nearby so you don't accidentally put your brush under the tap. Close your mouth in the shower. No ice in beverages. Some people go as far as to say you shouldn't eat the salsa. No salsa in Mexico?
But, if Moctezuma is really out to get his revenge, he will find you even if you follow all of those rules, as I followed all those rules these last five days. For me, it't now a diet of rice and bananas and te de manzanilla (chamomile). For now it's sipping a banana-colored chalky medicine every four hours followed by two more days of antibiotics just to make sure Moctezuma is really gone from my bowels. The doctor reassured me that it wasn't anything I did wrong; after all, I didn't eat the street food. He said, "This is the rainy season and with it come the bugs. Lots of people get this problem right now. It's not serious like cholera, but it's spread the same way." Or something like that... I didn't quite make sense of it all even though his English was impeccable and he only talked to me in Spanish when I switched back over to Spanish without realizing it. So, when he told me, "Finally, calm down. You will be okay," and I started crying imagine that I haven't eaten in more than 8 hours (which will soon increase to more than 20). Imagine that I've spent all day in one of two places: 1) on the toilet wondering how it is possible to urinate from my anus and how liquid could possibly hurt so much and 2) on my hard single bed by the window, in the fetal position, my feet in constant comfort motion just wishing the untz untz of the blaring techno music in the gym above would stop for one second. Imagine that I have never in my whole life experienced diarrhea of this nature, and yet I am someone who often struggles with the affliction of diarrhea. This is a whole new understanding of the bowels, a whole new respect for what they can do when they feel they've been disrespected. Never in my life have I felt the excruciating, doubled-over, it-hurts-to-release and it-hurts-just-as-much-not-to-release sensation. My whole body aches. My bones squeal to be released from my skin. My entire pelvis is ready to be amputated just in time for the arrival of menses and the cramps that accompany them. Perhaps this is too much information for somewhat public consumption, but we've all been there, right? Usually in the comfort of our own homes, where the dying noises we make from the bathroom do not travel through the ventilation pipe to the roof of this home where I´m staying for everyone to hear, where we can lie on the couch and watch meaningless television or beg a friend to rent silly romantic comedies to get us through those stretches of waiting for the next round of throne sitting, or where we know we have a doctor we can see if it gets that bad.
In a country where it's pretty easy to get a bad case of diarrhea, I was surprised to find it's also pretty easy to get some medical attention. Here's what I did in my bent-over-in-pain stupor. I looked up "Medical" in the outdated travel guide to Oaxaca I borrowed from a friend. The writer told me to visit the Medical Clinic located not too far from my homestay near Santo Domingo Cathedral. The writer told me the doctors spoke English. If you've read about my visit to the veterinarian with a turtle in Spain (see Claudia & Palmira) you'll know that my Spanish knowledge does not include appropriate register for discussing bodily functions, so I was happy to know I could use my native language to explain myself. Not knowing when they closed only that it was already 6:00 at night, I grabbed my bag and threw in my journal and a book. My experience in urgent care is that you have to wait a long time, so you better be ready. With my loving boyfriend at my side (a buoy for this experience), I walked twenty minutes to the medical office. I told the receptionist my problem. She asked me to have a seat. There were only four others waiting. She placed a call, and a minute later she asked me to follow her. We walked to the adjoining building, the office for Geriatrics. I guess a bad case of diarrhea is best dealt with in this department. I was told to wait. Curt and I sat in two comfy chairs in an empty corridor. At the end was a mini-altar and a picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe. We waited no more than five minutes, certainly not long enough for me to take out my book and start reading, for Curt to pace the corridor, or for either one of us to turn to the altar in prayer. Inside, the doctor examined me, listened to my story, reassured me, and then wrote a prescription. When we were done, we walked out of the office and paid 300 pesos for the visit, about $30 well worth the peace of mind. All that was left was to go to a pharmacy (any pharmacy will do) and ask for the prescribed medications. Another 240 pesos and I would be better soon.
I have now been to doctors in Ireland, Spain, and Mexico. Mexico is the only one in which I had to pay, but it also provided me the quickest most efficient and kind service. I would choose this Mexican medical office over either of the hospitals I visited in Cork or Madrid. In many ways, this visit to the doctor was easier than it would be had I been at home. There would have been the long hold to talk to a Kaiser advice nurse. Since it was after 6:00 she would have listened to my story and then told me to call back tomorrow morning when the new appointments would be released. She'd give me a long list of things I could do for myself and then I'd be stuck with another sleepless night. When it was all said and done, I would have paid less for the help, only a $10 co-payment and maybe $30 in medications, but the time and pain would have cost more.
If you've seen Michael Moore´s "Sicko" recently, you might have some of the same questions I have about health care in Mexico. The doctor I saw was private. Anyone could walk in and pay for the consultation as I did. But, if you knew you couldn't afford the nearly 700 peso medical attention I received, you'd be stuck going to the free clinic. Even more likely, what if you had a condition far worse than diarrhea, one that needed ongoing care and medical support? What then?
There is another side to this medical story, the one that belongs to those who are not upwardly mobile. The one that belongs to the mothers I pass on the streets of Oaxaca asking for money, any money, even if it's just 1 peso which is 700 times less than what she would need to take one child to the doctor for diarrhea.
But, if Moctezuma is really out to get his revenge, he will find you even if you follow all of those rules, as I followed all those rules these last five days. For me, it't now a diet of rice and bananas and te de manzanilla (chamomile). For now it's sipping a banana-colored chalky medicine every four hours followed by two more days of antibiotics just to make sure Moctezuma is really gone from my bowels. The doctor reassured me that it wasn't anything I did wrong; after all, I didn't eat the street food. He said, "This is the rainy season and with it come the bugs. Lots of people get this problem right now. It's not serious like cholera, but it's spread the same way." Or something like that... I didn't quite make sense of it all even though his English was impeccable and he only talked to me in Spanish when I switched back over to Spanish without realizing it. So, when he told me, "Finally, calm down. You will be okay," and I started crying imagine that I haven't eaten in more than 8 hours (which will soon increase to more than 20). Imagine that I've spent all day in one of two places: 1) on the toilet wondering how it is possible to urinate from my anus and how liquid could possibly hurt so much and 2) on my hard single bed by the window, in the fetal position, my feet in constant comfort motion just wishing the untz untz of the blaring techno music in the gym above would stop for one second. Imagine that I have never in my whole life experienced diarrhea of this nature, and yet I am someone who often struggles with the affliction of diarrhea. This is a whole new understanding of the bowels, a whole new respect for what they can do when they feel they've been disrespected. Never in my life have I felt the excruciating, doubled-over, it-hurts-to-release and it-hurts-just-as-much-not-to-release sensation. My whole body aches. My bones squeal to be released from my skin. My entire pelvis is ready to be amputated just in time for the arrival of menses and the cramps that accompany them. Perhaps this is too much information for somewhat public consumption, but we've all been there, right? Usually in the comfort of our own homes, where the dying noises we make from the bathroom do not travel through the ventilation pipe to the roof of this home where I´m staying for everyone to hear, where we can lie on the couch and watch meaningless television or beg a friend to rent silly romantic comedies to get us through those stretches of waiting for the next round of throne sitting, or where we know we have a doctor we can see if it gets that bad.
In a country where it's pretty easy to get a bad case of diarrhea, I was surprised to find it's also pretty easy to get some medical attention. Here's what I did in my bent-over-in-pain stupor. I looked up "Medical" in the outdated travel guide to Oaxaca I borrowed from a friend. The writer told me to visit the Medical Clinic located not too far from my homestay near Santo Domingo Cathedral. The writer told me the doctors spoke English. If you've read about my visit to the veterinarian with a turtle in Spain (see Claudia & Palmira) you'll know that my Spanish knowledge does not include appropriate register for discussing bodily functions, so I was happy to know I could use my native language to explain myself. Not knowing when they closed only that it was already 6:00 at night, I grabbed my bag and threw in my journal and a book. My experience in urgent care is that you have to wait a long time, so you better be ready. With my loving boyfriend at my side (a buoy for this experience), I walked twenty minutes to the medical office. I told the receptionist my problem. She asked me to have a seat. There were only four others waiting. She placed a call, and a minute later she asked me to follow her. We walked to the adjoining building, the office for Geriatrics. I guess a bad case of diarrhea is best dealt with in this department. I was told to wait. Curt and I sat in two comfy chairs in an empty corridor. At the end was a mini-altar and a picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe. We waited no more than five minutes, certainly not long enough for me to take out my book and start reading, for Curt to pace the corridor, or for either one of us to turn to the altar in prayer. Inside, the doctor examined me, listened to my story, reassured me, and then wrote a prescription. When we were done, we walked out of the office and paid 300 pesos for the visit, about $30 well worth the peace of mind. All that was left was to go to a pharmacy (any pharmacy will do) and ask for the prescribed medications. Another 240 pesos and I would be better soon.
I have now been to doctors in Ireland, Spain, and Mexico. Mexico is the only one in which I had to pay, but it also provided me the quickest most efficient and kind service. I would choose this Mexican medical office over either of the hospitals I visited in Cork or Madrid. In many ways, this visit to the doctor was easier than it would be had I been at home. There would have been the long hold to talk to a Kaiser advice nurse. Since it was after 6:00 she would have listened to my story and then told me to call back tomorrow morning when the new appointments would be released. She'd give me a long list of things I could do for myself and then I'd be stuck with another sleepless night. When it was all said and done, I would have paid less for the help, only a $10 co-payment and maybe $30 in medications, but the time and pain would have cost more.
If you've seen Michael Moore´s "Sicko" recently, you might have some of the same questions I have about health care in Mexico. The doctor I saw was private. Anyone could walk in and pay for the consultation as I did. But, if you knew you couldn't afford the nearly 700 peso medical attention I received, you'd be stuck going to the free clinic. Even more likely, what if you had a condition far worse than diarrhea, one that needed ongoing care and medical support? What then?
There is another side to this medical story, the one that belongs to those who are not upwardly mobile. The one that belongs to the mothers I pass on the streets of Oaxaca asking for money, any money, even if it's just 1 peso which is 700 times less than what she would need to take one child to the doctor for diarrhea.
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