I know a lot of you reading this are cringing in horror at the thought of going for surgery in a Mexican hospital. Many people conjure up a picture of a glassy-eyed bandito type with a knife in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other getting ready to cut me open. Nothing could be further from the truth.

One of the areas that we thoroughly researched before moving was the level and quality of medical care available to us. Mazatlan is filled with accomplished, skilled physicians of all types and modern hospitals. Many doctors here attended school in the United States. Degrees from Mexican medical schools are a favorite joke in American sitcoms, but the fact is many medical schools here, especially in Mexico City and Guadalajara, are respected throughout the world. Students from the US and Canada compete aggressively for the seats that are available to foreigners.

Did I feel some trepidation? Absolutely. But it was the normal fear I think anyone would feel when facing surgery. I had never been hospitalized before. The only operation I had experienced was having my wisdom teeth out. I somehow managed to escape all those childhood illnesses like tonsillitis that mean surgery.

When we got to the hospital, CEMEQ, they took us immediately upstairs. There was no waiting around, no filling out paperwork, no proving we could pay. Just immediate medical attention. A nurse read the instructions from Dr. Acoltzi, and an orderly took us to an elevator and escorted us to a private room with a private bathroom. A nurse came in with a typical hospital gown for me to change into. The indignity of having your hiney hanging out is evidently universal.

Once I was changed and in bed, my room became a hive buzzing with activity. A man brought in an ultrasound machine. Two nurses inserted an IV, took blood, and started a saline drip, quickly followed by some pain medication. Another person appeared, asking me about medical history and drug allergies.

Dr. Acoltzi showed up to watch the ultrasound. He and the tech conferred in hushed tones while they examined the images on the screen. The problem was definitely my appendix. A nurse came in with the results of my blood work. My white cell count was over 18,000 – way too high. Dr. Acoltzi said the only cure was surgery. Then he followed that by asking if we agreed to the surgery. I couldn't help thinking, “well – duh.” but I know explicit consent is necessary, so I just said yes.

Dr. Acoltzi immediately got on the phone and called in the anesthesiologist and the doctor who would assist him in the surgery, who turned out to be Dr. Levid Torres. Dr. Acoltzi told us everyone would be there in 20 minutes, and the surgery would begin then.

Laura, my favorite nurse, came in to prep me for surgery. She was closely followed by the anesthesiologist. He was a very kind man who radiated competence. He asked if I had ever been anesthetized before, and if I had a reaction to it. I told him yes I had; no I didn't. Then he surprised me by offering me a choice between local and general anesthesia. I smiled sweetly and said, “knock me out, please.”

Things were moving so fast. These people were serious. Chuck and I were brought surgery authorizations to sign, then I was transferred to a gurney and wheeled off to the operating room.

The operating room was very large and tiled in white. There was an abundance of lights and equipment. It looked just like every operating room on any prime time medical drama. The anesthesiologist was there, waiting, exuding serenity. He chatted with me in slow, quiet tones and put me at ease while the last minute preparations were being completed. Then he injected something into my IV, and four seconds later, I was out.

I have no idea how long the surgery took, or how long I was out. I have some vague memories of people yelling at me, I suspect to wake me up after the surgery. I spoke to them, but have no idea what was said. I woke up in the bed in my hospital room, and Chuck was there, so everything was good.

Throughout the night, sweet, gentle Laura came to check on me, give me more pain medication, and take my temperature. I wasn't cleared yet by the doctor to have food or drink, so she kept wetting gauze with cold water and rubbing my lips.

My hospital room was furnished with a day bed. In Mexico, it is assumed that your loved ones are going to stay with you. There are no “visiting hours”. Chuck was exhausted and finally able to get a little rest on the day bed. Strangely, I was awake. I don't think they used any narcotic pain medication. I wanted to chat, but decided to lay quietly so Chuck could sleep.

Morning came and Laura was replaced by Ramon, an earnest young man who took care of me capably. Chuck went home to feed the dogs and pick up a few things. Everyone who came in my room kept asking where my husband was. It was unthinkable to them that he would leave me. I kept explaining that he had to go feed our dogs and let them go outside.

Late in the morning, Dr. Acoltzi arrived to check on me. He poked and prodded, looked at my chart, talked to the nurse, and listened to my belly with a stethoscope. Finally, he declared me healthy. I asked him if that meant I could have water. He said yes and directed Ramon to bring me whatever I wanted. All I wanted was water, but Ramon brought a tray with Jello, apple juice, apple tea, and water. Everything had way too much flavor for someone who hadn't eaten in 6 days, but I figured I could use the calories, so I poured the apple juice and water together.

I astonished myself with my ability to communicate, even under the influence of pain medication. None of the nurses spoke English. I was able to ask and answer medical questions, and even make a little small talk. My medical understanding was complete enough that Ramon asked me if I was a doctora. I was able to explain to him that my brother is a paramedic, and I helped him with his studies and learned a lot during the process. Yea me!

Chuck had been so worried for the whole previous week, I was surprised he was able to do anything but sleep. He really looked like hell. He spent a lot of time kneeling next to my bed and holding my hand. We had a TV in the room, but I am not much interested in Mexican telenovellas. I didn't feel like reading. So Chuck held my hand and read to me. For hours. I whiled away that day listening to the sound of my husband's voice. It was really nice.

I know most hospital food is the pits. I've heard a number of people complain about it. But I have to say, I liked mine. There was a woman who came to my room and asked me what I wanted to eat, and then went to the kitchen and made it. For my first snack she made me hotcakes with papaya chunks on the side. For breakfast I had eggs scrambled with onions and tomatoes, fresh tortillas, juice, and hot tea.

Midday Friday, the doctor cleared me to go home. I was ecstatic. The hospital was nice, but I wanted to go home. I got dressed, Chuck gathered our things, and we were ready to go. Just as we were about to walk out the door, the food lady came and set a tray on the table. We looked at each other, sniffed, and went back in the room and had lunch: green salad, carne asada, homemade vegetable soup, bread, juice, and tea. It was amazingly delicious.

Fortified by the meal, we left the hospital room and went to find administration so we could pay. The whole time I was in the hospital, I was afraid of this moment. An appendectomy is a $20,000 - $25,000 operation in the US. The administrative secretary presented us with the bill. There were fees for the surgeon, the assistant, the anesthesiologist, medicine, and hospital costs for three days in a private hospital. It came to a total of $29,400MXN, about $2,700USD. Not too bad.

The rest of the story:
Getting Sick in Paradise
Getting Sick in Paradise - When You're a Dog
Getting Sick in Paradise - Again