I have to keep swearing to Chuck that I'm not trying to tour all the hospitals for a multi part series on health care in Mazatlan. It's really not a goal of mine, and there are many things I would rather be doing that lying in hospital beds, like pouring alcohol on paper cuts or attending a live taping of the Jerry Springer show. It's just that fate keeps conspiring against me; well, that and my own stupidity.
What on Earth is it this time? Something so monumentally stupid that I am almost too embarrassed to admit it. I ordered oysters at a restaurant I don't know. In my defense, the woman sitting across from me had been to the restaurant several times and told me the oysters were divine. Aside from giving me a particularly nasty Norwalk virus, they weren't even prepared well.
36 hours later, my descent into hell began as abruptly as a slap in a dark room. I was fine in one moment, and in the next I was sprinting for the bathroom. Throughout the night, I became intimately acquainted with the usually overlooked details of the bathroom. No amount of phenigran or loperimide seemed to help, so at 7:30 I woke my beloved and told him I needed a doctor.
Sanitorio Mazatlan is just at the bottom of the hill. Since most doctors don't start their office hours until 10:00, I elected to go there. I figured there would be a doctor at the hospital around the clock. I was wrong. We walked in and talked to the nun at the information desk, and she invited us to sit and wait while she telephoned a doctor for us.
Sanitorio Mazatlan is just like I always pictured a foreign hospital, perhaps in old Rome. It's a romantic and nostalgic place. All of the hallways are situated around, and completely open to, central courtyards. The courtyards are well cared for and abundantly filled with lush, tropical plants. Wizened old nuns serenely stroll the corridors, unhurriedly performing their duties. While we sat and waited, the only sound we heard was the swishing of the mop aggressively, but quietly, pushed by the cleaning woman.
It took about 30 minutes for the doctor to arrive. He invited us into an examining room and there we began the familiar ballet of the language barrier. This has been getting easier as my Spanish improves. I have also discovered that most doctors speak at least some very basic English. But there was still plenty of hand gestures and miming. Nothing like a lively game of medical charades.
When I asked Chuck to take me to the hospital, I thought I had turista. I figured we would see the doctor, and he would give me the magic shot, and then I would go home, sleep, and wake up sometime the next day feeling fine. That's how it usually goes when you have basic turista. But I always have to be different. Me and my virus were admitted to the hospital.
We were escorted to a private room, and I was invited to put on the omni present hospital gown. Three nurses helped me into bed, took my blood pressure and temperature, took blood, and inserted an IV. The room was vintage 1962. All of the equipment was sturdy and stainless steel. The tile was worn by the passing of feet and countless moppings. Although old, everything had the feel of being lovingly – reverently – cared for. Only the mini split air conditioner and remote control TV belied the time warp.
While lying on my flat mattress, I couldn't help compare the hospital with my experience at CEMEQ. I had a private room with a private bathroom and shower, TV, air conditioning – all the same basic amenities, but the differences, although seemingly small, were great. My bed was smaller and less comfortable. Chuck's day bed was smaller and less comfortable. The bathroom was smaller and a lot harder to use when you are trailing a giant IV stand behind you. The meals were certainly inferior. They brought me a bowl of boiled chicken. Good thing I wasn't interested in eating anyway. The biggest difference was the nursing staff. The nurses at Sanitorio Mazatlan were capable, but they lacked the compassion that I received at CEMEQ.
After 10 hours, numerous pills and injections, 3 liters of saline and 3 bottles of IV antibiotics, I was deemed healthy enough to go home. We paid our bill of $2,400MXN and left. I think Chuck was quite relieved. After the first 4 hours I was feeling well enough to whine and complain, so getting me out of there made his life much easier.
I don't think I will ever eat oysters again, which makes me sad. It took me 13 days to get back to solid food: boiled carrots and rice. But now I am mostly healthy and ready to tackle the next thing – Carnaval. I can't resist the spectacle of lights, bands, fireworks, and pageantry (all brought to you by Pacifico). Stay tuned.
The rest of the story:
Getting Sick in Paradise
Getting Sick in Paradise - Part 2: The Hospital
Getting Sick in Paradise - When You're a
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|216.162.221.xxx |m-d-Y H:i:s teadust - Whew!Glad you're ok - what an episode!
Sounds like a *lot* of meds; did they diagnose exactly what you had that needed so many big guns during your stay?
Wonderful description of the hospital ambience, by the way.
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|SAdministrator |m-d-Y H:i:s jennifer - Whew!Hi teadust,
Yes, they did diagnose it. It was a particularly virulent strain of the Norwalk family of viruses. Evidently, I will have immunity to this strain for about the next 24 months, but with the myriad strains out there, I don't think I will be attending any oyster parties in the near future.
Live and learn.
Jennifer
Overcast 64 oF • 18 oC
13 days? I can imagine you wouldn't want to risk oysters again for anything.
I am glad you are better though next time holler and I'll bring you some pirated movies or saltines and ginger ale.
N.