I woke up at 3:30 a few mornings ago with what seems to be my malady of choice since having my appendix removed: gastrointestinal distress. I certainly wasn't going back to sleep, so since I am working on a huge project with a rapidly approaching, flaming deadline, I decided to go to the office and get a little work done as long as I was up. It only took me four hours of more interruption than work to decide I wasn't going to get anything done.
When Chuck got up, I climbed back into bed, and Reku snuggled sweetly next to me. Every time I came back to bed, Reku sat up to give me plenty of room to get comfortable before settling back in next to me. He is such a sweet dog. Unfortunately, I didn't get to spend that much time in bed. My condition was steadily worsening, and I eventually admitted to myself that I needed to see a doctor.
There is a clinic with 24 hour emergency service a block from our house. It's so close that it's actually faster to walk there than to get the car out of the garage. I sent Chuck down to make sure they were open while I typed out my symptoms, their duration, and what drugs and quantities I had taken in an attempt to cure myself and ran it through Google Translate. I grabbed the printout and off we went.
Arriving at the clinic reminded of something I learned but had forgotten. 24 hour emergency service does not mean that there is a qualified staff waiting there around the clock in case there is an emergency. It means there is someone on the premises with enough mental faculties to consult the on-call list and dial a phone. At some places you have to know to bang loudly on the locked doors to rouse said person. But since it was 9:30 in the morning, I assumed the staff would be in. I was wrong. There was at least a nurse, who took the advanced medical steps of having me step on the scale and asking my age. The janitor directed me to the bathroom when I needed to vomit.
Twenty minutes later the doctor arrived and, with a casual wave, invited me into his office. He read my typed sheet then listened to my belly with a stethoscope. He asked me if I had been eating "en la calle". Many doctors, when they say "in the street" mean anywhere that is not your kitchen. Any restaurant, not just food carts. So when he asked if I had eaten shrimp, oysters, or fish (this is Mazatlan, duh!), I told him I had ceviche a few days before. When he asked me where, I braced myself before answering "en la playa." He pretty much quit looking for a cause after that. Two things: (1) We eat ceviche at that place every week. I think their kitchen is cleaner than my own. (2) Chuck has eaten everything I have eaten for the past two weeks, and he is fine. In the end though, it doesn't matter the cause. I just want the cure.
I always manage to convince myself when I am going to the doctor that I am going to get the magic shot and be done with it. But no, he admitted me for a full course of high-dose antibiotics, antiamoebics, and antispasmodics. I hate being in the hospital. It is depressing and really, really boring.
In case you are hospital shopping, here is my review:
Doctor: Competent but absent. I say competent because the course of treatment he prescribed was effective. Absent because after the brief initial examination I never saw him again. I know the nurse consulted him by telephone several times, but I felt like I was back in the US. I don't even know his name.
Nurse: Paola was warm and caring. She introduced herself first thing. She worked as hard at getting me out of there as I did. Not the most skilled at inserting an IV, but I will forgive her.
Facility: Large and sprawling and pretty well equipped. My room, despite it's somewhat garish paint job, was depressing. It did have A/C, though. The bathroom was huge. I will never get used to colored fixtures, especially in medical facilities; the toilet was black. (The one in the bathroom off the waiting room was green.) The bed was only a foot off the ground, making climbing in and out after bathroom trips a challenge, and the mattress was three inches thick and covered in black vinyl. Really. It was a torture rack, and I opted to spend a lot of time in the chair.
Would I go back?: Yeah, I probably would – as long as it was for a run-of-the mill illness and didn't require special care. Despite it's drawbacks, it's really convenient. Sad, huh? And the price is certainly right. The total bill was only $1500MXN. But anything approaching serious, and I am back with the nuns at Sanitorio Mazatlan
"Pain job"? Whoops. Guess you know where my mind was. I fixed it.
And you know what will happen if you disobey Dr. Dardarian, don't you?
Hahohahohaho. You don't want to find out!
(I hope you feel better and I don't have to come over there and teach you a lesson!)
I do feel better. Now I just have to take it easy and eat bland stuff until my system returns to normal, which means NO BEER...oh no! 
my guess is it is a quiet valentine's day instead of the celebration (both work and love) that would have happened!
ladies night out will wait for you to be back to your drinking/dancing best! and we will celebrate your good health! maybe a couple of weeks after carnaval is over ???
take care! love ya, donna 
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Mostly Cloudy 64 oF • 18 oC
Was it a Freudian slip to say the "pain" job in your room was an awful color? "-)