As I ran through the streets of Tijuana, the sun beating down on my head, a glass jar filled with formaldehyde and my wife’s recently removed tumor clutched between my sweaty palms, I reflected on the absurdity of what I was doing, and came to the conclusion that weird though it may be, is was still better than the alternative.
Living in Mexico, but just south of the border, we figured it would be better to let “real” doctors state-side take care of us should the need ever arise. As we saw it, there was no sense in jeopardizing our health by letting sub-standard doctors in Mexico work on us when the good old U.S. of A was just 30 miles away. As a result, we had been paying 900 dollars a month for good, safe, reliable, American health insurance.
The only problem was, when need did arise, we couldn’t just go see our doctor. Well, we didn’t even actually have a doctor per se. In fact, we never saw the same doctor twice. It was always the same story; “Your physician is on an indefinite leave of absence; would you like to see his/her assistant? We have an appointment available in five weeks.”
Though this state of affairs was inconvenient, it was bearable. We paid our dues and went in annually for our physicals, and didn’t really think much about it. Then, a little more than year ago, my wife developed a lump behind her right ear.
So we called to schedule an appointment, and in 5 weeks we met with a new PA, who, knowing nothing of my wife’s history, consulted her chart and gave her an “in depth” evaluation before concluding, Duh, that she had a tumor behind her right ear that should be looked at. Then we were given a referral, and, 7 weeks later, another evaluative exam by another doctor, and then, 7 weeks after that, they removed the damned thing.
When it was finally done, I did what anyone might do; I did the math. Nine hundred dollars a month works out to about thirty dollar a day. Multiply that times 133 days, and you get $3990. For this, we had two 15 minute evaluations, and a 45 minute procedure to remove the tumor. That works out to $3192 an hour, or $52.20 per minute for her treatment. And that isn’t including the co-pays.
Only they didn’t get it right, and it grew back. Bigger than before.
There was no sign of the tumor for several months after the surgery. The doctor had pronounced it benign, and assured us it would not come back. And then one morning my wife woke up to notice it was back. It was just a small lump, but definitely different than the scar tissue. We called the HMO, and surprise, surprise, they told us to schedule an appointment; they had one available in five weeks. If we were very concerned we could always go to an urgent care center, blah, blah, blah…
So we quit paying our insurance and decided to gamble with medicine La Raza style.
Now, we have lived in Mexico for many years, and it is quite different than the States. Less regulation means more creativity in solving problems, whether it be at the auto shop, where I once had my exhaust manifold fixed with baling wire and corn syrup, or at the phone company, where a technician used a box knife and duct tape to patch our faulty line into the neighbor’s. Unconventional, but the bottom-line is that the problems were fixed.
So why not see a doctor? It couldn’t be much worse than what we dealt with in the states, and hopefully, bottom-line, they would fix the problem.
And so, here I am, taking my wife’s tumor to the lab for a biopsy while the doctor waits in his office for the results. The doctor told me that the lab was only six blocks away, and that if I went two streets past Avenida de Revolucion I would bump right into it. They’d be able to get the results back to me within a few hours, he said, and there’s a taco stand just across from the lab with the best tacos al pastor in the Mercado, and I should try them.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Thursday, February 24, 2005
On the Plains of Eastern New Mexico
I.
Water roiled up from under the hood and splashed across the windshield. Cursing, Garrett pulled over onto the shoulder, kicking up a cloud of dust. With power-nothing and no AC, his truck could be a real pain in the ass. But like family, he loved it anyway. White knuckled, he pushed forward hard on the wheel, straining against fate, his arms and shoulders and neck as tense as an erection.
Fuck.
Why did this have to happen now?
This was not good. He’d driven this stretch of road more times than he could remember, and there were times it made you feel as though the world had ended, or that it had never begun, and he knew it could be hours before anyone happened by.
Grabbing his cigarettes from the console, he pocketed them, opened the door and stepped outside. Dust hung in the air, thin and final. The radiator was gurgling, spitting up the last of its phlegmy contents, drooling them on the ground beneath the front bumper.
Garrett squinted to the horizon; the grass was lolling back and forth, inspired by some faint breeze he could not feel, distant and desolate. Above, the sun was mean and bleak. Hot enough to overheat his beat up old truck. He popped open the hood. The noise from the radiator had stopped, but he knew not to touch the cap until the engine was completely cooled down. From the looks of things he’d lost most if not all of the fluid from his radiator. He wasn’t going anywhere. For now his beloved truck was only so much metal, and until it cooled completely and he got some more water, it was for all practical purposes dead.
Resigned, he pulled out a smoke and lit it with the zippo lighter his sponsor had given him for his two-year birthday. Inscribed on the one side with the Serenity Prayer
…God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change…
and on the other with his sobriety date,
…March 12, 1989…
The lighter was his last connection to those he’d left behind, and he secretly cherished it; although if you asked he’d say that those who had given it to him were nothing to him now, like dust… scattered, unseen, irrelevant.
Garrett walked around to the back of the truck and unlatched the tailgate. He sat down, took a drag and considered his options. Walking was definitely out; the next town was 43 miles away, the last one even farther. That someone would eventually drive by was certain, but he knew that this was a road less traveled. Those who did travel it were mostly people like him, likely to look at this barren and empty place as an opportunity to ignore speed-limits and make up time lost in Amarillo or Wichita Falls or Lubbock; people who would just as soon not bother with stopping for some stranger who may or may not have legitimate car problems. If he were lucky some folksy type might happen by, on the way to town from a nearby ranch perhaps, but he wouldn’t count on it. The stark reality was that he was stuck.
On the bright side, he could manage here all day if he needed to. Though his thin white wife-beater clung to him in a glaze of sweat, it wasn’t so hot as to be dangerous, and he had enough food and water to last well into the next day if need be.
Finishing his cigarette, he grabbed his backpack and sweatshirt from the front seat and took up residence in the shade beneath the tailgate. He pulled a book from his pack, crumpled his sweatshirt behind his head, and stretched his legs in front of him as he leaned against the right rear tire to read. Eventually, the heat and quiet overtook him, and he slept. Just beyond, the day regressed to sullen dusk.
II.
He was dreaming, and in his dream, he was being kissed. Only the girl kissing him was doing more. She was biting his nipple. Normally, he would like it; he liked women who did bold things, who weren’t afraid to shed their timidity and get animalistic. But this time it hurt like hell. And she must be ugly; he could feel her whiskers as she nuzzled into him, pushing harder, trying to take his whole tit off…
Opening his eyes, he was surprised to see an ancient mule nosing its way under the tailgate. It was trying to pull the cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, but the gate was preventing it from reaching just the right angle. Laughing, Garrett grabbed the thing by its snout and pushed it away from him. The damned thing had almost robbed him, and now it backed off a few steps and stood there, looking reproachfully at him.
So much for the hairy faced girl, he thought, as he slid out from under the truck. He stood up, stretched, and looked around. Hours had passed since he took sleep, and it was dark out, almost too dark to see. Not for long though. Tonight was a full moon, and Garrett could see it, dim behind a passing cloud. In a few minutes, it would emerge, dusting the landscape with its boney light, and he would be able to see well enough.
Garrett reached into his pocket, fished out his cigarettes, and examined them. The damned beast had crushed the pack just a little, but fortunately that was all. He pulled one out and lit it with his Zippo.
Seeing the flame, the mule brayed loudly and clopped backward, out of the tiny circle of light. Garrett closed the lighter, inhaled deeply, and considered the thing.
It was, by all counts, and ordinary mule. Though the light was still dim (the cloud was lingering, refusing to free the moon) he could tell that the thing was old. It had a frayed look, as though it were a book that had been abused, folded, tossed around and then left outside in the rain. It reeked of neglect.
Bending over and reaching under the tailgate, he grabbed his pack and his sweatshirt. It was not cold out, not yet, but these plains were unpredictable. It was possible that it could drop down into the forties, and he hated the cold. Setting his smoke on the tailgate, he stuffed the sweatshirt into the pack and zipped it up. Then he went around to the front of the truck, opened the door, and got inside.
Sitting on the bench seat next to the passenger door was a cheap Styrofoam cooler. The red handle was broken so that you couldn’t pick the thing up except from the bottom, and it listed to the side like the serrated mast of a sinking ship. He put his half-burned smoke in the ashtray, balancing it across the edge, careful not to touch any of the others on the pile. Then, mindful of the sharp handle, he removed the lid from the cooler and fished a soda out from the half-melted ice. He popped the tab and tilted his head back, drinking deeply. The peppery burn of the ice cold Pepsi made his eyes water, and for the first time since waking he thought about the time.
It had to be nine or ten o’clock at least. Stealing a glance out from beneath the windshield, he could just see the cloud with the moon still behind it sitting directly above his truck. It hadn’t moved. He pulled his smoke from the ashtray and took a drag.
He had been hoping that someone would come by, help him out maybe, and he hadn’t yet though what to do if that didn’t happen. He was a light sleeper and he’d have heard any cars or trucks that passed, but none had. Now, he was wide awake. And his balls itched. No, burned. They were on fire.
Shit! Shitshitshitshit!
Screaming as he tried to get away, he scrambled back kicking and flailing from whatever had him by the balls. He dropped his cigarette, knocked over his soda, and jerked his arms and legs and ass, trying to escape, but there was nowhere to go. Now the pain had spread from his groin into his right arm. Burning! His cock and his arm, what next, what the fuck is happening?!
Then, looking down at his crotch he realized with a suddenness that made him feel stupid that he was under attack by nothing more ominous than his own carelessness. The cherry had fallen from his cigarette and landed on his jeans, smoldering on top of his right testicle. It hadn’t burned a hole through the jeans, but the heat went through easily enough. He probably had a blister. He looked around and saw the cherry, almost dead now, living out its final moments on the floor beneath the steering column. He also noticed the blood. His blood.
On the seat beside him, a small pool was being fed from a trickle running down his arm. In his mad thrashing, he’d completely forgotten about the cooler beside him, and the jagged edge of the broken handle had ripped open the skin covering his elbow. He couldn’t see the cut, but he could feel it, raw and wet like fresh-cut meat. He tried to turn his arm, to glance past his shoulder and see the damage done, but the angle was wrong. All he could see was the blackish welling of his blood against the bank of skin that had flopped upward when he was cut. It was rising and falling in tune with his pulse, and he looked with a grim fascination as the beat of his heart pushed the blood steadily through the riff with throbbing regularity.
He should have thrown out that fucking useless piece of shit cooler. Fuck!
He had no first aid kit, no clean anything to bind his arm, and he’d need his sweatshirt when it got cold. The only thing he had was the thin tank top he was wearing. The sweat from earlier today had long since dried, and he worried that the salt and grit left behind could possibly cause an infection, but it was his only option. He was bleeding too badly to leave it be, and he read somewhere that you should never use a tourniquet unless it was life or death. Doing so could cause you to lose limbs, and his cut was not that bad. Opening the door with his left hand, he eased out of the truck and into the road. The moon was still behind its cloud, and he registered somewhere in the back of his mind that the mule had again move closer; it was standing even with the tailgate, watching him. Ignoring it, he tried to carefully strip off his tank-top, but the movement made the pain in his arm flare up like gasoline on a fire. It really hurt! He’d already practically forgotten about his ball, but as he was struggling with his shirt, he shifted his weight and his jeans pinched up against it, reminding him.
This was turning out to be a shitty night.
Water roiled up from under the hood and splashed across the windshield. Cursing, Garrett pulled over onto the shoulder, kicking up a cloud of dust. With power-nothing and no AC, his truck could be a real pain in the ass. But like family, he loved it anyway. White knuckled, he pushed forward hard on the wheel, straining against fate, his arms and shoulders and neck as tense as an erection.
Fuck.
Why did this have to happen now?
This was not good. He’d driven this stretch of road more times than he could remember, and there were times it made you feel as though the world had ended, or that it had never begun, and he knew it could be hours before anyone happened by.
Grabbing his cigarettes from the console, he pocketed them, opened the door and stepped outside. Dust hung in the air, thin and final. The radiator was gurgling, spitting up the last of its phlegmy contents, drooling them on the ground beneath the front bumper.
Garrett squinted to the horizon; the grass was lolling back and forth, inspired by some faint breeze he could not feel, distant and desolate. Above, the sun was mean and bleak. Hot enough to overheat his beat up old truck. He popped open the hood. The noise from the radiator had stopped, but he knew not to touch the cap until the engine was completely cooled down. From the looks of things he’d lost most if not all of the fluid from his radiator. He wasn’t going anywhere. For now his beloved truck was only so much metal, and until it cooled completely and he got some more water, it was for all practical purposes dead.
Resigned, he pulled out a smoke and lit it with the zippo lighter his sponsor had given him for his two-year birthday. Inscribed on the one side with the Serenity Prayer
…God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change…
and on the other with his sobriety date,
…March 12, 1989…
The lighter was his last connection to those he’d left behind, and he secretly cherished it; although if you asked he’d say that those who had given it to him were nothing to him now, like dust… scattered, unseen, irrelevant.
Garrett walked around to the back of the truck and unlatched the tailgate. He sat down, took a drag and considered his options. Walking was definitely out; the next town was 43 miles away, the last one even farther. That someone would eventually drive by was certain, but he knew that this was a road less traveled. Those who did travel it were mostly people like him, likely to look at this barren and empty place as an opportunity to ignore speed-limits and make up time lost in Amarillo or Wichita Falls or Lubbock; people who would just as soon not bother with stopping for some stranger who may or may not have legitimate car problems. If he were lucky some folksy type might happen by, on the way to town from a nearby ranch perhaps, but he wouldn’t count on it. The stark reality was that he was stuck.
On the bright side, he could manage here all day if he needed to. Though his thin white wife-beater clung to him in a glaze of sweat, it wasn’t so hot as to be dangerous, and he had enough food and water to last well into the next day if need be.
Finishing his cigarette, he grabbed his backpack and sweatshirt from the front seat and took up residence in the shade beneath the tailgate. He pulled a book from his pack, crumpled his sweatshirt behind his head, and stretched his legs in front of him as he leaned against the right rear tire to read. Eventually, the heat and quiet overtook him, and he slept. Just beyond, the day regressed to sullen dusk.
II.
He was dreaming, and in his dream, he was being kissed. Only the girl kissing him was doing more. She was biting his nipple. Normally, he would like it; he liked women who did bold things, who weren’t afraid to shed their timidity and get animalistic. But this time it hurt like hell. And she must be ugly; he could feel her whiskers as she nuzzled into him, pushing harder, trying to take his whole tit off…
Opening his eyes, he was surprised to see an ancient mule nosing its way under the tailgate. It was trying to pull the cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, but the gate was preventing it from reaching just the right angle. Laughing, Garrett grabbed the thing by its snout and pushed it away from him. The damned thing had almost robbed him, and now it backed off a few steps and stood there, looking reproachfully at him.
So much for the hairy faced girl, he thought, as he slid out from under the truck. He stood up, stretched, and looked around. Hours had passed since he took sleep, and it was dark out, almost too dark to see. Not for long though. Tonight was a full moon, and Garrett could see it, dim behind a passing cloud. In a few minutes, it would emerge, dusting the landscape with its boney light, and he would be able to see well enough.
Garrett reached into his pocket, fished out his cigarettes, and examined them. The damned beast had crushed the pack just a little, but fortunately that was all. He pulled one out and lit it with his Zippo.
Seeing the flame, the mule brayed loudly and clopped backward, out of the tiny circle of light. Garrett closed the lighter, inhaled deeply, and considered the thing.
It was, by all counts, and ordinary mule. Though the light was still dim (the cloud was lingering, refusing to free the moon) he could tell that the thing was old. It had a frayed look, as though it were a book that had been abused, folded, tossed around and then left outside in the rain. It reeked of neglect.
Bending over and reaching under the tailgate, he grabbed his pack and his sweatshirt. It was not cold out, not yet, but these plains were unpredictable. It was possible that it could drop down into the forties, and he hated the cold. Setting his smoke on the tailgate, he stuffed the sweatshirt into the pack and zipped it up. Then he went around to the front of the truck, opened the door, and got inside.
Sitting on the bench seat next to the passenger door was a cheap Styrofoam cooler. The red handle was broken so that you couldn’t pick the thing up except from the bottom, and it listed to the side like the serrated mast of a sinking ship. He put his half-burned smoke in the ashtray, balancing it across the edge, careful not to touch any of the others on the pile. Then, mindful of the sharp handle, he removed the lid from the cooler and fished a soda out from the half-melted ice. He popped the tab and tilted his head back, drinking deeply. The peppery burn of the ice cold Pepsi made his eyes water, and for the first time since waking he thought about the time.
It had to be nine or ten o’clock at least. Stealing a glance out from beneath the windshield, he could just see the cloud with the moon still behind it sitting directly above his truck. It hadn’t moved. He pulled his smoke from the ashtray and took a drag.
He had been hoping that someone would come by, help him out maybe, and he hadn’t yet though what to do if that didn’t happen. He was a light sleeper and he’d have heard any cars or trucks that passed, but none had. Now, he was wide awake. And his balls itched. No, burned. They were on fire.
Shit! Shitshitshitshit!
Screaming as he tried to get away, he scrambled back kicking and flailing from whatever had him by the balls. He dropped his cigarette, knocked over his soda, and jerked his arms and legs and ass, trying to escape, but there was nowhere to go. Now the pain had spread from his groin into his right arm. Burning! His cock and his arm, what next, what the fuck is happening?!
Then, looking down at his crotch he realized with a suddenness that made him feel stupid that he was under attack by nothing more ominous than his own carelessness. The cherry had fallen from his cigarette and landed on his jeans, smoldering on top of his right testicle. It hadn’t burned a hole through the jeans, but the heat went through easily enough. He probably had a blister. He looked around and saw the cherry, almost dead now, living out its final moments on the floor beneath the steering column. He also noticed the blood. His blood.
On the seat beside him, a small pool was being fed from a trickle running down his arm. In his mad thrashing, he’d completely forgotten about the cooler beside him, and the jagged edge of the broken handle had ripped open the skin covering his elbow. He couldn’t see the cut, but he could feel it, raw and wet like fresh-cut meat. He tried to turn his arm, to glance past his shoulder and see the damage done, but the angle was wrong. All he could see was the blackish welling of his blood against the bank of skin that had flopped upward when he was cut. It was rising and falling in tune with his pulse, and he looked with a grim fascination as the beat of his heart pushed the blood steadily through the riff with throbbing regularity.
He should have thrown out that fucking useless piece of shit cooler. Fuck!
He had no first aid kit, no clean anything to bind his arm, and he’d need his sweatshirt when it got cold. The only thing he had was the thin tank top he was wearing. The sweat from earlier today had long since dried, and he worried that the salt and grit left behind could possibly cause an infection, but it was his only option. He was bleeding too badly to leave it be, and he read somewhere that you should never use a tourniquet unless it was life or death. Doing so could cause you to lose limbs, and his cut was not that bad. Opening the door with his left hand, he eased out of the truck and into the road. The moon was still behind its cloud, and he registered somewhere in the back of his mind that the mule had again move closer; it was standing even with the tailgate, watching him. Ignoring it, he tried to carefully strip off his tank-top, but the movement made the pain in his arm flare up like gasoline on a fire. It really hurt! He’d already practically forgotten about his ball, but as he was struggling with his shirt, he shifted his weight and his jeans pinched up against it, reminding him.
This was turning out to be a shitty night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)