Sunday September 1, 2019

San Salvador

Exodus 24 

v. 1 Then the Lord said to Moses, “Come up to the Lord, you and Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy of the elders of Israel. You are to worship at a distance….”  

I knew as soon as I read the first verse of my Scripture passage that there wouldn’t be a church service for us today.  “You are to worship at a distance.”  Chris didn’t know of any English language services around here, not even at the embassy.  I turned up one possibility online but Chris said we weren’t driving to some unknown neighborhood.  He had a lead on a service at the Holiday Inn but when he called it turned out to be a Catholic service in Spanish.  So we worshiped in our hearts and enjoyed the fruit-filled pancakes Maurice made for breakfast, then consulted with Mr. Tech Guy on a wide variety of issues (and he only ocasionally had to smother snorts of laughter at our ignorance—but, hey, he’s taught us so well that some of my friends consider me a tech expert).  Chris also laid out the options for the day:  an embassy visit, swimming in the embassy pool, the beach club, lunch at the approved pupuseria, the botanical garden, lunch at one of several places in town….

Maurice and I wanted to see the embassy, and everyone thought the beach club sounded good, so we packed up our things for the day, but Maurice was not happy.  He thought I should see a doctor about my increasing number of itchy red spots, before they turned into something really bad in the Andes frontière sans médecins and I would have to be evacuated.  I could see Maurice’s point.  But we are already in a foreign country, the embassy clinic is closed for the weekend, I couldn’t go there anyway because I don’t work there, our plane leaves tomorrow, I’ll be fine, and I want to do something fun with Chris.  Chris talked to a nurse friend, who said her family has had more skin issues here than ever before but offered to call ahead for us to the Hospital Diagnostico.  “A Salvadoran hospital?” I exclaimed with chagrin.  I was thinking somehow I could see American medical personnel.  No?  Well, I would be just fine.  Maurice loves me but I know from experience he is not good at evaluating my medical condition.  But Maurice got That Look, and I knew what I had to do.  The Hospital Diagnostico it would be.  Chris thought we should go to the hospital before any beach clubbing. He had never been there so it would be a new adventure for him too.  Whoop-de-do.

We got to the hospital about eleven.  It wasn’t far, past the Pupuseria Filipensis 4:13 and other colorful businesses which I didn’t get pictures of.  Parking at the hospital garage was only $1 an hour (El Salvador conveniently uses American currency).  Chris translated at the admission desk and I handed over my passport.  We didn’t have to wait long before a nurse called me back.  “You can both come,” I said.  “Wouldn’t the whole family come along in this culture?”  But only Chris came back to translate.  Eventually a doctor came to see me.  I showed her my spots and answered questions via Chris.  (Such a fine son!—though he told me to remember who took me to a Salvadoran hospital when it comes time to write the will.)  It’s an allergic reaction, said the doctora, perhaps to two different kinds of bug bites; it’s very hard to determine the exact cause.  She would give me a cream, and an oral medicine, and get treatment started quickly with an IV antihistamine.  “IV?” I exclaimed.  The doctor looked surprised.  I didn’t want an IV?  No!  Does anyone ever want to be jabbed?  Do doctors ever think how the patient feels?  But Maurice, who had made his way to the back, and Chris thought it would be a good idea to prime the pump, or whatever, so I agreed.

After a while a little nurse, smiling behind her mask, arrived with a tray of unpleasant supplies.  “Ask her if she’s good at this,” I said to Chris.  He alleged he didn’t know how.  I’ve learned to tell medical personnel that I don’t do this well, it hurts and I don’t like it, that it’s hard to get the IV in, and that I need somebody who’s really good at it.  (Unfortunately they all say they’re good at it, but only some of them are.)  I couldn’t begin to express this to the Salvadoran nurse so I had to go with the program and just look the other way.  But I could feel it.  Maurice laughed (lovingly, of course).  He says I yelled, but I only exclaimed forcefully for a few seconds.  I’m a highly sensitive person and I don’t do pain well.  The nurse dug around in my arm.  She pushed and prodded.  After a bit she said something to Chris (who couldn’t look either).  “You have to relax, Mom,” he told me.  “Take some deep breaths.  It won’t go in because you’re too tense.”  Well, duh, I didn’t say.  I tried to take some deep breaths and relax—relax while someone’s jabbing me!—but I don’t think anything changed.  There was more movement and more talk.  “She’s going to try a baby IV,” said Chris.  Good news.  It’s what she should have done in the first place.  It went right in.  Must remember to add “baby IV” to my next pre-IV spiel, should I ever need another one (please, Lord, no).  Things got settled.  I was getting cold.  “It’s the IV,” said Chris.  “They make you cold.”  Chris found me a blanket.  I think I dozed a bit.  When all the solution had been pumped into me, a specialist appeared.  He asked more questions and didn’t add much new info but seemed to think we were on the right track.  It all took several hours.  The nurse finally unhooked me.  We went back to the front door, paid by credit card (less than $200), then found the pharmacy, where statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary guarded the medications, and a Bible was for sale on a rack of miscellaneous.

It was close to 2:30.  So much for the beach club.  We headed to the embassy and Chris took us to the gate.  You can’t just go in the embassy even if you’re an American; you have to have a proper pass, and Chris had set it up three weeks ago.  But the guard could not find our names.  Chris scrolled through his email.  Nothing.  He said his administrator had done it for him and it was probably on the other email, which was not on his phone.  Could he go to his office and look it up?  Not really, he said; it’s on someone else’s computer.  He’d see who he could contact this evening…on this holiday weekend.  So much for the embassy.  The acceptable pupuseria was a distance away out toward the beach club.  “Just take us to one of the Mexican food places,” I said.  We went to Donkeys.  The food was all right, and it was nice hanging out.  Maurice kept asking if I was OK.  I was OK before I went to the hospital and I was OK enough now, except for when I twisted my hand around and the gouge hurt.  It’s under a nice solid white bandage so I don’t have to look at it, and I’m not sure what the tiny round bandaid is right where my hand meets my wrist.  One of the puncture attempts, I guess.

“I know,” said Chris.  “We could redeem the day by going to the botanical garden.  It’s right nearby.”  Excellent idea.  The garden is in a caldera whose lake mysteriously drained 100+ years ago, allowing farmers and then industry to move in, but not before a family set up a large estate there and collected plants from all over the tropical world, eventually donating the property to the public.  It only costs $1.25 to go in, plus 50 cents for optional turtle food, all of which Chris generously sprang for.  Curving paths wind through 3 1/4 hectares of 32 garden zones, past ponds and fountains and little seating areas, with much shade from tall trees, gigantic stands of bamboo and the jungly hill of the surrounding caldera. 

The turtles were happy to see us, swimming right up to the side of their pond, accompanied by pushy fish with enormous mouths; we had plenty of food for all. 

Then we meandered slowly through the gardens, their beauty and coolness calming my tight veins.  There were birds of paradise, anthuriums and other exotic blooms, plus of course all the kinds of plants we’ve ever had in pots but here growing wild and colossal and free. 

We came upon a stand of monster plants, the kind we keep in pots and lug inside and cut back each year; the plethora of pendulous yellow flowers were faded but Chris said they had been stunning a few weeks before when he was there with Krystle and Calvin.  Ahead on one path Chris spotted a little animal, weaselly but with longer legs.  The family ahead of us spotted it too, and soon it disappeared into the jungle growth ahead of the squeals of children.  Chris said Krystle saw one on their street and excitedly chased it down with her camera.  He couldn’t remember its name.  Kookaburra?  No, we said, that’s the bird that sits in the old gum tree.  Bear-something, said Chris.  Yes, on the tip of my tongue too, but it never materialized.  A delightful hour.

I sat at the dining room table working on tech things while Chris was on the back patio talking to Krystle on the phone.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement along the floor.  It was big.  I looked over in trepidation.  Was it a mouse?  No, it was a bug—a bug the size of a mouse!  It headed toward the kitchen and I jumped around like a maniac and pounded on the glass to get Chris’ attention.  He ambled in to see what was up.  Hmm.  He’d never seen one that big either.  He got the heavy-duty bug whacker and shooed the critter out the door where Peach the cat batted it around for maybe ten seconds, the most stimulating activity she’s had in years.