Chapter 19: There is something wrong with me.
Patricia is now alone in her Shirley Valentine Flat. I believe she is adoring every moment. She joins us for yoga and tennis. She has always been a much better player than Soren and I. Our round-robin group welcomes her higher level, she’s challenging them. For various reasons, we can’t make three games and Patricia happily takes the bus on her own, plays tennis, and enjoys her breakfast at the Balboa Beach Club. Like Juan, she gets Maz.
The reason we can’t make morning tennis is because I am having morning problems. It’s been going on for over six weeks. Dr. Levid can’t figure it out (that always scares the hell out me) and he has recommended Dr. Gamez, – a gastroenterologist. Google may be my friend, but my morning diarrhea symptoms leave me with nothing but questions. The morning “surge” is uncontrollable and it spans over two hours. I am not in pain. I am not loosing weight. I am not totally panicked. Yet! I had a colonoscopy four years ago. Could I have developed knots and lumps in my intestines since? I phone Dr. Gamez’s office and manage to make an appointment, all in Spanish. His office does not speak any English. Then the receptionist caught me off guard by asking me questions. I am lost, but fortunately Ligia is here, and I hand her the cell phone. They just want to know my birth date and could I come in today.
Now wonder I didn’t understand obtaining an appointment with a specialist on the same day? I opt for an appointment two days later. I feel I need to enlist some Spanish help from Alfredo. I suspect there will be “prep” work involved and I want to be absolutely sure of the instructions. The teacher then does two wonderful things. He went to Dr. Gamaz’s office and confirmed my appointment. He then phoned is doctor daughter, Karla, and arranged for her to meet us at the specialist’s office. Karla is a busy mum with a two year old and her own practice, but she’s very kindly made time for me. It also helps she trained with Dr. Gamaz and they know one another.
We rendezvous at 4 p.m. That’s Dr. Gamaz’s first appointment of the day. From 8 a.m. until 4 he works at the local social security health clinic; he then sees private paying patients from 4 until 8 p.m. We really must do something about these lazy Mexicans.
Karla comes into his office with me and we answer his many questions. I’m glad Karla is a female, because she now knows all about my bowel movements, my weight, and my entire history. The dreaded instructions for the prep work are all being delivered in Spanish. Karla walks me through what to take at what hours. I could not be doing this without her. I did not need barium enema translated; it just has to be this type of procedure to get to the bottom of my problem.
Karla makes the appointment for me at the lab. I spend Sunday night in the bathroom and watch five movies. It’s way worse than prepping for a colonoscopy; this prep has the added bonus of nausea. Monday morning dawns, I’ve had no sleep, and we take a Pulmonia to the lab. The fun begins right at 9 a.m. My pictures are being developed on the go; Soren can see the radiologist looking at each frame. I’m shaken and stirred for an hour. I get through this by deep breathing, and focusing on ocean waves. It was so uncomfortable I was wishing for a colonoscopy. I get dressed and we wait for twenty minutes. The radiologist hands me my X-rays and says there is nothing wrong. Well of course, there is something wrong; it’s just not lumps and knots as I feared. So it must be some kind of deep infection, I’m thinking. No need for an operation as I was imagining on the steel slab as the technician rolled me about. We both appreciate being given news right away; the control of my health is where it should be – with me.
On Wednesday we see Dr. Gamez, X-rays in hand. There’s no need for Karla to be there. Dr. Gamez looks at the X-rays and shows me the upper part of my lower intestines were twice a thick as they should be. It is indeed a major infection and it’s easy to cure with antibiotics and drinking lots of apple juice. Relief is pouring through me. I work up the nerve to ask if it’s alright to have a glass of wine while taking these antibiotics, “yes, go ahead, you should feel better in 15 days”. Dr. Gamaz picks up his cell phone and calls Karla. He tells her that I’m fine. Alfredo will know this within five minutes.
Watching the sunset this evening is pure delight. Soren and I review my medical crisis. In just one week I’d seen the specialist, been to the lab, saw Dr. Gamez again for results and treatment. A complex health issue has been solved in seven days. That would just never happen in Canada. Getting an appointment with a specialist can take from three to six months. Yes, there are costs attached. Each visit with Dr. Gamez is $55, blood work is $20, and my fun filled hour at the lab cost $80. We feel very well cared for here in Mazatlan. Alfredo arrives the next morning wearing a big smile.
You'll never catch me in a pink tutu!
Patricia pops in and out of our apartment to chat and to use e mail. She’s been occupied by soaking up the rays on the Malecon, by shopping in the market, by treating herself to a gorgeous chunky necklace from Elina’s Chauvet shop in the square and she keeps returning to Pablo Corpus’s painting hanging on the walls of the Bolero Café. On the Malecon she’s also seen two Chihuahuas dressed in pink tutus and during one sunset a Mexican gentleman asks her, very politely, if she’d like to have dinner with him. Patricia, very politely, says no thank you. I suspect that invitation has done wonders for her ego. Patricia has us “downstairs” for a chicken Marsala tandoori dinner. It’s yummy and such a welcome change from Mexican flavours. She looks very at home in her flat; I’m wondering if she’ll make this Shirley Valentine month an annual affair?
It does not take 15 days to get better. It only takes four days. My energy has returned and I am better than back to normal. I suspect I had this infection in Toronto. It’s now safe to leave the apartment. Soren and I have a date with our condo, unit #703. We wear hard hats and proper shoes and climb seven flights of stairs. We dodge construction workers; we dodge beams and flying shovels and are laughing how this would never be allowed in Canada. We reach our unit; the view is breathtaking. I can’t believe how stunning it is. There are no walls yet but the shell is enough to excite us and assure us of how smart we were to buy an ocean view property. Well, we’ve paid 90% of it, so we can afford to be smug.
The vue from the Vue - our new home.
We offer another climb to Patricia which has a stunning southern view of the cruise ships as well as a north east view over the city and Sierra Madres Mountains. We had a dress rehearsal with Juan just weeks before, so we knew the time to leave Pedregoso and when the cruise ships slip through the narrow inlet. At 4:30 we walked up the steps; I think Patricia counted a 107, and then we collapsed in chairs and watched the sunset and ships over beers and margaritas. With Warren I had sent my margarita back. I knew the bartender was busy talking on her cell phone and looking at her long, turquoise glittering nails. This time I simply went to the bar and showed her how to mix it. It was perfect. Patricia was enjoying the ballet of how the cruise ships turn around and glide out. She returns to the Pablo Corpus painting, which is really a print. It’s not a lot of money, she’s now seen it three times, and we encourage her to buy it.
We go downhill from the El Mirador and have dinner in the square. I remark it’s past 8 p.m and perhaps the Bolero Café is open, and perhaps Grace is there, Pablo’s agent, to facilitate this sale. Grace is there, and Patricia buys the print. She’s concerned there may be more than one print – then, all three of us say, who cares? The next day Patricia hands over the pesos, of course, it’s always cash in Mazatlan and trots off to the local Kodak shop where a young man makes her a carrying tube out of cardboard garbage. I know her Toronto house well and the print is such a joyful view on Mazatlan it will look wonderful.
Patricia’s month has raced by and she’s packing for cooler and rainier weather now. I think she has a tiny crush on Mazatlan and we may see her again. I am thrilled she bought the Pablo’s print; it will always remind her of her happy month in Mazatlan. Alfredo, the son, drives her to the airport. As we wave goodbye, a truck pulls up and dumps 1000 bricks in Pepe’s front yard.
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