near Miss

January 31, 2013

The Governador Celso Ramos Hospital emergency clinic was crowded with folks that appeared as if they were wondering when their real life was going to begin. Looking shell-shocked and emotionally distraught, many examined their shoes as though they would be tested on the trademark. Clutching pulpy elbows, limping along with oozing gashes on their swollen knees, winces cross their pitiful line-less features, dark hair sprouts like the Prairie Grasses out of the top of their gauze-wrapped heads, from full fledged casts to partial globs of tissue clinging to the pasty scabbing flesh. We all lean in to hear our names whispered from the white gowned influential figure at the flapping double doors. The authority was handing out alarmingly thin stainless crutches with plastic caps to clutch in desperate balance for the infirm. Wildly veering, stubbornly sticky wheelchairs seemed like endangered species and were only available for the extremely hopeless cases. I joined the gathering with trepidation realizing I really didn’t belong to this clan. Arms bent at wrong angles and multiple wounds looked ghastly in comparison to my swollen inner ankle bone. I tremble a bit in clumsy apprehension and genuine concern for garbling out a wrong word or phrase in Portuguese that would suggest I am an idiot. This crowd has a good idea what their future has in store for them. Most likely more of the same-waiting for up to twelve hours in a room filled with the wrong livelihood for questionable healthcare? I honestly don’t know how good the healthcare is in Santa Catarina. Despite the fact that I knew I couldn’t catch their desperation from simply breathing the air, I stand in pain that comes more from within my heart than my sore foot.

As a handful of names are called we scramble down the long hall, past victims on stretchers covered in sheets and halt in the hall between the examine rooms and a U-shaped area with surgical recoverees. Awaiting the sentencing of the attending physicians, that seem like they accepted a new profession they are just trying on for size and will get back to us with a verdict. is awkward. We stand shifting from good foot to bad in anticipation. I am told, after my inquest, to go to the next floor up to receive my appointment for surgery. Right back where I began the rat maze and series of unfortunate events. My operation is scheduled for 21/3 which is impossible since I leave the country 14/3. At least I know I tried my best, even asked if there were cancellations…the woman looked at me as though she didn’t believe she had to deal with such a lunatic. “No one EVER abandons their place.” Hm. OK!   

Time in downtown was a delight despite having to drag around in the hot sun and my best Sunday shorts and humid black lined sleeveless top. I wandered among the disarray of shops, eateries and purchased stamps alongside the Praca Quinze, one of my absolute favorite spots with wild banshee trees secured with large wooden poles. I wove around the alleys and sampled bits of farmers cheese, snappy crackers, fresh juice and smiles. Very nostalgic stroll.

Hopped the bus and meandered back to Campeche with soaring with a sudden spasm of enlightment…this is joy!