Joanna smiles if only for a moment in the new hotel room, pineapple pizza in hand and face covered with calamine lotion at the safety of a less than deadly diagnosis. - ACThe word for mosquito bite in Spanish is picadura.
After hearing horror stories of malaria and bird sized South American bugs, we did our research before leaving the United States. Argentina, we were relieved to learn, does not pose a threat of malaria or even of exsessive insects, especially not in the middle or south of the country. The northern borders with Bolivia and Brazil can be dicey, but still not as dangerous as other places.
Both in Buenos Aires and now in Córdova, we haven´t seen an inordinate amount of bugs. Both of us got some picaduras in BA, but nothing out of the ordinary.
It didn´t raise suspicion when relatively normal looking picaduras started showing up on Joanna´s legs and hands. At first only a few, very itchy. But then, after a day and a half they seemed to multiply like an alien invader from a bad science fiction film.
Upon awaking Monday morning to find nearly 50 bites we became concerned. After four hours of class she had noticed half a dozen more. We asked the staff at school to please call a docter, which they had explained was no big deal.
The two who came were not doctors but paramedics, emergency responders. In a whirlwind of rapid Spanish and quick evaluation, the long haired one who constantly spat out wisecracks produced a needle while explaining in broken English that she was having an allergic reaction.
Joanna´s eyes instantly welled up and her body language
screamed uncertainty. "Un momento, por favor," we asked them. We asked what the injection was - an antihistemine. We asked if it was necessary - no, but it would help. We asked if we could speak with our school administrator who could translate, to put the mind at ease and make sure we knew what was happening.
That´s when our needle toting medic got offended. He took the needle apart, practically throwing things back into his bag.
"Our time is precious," he told us.
It seemed that if we didn´t want to take his "treatment" on faith and trust his training, and ignore the fact that he hadn´t asked about other medications or anything besides allergies and that none of us were speaking our true trusted native tongue, then he would just go and we could suffer our fate alone.
Some four or five hours later, after having a pharmacist tell us we should consult a doctor and arriving at the public hospital to find the office of an alergist closed, taking a cab home defeated, recieving frightening advice from a family doctor at home and then concurrant advice from a doctoral student in our hostel, we found ourselves in the emergency room of the private hospital three blocks from our residence.
Lip quivering and eyes puffed and red from sporadic crying and fear, Joanna´s mind raced to her terrifying unexplained 10 day stay in a Venice hospital years earlier.
"I can´t do this again. I don´t get it, there´s more." It seemed every few minutes a new picadura would appear, unexplained and more itchy than the last.
The very nice doctor who saw us in the ER told her in broken English not to be scared, it wasn´t dangerous and looked like an allergic reaction, after consulting with her boss she settled on a shot, benedryl, a similar but intrevienous dose of what she had taken - to no avail - earlier. The doctor wrote a note in Spanish for the hospital´s Dermotologist to squeeze Jo into the schedule in the morning, and in the meantime the shot should help the itching and if there was a fever or swelling of the lips and/or tongue we should come back immediately.
Panic replaced sleep through the rest of the night in our small room at the noisy party happy hostel.
By 9:30 the next morning we were again staring at the tile floors in a steril, incandesently lit hospital waiting room among a crowd of quiet nervous looking people.
Finally Alejandro, the Dermatologist, called her name. Like all the others, he pronounced the A more firmly than the H in Hartman.
His calm demeanor and unhurried pace was a welcome change. He took his time, he looked into a book. His colleague came into the room for a medical device and Alejandro asked for a cosultation. They both examined, discussed and settled.
Smallpox.
Joanna´s eyes got wide. My brain raced, wasn´t that what killed the Native Americans?
Alejandro saw our concern. He consulted his book, he explained in Spanish, eventually we understood.
Joanna, somehow, has succeded in once again coming down with a rare illness. Something that might not be abnormal when rolling off the tongue, but for a traveler, for an adult, she is strange.
When we climb onto planes headed for exotic locations we pack antibiotics, immodium, we get innoculated for yellow fever, we bring malaria pills and pepto bismol. It is these things that are written up in the health section of the travel guide; watch for these syptoms, if this persists seek medical help. But we never prepare for the illogical, for the strange and extremely abnormal.
Somehow, my traveling partner has managed to become a statistic, one of a miniscule percentage of the population who twice in their life suffers through an illness we all get once.
But now she´s fine, she´s not scared anymore. Alejandro gave her some pills for the symptoms and we splurged for a comfortable hotel room with a private bathroom and all the American TV she can handle. A recovery center of sorts.
And beside picadura, we learned a new word.
In Spanish varicela means chicken pox.
- AC
After hearing horror stories of malaria and bird sized South American bugs, we did our research before leaving the United States. Argentina, we were relieved to learn, does not pose a threat of malaria or even of exsessive insects, especially not in the middle or south of the country. The northern borders with Bolivia and Brazil can be dicey, but still not as dangerous as other places.
Both in Buenos Aires and now in Córdova, we haven´t seen an inordinate amount of bugs. Both of us got some picaduras in BA, but nothing out of the ordinary.
It didn´t raise suspicion when relatively normal looking picaduras started showing up on Joanna´s legs and hands. At first only a few, very itchy. But then, after a day and a half they seemed to multiply like an alien invader from a bad science fiction film.
Upon awaking Monday morning to find nearly 50 bites we became concerned. After four hours of class she had noticed half a dozen more. We asked the staff at school to please call a docter, which they had explained was no big deal.
The two who came were not doctors but paramedics, emergency responders. In a whirlwind of rapid Spanish and quick evaluation, the long haired one who constantly spat out wisecracks produced a needle while explaining in broken English that she was having an allergic reaction.
Joanna´s eyes instantly welled up and her body language
screamed uncertainty. "Un momento, por favor," we asked them. We asked what the injection was - an antihistemine. We asked if it was necessary - no, but it would help. We asked if we could speak with our school administrator who could translate, to put the mind at ease and make sure we knew what was happening.That´s when our needle toting medic got offended. He took the needle apart, practically throwing things back into his bag.
"Our time is precious," he told us.
It seemed that if we didn´t want to take his "treatment" on faith and trust his training, and ignore the fact that he hadn´t asked about other medications or anything besides allergies and that none of us were speaking our true trusted native tongue, then he would just go and we could suffer our fate alone.
Some four or five hours later, after having a pharmacist tell us we should consult a doctor and arriving at the public hospital to find the office of an alergist closed, taking a cab home defeated, recieving frightening advice from a family doctor at home and then concurrant advice from a doctoral student in our hostel, we found ourselves in the emergency room of the private hospital three blocks from our residence.
Lip quivering and eyes puffed and red from sporadic crying and fear, Joanna´s mind raced to her terrifying unexplained 10 day stay in a Venice hospital years earlier.
"I can´t do this again. I don´t get it, there´s more." It seemed every few minutes a new picadura would appear, unexplained and more itchy than the last.
The very nice doctor who saw us in the ER told her in broken English not to be scared, it wasn´t dangerous and looked like an allergic reaction, after consulting with her boss she settled on a shot, benedryl, a similar but intrevienous dose of what she had taken - to no avail - earlier. The doctor wrote a note in Spanish for the hospital´s Dermotologist to squeeze Jo into the schedule in the morning, and in the meantime the shot should help the itching and if there was a fever or swelling of the lips and/or tongue we should come back immediately.
Panic replaced sleep through the rest of the night in our small room at the noisy party happy hostel.
By 9:30 the next morning we were again staring at the tile floors in a steril, incandesently lit hospital waiting room among a crowd of quiet nervous looking people.
Finally Alejandro, the Dermatologist, called her name. Like all the others, he pronounced the A more firmly than the H in Hartman.
His calm demeanor and unhurried pace was a welcome change. He took his time, he looked into a book. His colleague came into the room for a medical device and Alejandro asked for a cosultation. They both examined, discussed and settled.
Smallpox.
Joanna´s eyes got wide. My brain raced, wasn´t that what killed the Native Americans?
Alejandro saw our concern. He consulted his book, he explained in Spanish, eventually we understood.
Joanna, somehow, has succeded in once again coming down with a rare illness. Something that might not be abnormal when rolling off the tongue, but for a traveler, for an adult, she is strange.
When we climb onto planes headed for exotic locations we pack antibiotics, immodium, we get innoculated for yellow fever, we bring malaria pills and pepto bismol. It is these things that are written up in the health section of the travel guide; watch for these syptoms, if this persists seek medical help. But we never prepare for the illogical, for the strange and extremely abnormal.
Somehow, my traveling partner has managed to become a statistic, one of a miniscule percentage of the population who twice in their life suffers through an illness we all get once.
But now she´s fine, she´s not scared anymore. Alejandro gave her some pills for the symptoms and we splurged for a comfortable hotel room with a private bathroom and all the American TV she can handle. A recovery center of sorts.
And beside picadura, we learned a new word.
In Spanish varicela means chicken pox.
- AC
1 comment:
That's some story! It reminds me when I was in Russia trying to find a pharmacy (all the signs were in Russian - of course) and trying to track down stomache medicine. Getting sick in a foreign country is no fun. Hope you're feeling better, Jo!
Post a Comment