Let me preface this entry by saying I’ve been traveling the world for over thirty years and the only two times I’ve ended up in the hospital, I’ve been in Mexico. Is this a sign that perhaps Mexico and I need to end our relationship? I’m beginning to consider the possibility.
My first trip to the hospital occurred after a freak accident where a wave picked up my paddle board as I was entering the ocean, struck me in the face, and I ended up with 10 stitches in my lip. That was Day 1 of my vacation. Although I hadn’t planned on subsisting on a liquid diet, having a black eye or looking like I’d been sucker punched in the mouth, I made the best of the situation and still really enjoyed my vacation. My second trip to the Emergency room was three days ago. But let me go a couple days further back when it all began…
After my lovely day at the beach on Wednesday I wake up in the middle of the night in agony. My stomach is roiling and I barely make the ten feet to the bathroom before a mass evacuation of my insides empties into the toilet. Oh shit. Literally. I’m mildly optimistic that with the help of some Immodium tablets I’ll be fine. The next day I opt to stay in my hotel room as I don’t relish the idea of pooping my pants in public. I do a Google search of my symptoms and it appears I’ve picked up gastroenteritis, a fancy way of saying I’ve got bad bacteria roaming around in my intestines and shit is going sideways. I eat bananas for sustenance and continually sip bottled water but nothing is staying put.
Thursday night finds me with my arms wrapped around the towel bowl dry heaving and questioning my love of travel. Throughout the night I switch between sitting on the toilet to hugging it and wondering how long I wait before I head to the hospital. My abdominal pain has been constant and after one particularly bad bout, it suddenly stops. Fantastic! Maybe now that I’m emptied out, I’m on the mend. I can recoup the last couple of days of my holiday and chalk this experience up as an “unexpected cleanse”.
I wake up Friday morning feeling like complete dog shit and realize that I have not recovered as I’d hoped. I’m so dehydrated my skin looks like paper, my stomach is distended and the pain has returned, nausea is ripping through me and waves of dizziness wash over me whenever I stand up. I’ve run out of water and food and I realize I am going to have to pull myself together as best as I can and get to a pharmacy and market. I’m trying to get myself motivated with a continuous stream of self-talk like I’m prepping for a boxing match,
“You got this. Toughen up Jenn. Don’t be a pussy. You only have to walk a couple blocks. Come on!”
I wash my face and throw on some deodorant. Why am I bothering when I feel so horrible do you ask? I have no idea. I’m not really forming coherent thought at this point which is underlined by the fact that I’ve put on shorts but forgot the underwear. Fuck it. I stumble outside into the bright sunshine, momentarily blinded. Taking a deep breath I take small, measured steps with the intention of going to the big supermarket a few blocks away. I reach the main boulevard seeing the entrance of the market and realize I am not going to make it. The thought of going even another 5 feet is overwhelming.
There’s a pharmacy footsteps away and I limp inside, frantically searching for a pharmacist.
“Por favor! Diarrhea!” I repeatedly say loudly (has my hearing evaporated along with my dignity??).
Then pointing at my stomach, I yell “Ouch!” trying to convey that I have cramping along with the diarrhea. The pharmacist looks alarmed when I place my outstretched hands onto the front counter with my head between my arms and start panting. Let’s keep in mind there are other white customers in the pharmacy but at this point, I don’t give a shit if they’re staring at me. She shows me a pill bottle and I nod my head, trying to extract my wallet from my backpack. I take out 500 pesos and the pharmacist explains that the medication is 500 pesos if I purchase two bottles but 650 pesos if I buy one bottle. What?? I can’t comprehend this logic in my befuddled state, while trying to lean against the counter and pant at the same time, so I throw 650 pesos in her direction and stumble to the exit. Outside of the store, I sink to the sidewalk and place my head between my knees. I’m feeling the need to vomit arise, along with the immediate need to sit on a toilet. This is not good. There isn’t even a bloody alley I can hide in. If this happens, it’s happening on the main drag. I start in again with the self-talk, willing my body to cooperate. At least let me keep some shred of fucking dignity.
I slowly rise, walk a few steps to a shaded area and sink into the dirt. After a short period I feel like I have my body compulsions under control and begin the journey back to the hotel. There’s a little market along the way and I purchase water, electrolytes and a loaf of bread. The staff is still straightening my room but I need to get horizontal so they’re just going to have to clean around me and I flop onto the bed to assume the fetal position while muttering,
“Lo siento. Lo siento.”
In the middle of the night I know I am going to have to go to a hospital but I’m so ill I can’t even wrap my head around getting dressed again, navigating my way there and dealing with admissions and my travel insurance. I tell myself I’ll go in the morning. By 8:30 AM I’m at the hospital and consulting with the doctor who states I’ll need a saline drip to begin rehydration and blood tests. The admissions clerk advises me that the cost will be 10,000-15,000 pesos. I grab my phone and do the conversion and it’s $750CAD. I confirm that the price includes everything the doctor mentioned (this is important for later) and when she nods, I tell her I want to go ahead with the treatment.
Minutes later, I’m in a hospital gown and hooked up to a saline drip with pain and anti-diarrhea medication. All the staff speak English and are extremely professional and I feel well cared for. I can’t mentally deal with my travel insurance company right now so I contact my friend back home and ask for her assistance. She quickly gets to work and has advised them of the situation and relevant information. From her understanding I’m to pay up front since this is a basic emergency, standard tests and procedures required and then I’ll be reimbursed when I’m home. It’s important that the hospital provides me with a copy of my medical records and receipt (also important for later).
Six hours and two saline bags later, the doctor tells me he can discharge me and provide medication for me to take for the next three days or I can stay at the hospital for my further recovery. I opt to get discharged since my flight is the next afternoon and he provides me with a bag of meds. A new admissions clerk has come on shift during my stay and there seems to be some confusion about what paperwork needs to be completed from my insurance company. I fill out my portions and then show her what needs to be filled out by the hospital. She hands me a print out of my bill and I gasp,
“What? This is ten times more than what I was told! I can’t pay this! This is not correct.”
I hand the bill back to her and relate the conversation I had with the previous admissions clerk and my confirmation of the price before any treatment was conducted. She says she will contact her boss to figure something out, whatever that means. An hour later, I’m still sitting in the hospital lobby and I can hear her quietly talking on the phone in Spanish and then in English. I don’t know what the hell is going on but I’m trying to be patient despite feeling worse as the time passes. She approaches me and asks if she can have the bill back and I advise that I never took it. She returns to her desk but can’t seem to find it. Can she not just print out another copy?? Then she comes back and asks if I know the exact amount of the bill. I tell her it was approximately 58,000 pesos but I don’t recall the exact amount and she seems troubled. Ok, what the hell is going on? Is it not on her computer? How did she print off the first copy?
Thirty minutes later she tells me I can leave. Without paying? What?? She says that because it’s Saturday afternoon it’s difficult to get a hold of anyone and if there’s any issue with my travel insurance, she has my phone number. I explain that I was told I had to pay the amount up front but she disagrees and says I can go. I ask for a copy of my medical records and she says because she hasn’t been able to get a hold of my insurance company, she can’t give them to me. Now I’m starting to get a little heated and ask her,
“They’re my medical records aren’t they? How can you not give them to me? I was specifically told to get a copy of them before leaving.”
She repeatedly refuses and I’m not getting into a losing battle with her. She does provide me with what appears to be the results of my blood tests so I take what I can, and get the hell out of there. I’m still in shock that she’s allowing me to leave without payment, but at this point I’m mentally and physically done. As I’m waiting for my Uber out front, I keep expecting someone to run outside yelling that I can’t leave but my ride shows up and off I go.
Back at my hotel, I’m still confused as to what just happened and then decide it’s their problem and they know how to contact me. I attempt to check-in for my flight and receive a message saying there’s a problem with my itinerary (hand slap to forehead). I try multiple times to contact the airline with the number provided but of course can’t actually speak with anyone and give up. I start to get paranoid and think,
“Holy shit. The Cartel knows I walked out of the hospital without paying and they told the airline I can’t leave! Am I going to arrive at the airport tomorrow and get hauled out of the customs line-up to some back room? They’re going to hold me for ransom!”
I opt for the positive conclusion of just rolling with the situation and the next day, my paranoid notions were just that and I sail through check-in and customs. I enjoyed most of my vacation, but I seriously could’ve done without the hospital visit and two days later, I still haven’t heard from the hospital or my travel insurance company…
