Chapter 3

I’ve completed two weeks of a ten-week internship, and though I wish I could say I’ve done it successfully, I’m not completely sure.

The second week of clinical rotations put me in a small, urban, one-woman clinic that decreed itself as general practice, but turned out to have most patients with obstetric/gynecological conditions with a small side of general malaise patients.

Upon monitoring my first PAP smear, I decided that I would never wish such a thing on anyone, but that was before I saw my first pustule abscess.

A fourteen-year-old female patient came into the clinic with her dad and brother, surely begging them upon leaving the house that they would leave her to walk by herself. Her abscess was on her coccyx, so in order to show the doctor and I, the girl had to pull down the rear of her pants and lay on her stomach so that the doctor could poke and prod at the visibly sore and irritated area and then present the tragic situation with two options: “we can either lance and drain it now and give you some antibiotics or we can do a round of antibiotics and hope it goes down.” After advising the terrified patient that the former would be the faster method with the highest probability of success, she consented, and a local anesthetic was applied.

The female doctor that I once thought was angelic and quaint then presented herself a card-carrying member of the dark side by pulling out a large razor blade from a sterile pack. Upon making a small incision to the side of the abscess, immediately a flood of light grey pus poured onto a pile of gauze pads waiting to catch the sinful heap. Soon thereafter, my stomach turned as I inhaled to experience what must be the scent of death. In an effort to keep myself from insulting the girl for having such a vile substance in her body, I held my breath through the rest of the simple procedure, which amounted to a woman popping a golf-ball sized pimple from the rear of a pride-damaged high school student. And that was only the first day.

I would like to say that it was an accident that I missed clinic that day, but I found myself toilet-bound for longer than one would normally desire due to the excessive amount of street hamburgers I’ve been eating. They’re less than two dollars for the most amazing thing that has ever entered my mouth (next to a Pizookie), they include jalepeños, pineapple, hot sauce, mayo, and baloney, and I rarely eat less than two a night. I feel that by repeating this process, my body will quit rejecting them as foreign and they’ll soon become a valued member of the team.

The next day I waited two hours for a bus to this same clinic, and when a woman asked me why I was waiting so long, I responded honestly: “I think my bus is late.”

“It’s not coming, honey.” I had assumed that maybe it had gotten stuck in traffic. I’ve heard of two hour traffic jams in Portland.

When walking to the clinic, the next day, I got lost and had to ask the doctor to leave her patients to pick me up. Things in the clinic, it seems, are going well so far. Right?

I had much more fun this weekend, when we left Oaxaca, Oaxaca to Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca. The small beach town averaged 80 degrees while we were there of the most humid air I have ever experienced. It was against all odds in the first place that we even arrived:

We signed up with an angry woman inside a small booth and paid $130 pesos (the equivalent of about $11.50 US) for a 7 hour trip via a large van with overhead compartments to the beach. We regretted not paying the $250 pesos for the first class bus when we looked out the window to see our imminent death: a 7 hour long one-way road in the foggiest mountains I have ever seen with a driver that had clearly no regard for our lives or his own. At one point, the suicidal man attempted to pass a large dairy truck around a curve and missed getting us killed by less than a fraction of an inch. My neighbor, César, complained of leg pains inflicted by my instinctual grabbing response for days.

Once we arrived, we hadn’t completely escaped death.

The next day was spent entirely at the beach. Being an avid fan of swimming and the newfound challenge of bodysurfing, I quickly ended up in the deep Pacific waters tirelessly treading water in hopes of an appropriately sized wave. A graduate of last year’s program, Serena, came along with us to the beach to see us along, and decided to tag along with me in the deep salty waters, until she lost control. She tried to stand on the unsteady ocean floor until a large wave knocked her over and took her tumbling many times and, after the damage had been done, she once again tried to stand up; her black, curly hair covering her gasping mouth, and she was promptly knocked over once more by the strong ocean current.

I witnessed the ocean abuse her time and time again until my laughter caused me to double over and wheeze, tears pouring from my eyes at the sight of her repetitious battle with the water. The lifeguard tapped me on the shoulder and told me in a hurried Spanish that if my friend (Serena) cannot swim, she needs to move into the more manageable portion of the beach.

Later, as my laughter died down, I sat on the hot sand and offered to take a picture of some students from my program, Amanda and César, as they stood on the sharp rocks protruding out of the water. Just as I was about to take the photo, we were once again interrupted by the high tide, which made its way all the way up to our blankets and bags, forcing me to take my eyes off of the two standing on the rocks many feet away. After the crisis of wet beach towels subsided, I looked back to the sharp rocks to find César, who was completely dry and wearing a shirt when I offered to take the picture just seconds ago. He was drenched, gasping for breath and on all fours in the shallow water, with Amanda completely out of sight. The water was drawn back into the warm ocean, and Amanda was revealed, also on all fours gasping for breath, reaching out for a rock to give her leverage.

Suddenly, the ocean washed over her body once more, knocking her back down underwater after what was clearly a shocking experience.

Finally, César got victimized once more by the angry ocean when we swam out and were met with a large drop, suddenly finding ourselves unable to wade into the waters.

“Fuck,” César said, as his body sunk into the water, leaving only his bottom lip dry. He quickly popped back up, and slowly rotated in place back to shore while his head bobbed up and down from his dog paddling. He was promptly drawn farther into the ocean, and I think it was his expression of great fear that made me instantly laugh as I was drawn in farther with him. We finally swam our way back in, but César swore off the ocean for the rest of the trip.

And, after 3 of the 6 in our group almost drowned, I decided not to tell them that I’ve worked as a lifeguard for years. “But I didn’t rescue you because I value my own life more,” I pictured myself saying.

More updates from the hospital to come, as today I found myself in a claustrophobic room with 5 medical students and a diabetes patient with the worst foot infection I had ever seen. You could practically see through the flesh that had been eaten away on either side of his skin, and a first year resident was picking at the dry, exposed flesh with forceps, preparing to suture the large gaping wound. Surgery is tomorrow, so hopefully I’m presented with the opportunity to witness something more upsetting and foul than I could have ever asked for. All in the name of medicine.