doctor in español is doctor

Everyone fears being stranded in a foreign country and needing an operation to save their life. I lived it.


Mind you, I lost a dear friend and companion in 2006 when she developed pneumonia in Vietnam and passed on due to negligence of her condition. So the concept of putting my life in the hands of a developing Latin American country's doctors and praying I understand them and they me... Scared the shit out of me.


I was headed to work on a Monday and wasn't feeling wonderful. I had slept all Sunday and most of that day, as well. Then came the dizziness. Followed by the nausea. Then the anxiety. Then exhaustion. Agitation. Pain. Loss of sight. More pain. Oh, dear Lord, the pain. Wait, why can't I walk?


On a recommendation, I went to a local private hospital to see a friend of a friend. I figured I had a parasite and just needed some antibiotics and solid night of sleep. The surgeon told me I was probably ovulating.


Ovulating.


Seriously? I only have one ovary, señor, so.... I'm pretty sure I know what that feels like. After some painful poking and prodding, a little fondling, and a lot of waiting, the doctors threw me in a wheel chair and told me that I was a few hours short of a major explosion in my abdomen. So... I'm not ovulating?


The clean halls and neatly dressed staff rivaled that of the United States and the kind smiles of all the nurses calmed my anxiety. They scooted me into a private hospital room with a private bathroom equipped with shower and all the cable TV I could handle. I pulled of my rain boots, folded my clothes neatly, and placed everything in the storage closet near the sink. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stopped as though I didn't recognize myself. Who was this pale, ghostly face staring back at me? Who was this woman standing bare and exposed, new tattoo gracing her left abdomen, and her fear hanging around her neck like the latest fashion?


The surgery wasn't the scary part. It was knowing that I took a Spanish class in high school- over 10 years ago- and I remembered colors and vegetables. All my Spanish up to this point had been learned through conversation and surgical terms aren't exactly part of bar talk. It was knowing I was going in alone. Yes, I had a few friends around, but all have lives and things to do. I was on my own. It was not knowing anything about the reputation of the hospital, the doctor, or what I was going to be wheeled into.


I pulled on the lilac hospital gown, wrapped it tight to cover my backside, and sat down in the bed. Breathe. Everything will be fine. Wait, I know. So why the anxiety? In reality, this room had quickly become my sanctuary. I was in the process of looking for new housing and was feeling very unsettled, and this was a place that had a warm bed, a soft pillow, and people to make me feel safe. Three nurses entered with their greetings: Hola, mi vida. My life. They smiled warmly, touched my hands like my own mother would, and started getting me ready. I decided to just lie there and let them take me on this journey.


I managed to chat with the nurses while they took me from my sanctuary through the hospital and into my operating room. After changing beds four times, I was strapped into the operating table and the anxiety crept up on me. Hearing "la gringa" so many times WILL grate on your nerves after 5 months... I promise. I had become a novelty of sorts and I need to assert myself as a human being once more.


Before I could think, I started spouting off questions: Who are you? Are those sterile? Will I be asleep? Could you please avoid my new tattoo?


How did I know all these words? Collective consciousness, I owe you a beer.


I made a few jokes in Spanish (yes, I'm proud of myself for being funny in two languages) and tried to get in a few brownie points before the drugged me up, as though, like a superstition, I needed it juuuuust in case. A happy surgeon is a focused surgeon, right?


So sleeeeeeeeeeepy.


I see a nurse. See? Oh, dear God. I muttered, in very sloppy Spanish, "I can feel things! Don't cut me!" Christ on crutches. I was about to experience a nightmare beyond words: being operated on while awake.


Or... It was already over and I was headed back to my sanctuary. Awesome. I'm sure everyone had a good laugh at the freaked out gringa. In recovery I was a mess. The anesthetic wore off quickly and I was tense, in pain, and anxious.


Fast forward. Hello, sanctuary. As I was wheeled into the room, I passed three very familiar, very handsome faces. My heart filled. My roommate, Ian, whom had been instrumental in getting me to the hospital and checked in had returned. Drew, Ian's friend turned my friend, who had been a gentleman in suffering through this ordeal (and my surprisingly revealing medical examination) on his last night in Quito. A very good friend, and the one who recommended the hospital, Juan David, had driven straight from work and waited with my boys. I am loved.


Some gibberish talking by yours truly and some random Ecuadorian TV filled my night and soon the boys were gone and I was alone with my thoughts, my drugs, and my sanctuary.


The hardest part was feeling lonely. Being restricted to a bed, unable to work or connect with the outside world, was incredibly hard. I slept. I watched Futurama in Spanish. I thought. Boy, did I think. I somehow slipped into a massively reflective and introspective state if mind that I have yet to find way out of.


I thought about my time here in Quito, both what I have done and what I have learned about myself and others. I thought about home, the people I miss the most, and the ones I surprisingly don't miss much at all. I thought about my students and how much I really enjoyed teaching. I thought about my next step in my career. I thought about a special guy. I thought about which super powers would be best to have while in a hospital. I thought about ice cream. (I was on drugs, don't judge me.)


Wednesday morning rolled around and the surgeon checked me out, changed my bandages, and told me to be a good gringa while I was here in Ecuador. The doctor took his leave and the nurse helped me sit up.


For those of you who have not had a laparoscopic operation, let me assure you it blows. Your incisions burn when you move. Your organs shift when you move and, believe me, you can feel EVERYTHING. You have air trapped inside your abdomen and all you can do is bubble and fart. Yes, I'm aware I'm a sexy bitch.


Just the process of sitting up raises the question that I may not, in fact, be ten foot tall and bulletproof. I can't roll over, I can't sit up... I'm a bad dog.


I hobbled to the bathroom, just 3 short feet from my bed, so naturally it took me 5 minutes. Bladder, pancreas, spleen, stomach... As they dropped and squish around, I noticed them all as they sound off in attendance. Success. I peed all by myself. Now to shower. With a massive needle shoved into my left hand, my right hand took over and started domination of what needed to be done: remove gown, drop gown (shit), find tolerable water temperature, clean body, wash hair, dry off, new gown on bed (score), and buzz for help getting back in bed before passing out. Internal happy dance.


Little did I know that'd be the last bit of brightness for 36 grueling hours.


The nurse to the least of my liking padded in while I was watching 'House Hunters International: Buenos Aires' and handed me a simple piece of calculator paper with a series of numbers and one with a star. No words- English or Spanish- just numbers. $5000.


Mierda.


I explained in a drug-free, pain-clouded state that I needed a description of why my bill was five grand and I needed wifi to start moving money around because I sure as hell didn't have a handful of cash lying around, contrary to popular belief. Gringos are not made of sugar, spice, and limitless credit cards. Hours passed. Hours. No one came to administer medicine, less than 48 hours after my surgery, and the food stopped coming as well. The staff would poke their head in my once sanctuary, just to make sure I was still there. I explained I could pay some now and some later, but since wifi wasn't an option, nor were free international calls, I needed to scoot on outta this porcelain palace of pain.


Apparently, the hospital staff and the guard at the front door carrying a shotgun disagreed with me. I plopped down (worst idea ever) in a wheel chair, grabbed my rain boots, and wandered 4 floors downstairs to try and talk to the payment center. Come on Collective Consciousness...


With my friend, Rachel, sitting by my side in the lobby of a heavily guarded, private, Ecuadorian hospital I started to wonder how in the living hell I was going to pull this off. Then I started wondering, how the hell did this turn into a living hell? Where did my sanctuary go? I could feel it fading into darkness a few floors above me.


They sent me a gentleman who worked in the financial department who spoke a tidbit of English and was obviously in over his head and not thrilled that his superiors were dropping him in with this gringa who was obviously in pain and less than thrilled at the goings-ons of the situation. He tried, but he really helped about as much as the janitor when it came to my situation. Unless we were in an episode of 'Scrubs' in which I would be both thrilled and terrified because it really, really hurt to laugh.


So, to recap: I had emergency surgery 36 hours ago, I'm a broke English teacher with a student visa, they won't reduce the fees on a $5,000 bill, they don't have wifi so I can get ahold of my folks for help (or even to let them know I'm alive), they won't let me go until its paid, and I'm pretty sure that guard with the shotgun has yet to have to use it and is looking like he has an itchy trigger finger. Right.


After a few more hours of talking to people and waiting around, occasional tears escaping my eyes, both from pain and frustration, the sun finally disappeared from the alluring glass doors that held my freedom. The darkness had settled outside my prison and inside my chest. I was being held captive. My chains were electronic lines of information and lightly-inked numbers I couldn't reproduce in reality. Such intangible things that mattered more than that tangible person and the tangible pain displayed before the eyes of heartless number crunchers. Finally, I just cried. I let them see me cry. I let each tear try to buy my freedom. I let each tear try and tug at heart strings that may or may not exist. I did it with dignity... Well, as much dignity I could, looking homeless an walking like a drunk toddler.


They finally sent me back upstairs to the same room, Room 303, where I once maintained my sanity.  They had again cleaned it and changed the sheets, but that wasn't why it felt different.  It was no longer my sanctuary.  I climbed into bed in my sweats and flipped on the TV, just to ignore it.  I managed to steal some wifi for a few moments and sent electronic smoke signals back home.  Rachel went and bought some awful fast food next door to the hospital with the last bit of our money and we forced down terrible burgers and remarkably delicious chocolate cake.  She left me an hour later for the comfort of her bed and I laid there staring at the dark ceiling and the dancing shadows from the repeat of Friends, which was surprisingly comforting.   I found no sanctuary here. 


After having the needle ripped from my hand- following hours of pleading- the the evil bitch of a nurse laughing, I lost it.  I informed her that it was extremely difficult for me to come to a foreign country, learn the language, have emergency surgery, and handle it all on my own.  I am trying.  How dare you. Tears of anger stung my eyes and the nurse looked as though she had struck a puppy with her car.  She backed out of the room and was never to be audible again.  A sweet, fresh faced doctor, Dr. Medina, came in and spoke with me, apologizing for all the mishaps and explaining the bill to me.  After some hustling on my mother's part and a team effort of moving money around and asking for some help from the credit company, I was close to tasting freedom. 


4:00 pm Thursday afternoon, with a drained bank account, $1.60 in coins to my name, and a maxed out American Express card, I walked through those elusive glass doors and breathed the fresh air of freedom. Tears, different than those that escaped my eyes before, streamed down my flushed cheeks and I breathed out every ounce of stress I had been holding in. I wobbled to a taxi, slumped in, and left the prison that had been my only world for the last 4 days.  


A word from someone who has lived it: get travel insurance.


And, yes, my new tattoo is fine.  

i fell in love with a girl named quito

Quito. When I was looking to move abroad, all of these amazing places sprung into consideration. I imagined myself sipping Argentine wine in a romantically lit cobblestone courtyard in Buenos Aires while I watched locals and foreigners alike Tango and twirl. I saw myself bowing slightly to pass through the noren that hang in every restaurant throughout Japan, removing my shoes, and sitting amongst countless locals to eat the freshest sushi on earth while I practice my formal tea pouring and regional diction Japanese in Kyoto. I pictured myself eating tapas and viewing Gaudi's architecture along the streets of Barcelona before headed to the beach to sip Sangria and chat with the locals. Never did I think, "Hey, perhaps I will head to the Andes and try and build a life in a city I have never even seen a photo of", but therein lies the adventure.

I hadn't taken a Spanish class since Sra. Gallardo's Spanish class at Corona High School my sophomore year, and seeing as a solid decade had passed since then, I knew I was in for a challenge when I accepted a position in the capital of Ecuador. My sweet mother gifted me the South American and Ecuadorian Lonely Planet books (I live by these books) and I got started planning my new life... My new life in Quito. My mother and I popped open an ice cold bottle of champagne, poured two glasses worth into her fancy-schmancy crystal flutes, and opened the fresh, virgin pages of the travel guides to see what was in store for me.

On a side note: Admittedly, I am a bit of a planner. Ok, that is an understatement. I am a certified professional organizer and I love to plan, organize and make sense of things. I did do some research on Quito prior to my interview and my departure, but I found my gypsy spirit whispering, "Let go..." and so, for once, I did.

Back to the champagne. We drank, we read, we laughed, we dreamed. A short month later, I was sipping coffee with my father on the way to LAX as the sun seemingly chased us westward in the early November morning. Luggage in tow, containing carefully chosen articles, I sent vibes to this foreign city that would become my dwelling place for the next year. Would it become my home? Flash forward to the three month mark of my journey and I can say without hesitation that this city has become my home, my friend, and my lover.

My feet have grown accustom to the often jagged terrain of the streets and sidewalks that aid my navigation of Quito. I find that I need match my eyes to my steps less and less with each passing step and each passing day. The sounds of airplanes in the distance blend naturally with the clamor of honking taxis, buses shifting gears, and the symphony of car alarms that sound off endlessly throughout the city.

It is amazing to ride the blue city buses and watch contently out whichever window sports that day's adventure. Seeing something new every time, it allows the association of times passed to be connected with new sights, inciting, "I've been there before..." as connections are made. I am truly beginning to know this city. I am falling in love with her curves- both those soft and seductive, as well as those dangerous and elusive- as she allows me to explore them with the curiosity of a child. I have grown accustomed to the temperamental and fickle weather, just as women are perceived to be. As I leave my home some mornings, drenched by the time I reach the bus and taxi hub at the bottom of my hill, only to find myself peeling my coat and scarf off under the intense equator sun as I exit my class just a few hours later. The altitude, around 9,000 feet, depending on your location, offers a hospitable home for rolling, white clouds and constantly changing views in every direction. At night, when the sun rests, the fog rolls in like a team of bandits in the Wild West, occupying street corners and slowing traffic to a cautious roll. Quiteños fear not this timid fog, still linking arms and wandering the streets of La Mariscal in search of cuba libres and reggaeton music.

My ears have ceased searching for English in the sea of Spanish palabras (words) and have sat back in the hammock next to my brain and begun enjoying the challenge that has thus become a game: Learning Spanish. Reggaeton, Salsa, and Meringue music please my inner musician and songs have become familiar, just as in the States.

The incredible preservation and restoration of Centro Historico (Old Town) Quito has helped it quickly become one of my favorite areas to pass the time. Classic Colonial buildings are flanked by the soft, golden lights that guide locals and tourists alike down the streets towards canelazo and empanadas. Massive churches with ornate entrances remind us all that there is something greater than us, and we should all remember to not outgrow out britches. Street performers and beggars alike cast hopeful eyes in the direction of those who pass by and handfuls of plata (change) become the sought after treasure battled for by all.

Parque la Carolina, Quito's answer to Central Park, beckons to all who must pass by on their way to work or school. Flanked on the North side by an art exhibit of massive hummingbirds that have been decorated by local artists, Parque la Carolina hosts jungle gyms, museums, paddle boats, islands, bridges, a skate park, grassy knolls, basketball courts, soccer fields, shady trees, and all sorts of guests who use the park for their own benefit.

My legs have grown accustomed to the countless hills that are to be climbed on my daily rounds and I have found that my daily retirement upon my pillow is always truly welcomed. It has never failed, however, that my mind and body rejoice in venturing out again into my city when it calls upon me.

When I am sick, she lulls me to sleep with her many voices. When I am weary, she reminds me of the incredible, bustling life going on around me. When I grow lonesome, she provides me thousands of people to listen to and watch. When I find myself lost, she shows me a sliver of curving mountaintop or a peak at a street sign, and I have once again found my way. When I feel like dancing, sweet Quito delivers me music to entice my soul and my hips.

She is a good lover, this Quito, and I seek to enjoy every last day with her...

it slipped her mind...

 I love my mother.  She took a fall last November and hit her head, though there were no signs of a concussion, she was much more tender than she should have been for almost three months.  When she went to her doctor, he issued an order for an MRI to make sure everything was alright.  Everything was fine, except for this bit of brain tissue seeping down the back of her spinal column.  Excuse me?  


Note: I left out a lot of details in this blog, as this was a very private struggle and I want to respect my mother's privacy, as well as protect my readers from details they might not be able to handle.  


Flash forward a few weeks and there I am sitting in the neurosurgeon's office at Loma Linda University Hospital, cracking jokes with my mom while we await a doctor we had never met before.  Apparently, a Chiari 1 Malformation  is a simple thing to see on a CT Scan or MRI, as it was with my mother's case, but our case was a bit out of the ordinary.  Luckily, it was caught before any major damage was done (such as explosions within the spinal column or leaking of CSF (spinal fluid).  However, this particular medical condition is typically diagnosed when the individual is in their twenties, not their fifties.  The doctor was wonderful, approachable and professional at the same time, and he informed us that we had to make the decision as a family.  My father, sister and I informed our mom we would support whatever measure she wanted to take, but we all felt that the surgery seemed like the best possible approach, as it was both corrective and preventative.  After a week or two of deliberation, my mom scheduled her surgery and the wait began.  And then the wait ended, when the neurosurgeon's office called and moved her surgery up two weeks.  

Fears, hopes, concerns, facts, opinions, fantasies, nightmares, and history aside: We had the unknown.  We all went to bed, said our prayers, and hopped in the car before dawn to head forty minutes east to hand the person who gave me life to someone I had met one time.  In true Cartwright fashion, my mom realized she didn't have her night driving glasses and asked me to drive about halfway down the street.  We exited her car and did a Chinese Fire Drill, waving our arms and flailing about to make my sister laugh, who was following in her truck behind us.  When we checked in to pre-op, my sister and I laughed with my mom the entire time.  We blew up latex gloves and made them talk like turkeys, we chatted with the nurses, and even asked if there were any cute, single anesthesiologists around (ok, my sister didn't... Don't judge me).  We each kissed her "see you later" as opposed to "goodbye" and hollered down the hall that we were quite jealous of all the drugs she got to take, and requested she save us some.  We both made sure to smile big, as the last thing we wanted her to think about were her two daughters smiling with confidence and love. 

Jesus watches over us.
Jesus, and an Asian lady.

Sister sleeping:
Rare, but sweet. 

ICU Official Sleep Pack:
Be jealous.

 Those were without a doubt the longest 7 hours of my life.  Even with the incredible staff at Loma Linda going out of their way to keep us informed with Patient Relations personnel and text message updates (yes, you read that correctly), it was nerve-wracking, gut-wrenching, and all together draining.  When she finally came out, she had some trouble with the anesthesia and her lungs.  What was supposed to be a few days in recovery and a basic hospital room, turned into four long days in ICU.  The first two days were slow and painful.  It was so incredibly difficult to see my mom in so much pain, as well as so confused.  the doctors assured me that this was in fact not something we should be overly concerned with.  My sister and I were in the ICU every few hours and slept on the floor of the hospital waiting rooms for four cold, hard nights.  Every second was worth it when, on day 3, we went upstairs to see mom and the light was back in her eyes.  She was eating a bit, she was cracking little jokes, and (most importantly for me) she was once again flipping me off for my smart ass mouth.  There's my mommy.  I felt my heart beat again for the first time in 72 hours.  Thank God. 


I never left that hospital, not once, for four days, and my sister only to grab us food once or twice.  The night guards, nurses, receptionists, doctors, and even the families of other patients in ICU knew us and asked about our mom's progress every day.  My friends were calling and texting, facebooking, and bringing coffee to the hospital (Loma Linda is Seventh Day Adventist... No caffeine anywhere on campus!) and sending love & prayers, I know because we could feel them.  Family was bringing food and stopping by to sit with my sister and I as we watched everything from which drugs she was on to her vitals.  The abundance of support was refreshing and appreciated beyond expression.  I truly think it was all the prayers and love sent to her, in addition to her sheer will to be a badass, that helped her do a 180 in the ICU and shock everyone around her; even her doctors.  

Contrary to popular belief, hospital floors are not
conducive to sleep.  Or avoiding back injury.

She is now home and resting.  She is still dizzy, a bit sore & has a minimal appetite, but she is kicking ass in my book, and I am so proud of her.  She loves showing off the crazy scar she has on the back of her head and neck, and gets her stitches out tomorrow.  Thank you to all of you who went out of your way to be there for her and for our family.  We couldn't have done it without you.  Please know, if you ever need anything, I am forever in your debt.  Unless you need help moving this Saturday, I am actually really busy.  xx.a

Love for Lala (my mom) from the best people in the world. 

dis.con.nect.ed.

Lately, I have been feeling disconnected to so many things in my life.  Mind you, I wasn't able to put my finger on said disconnection, but I was definitely feeling the tug of the unknown.  

So I was sitting in the Beverly Center allowing traffic to die down before my trek home and these two average looking gentlemen sat a table away from me.  As I devoured my Kung Pow Chicken, I overheard them start to pray.  They thanks God for their food and asked that it nourish their bodies as their relationships with God nourished their souls.  Bam.  In my face. 

When did I stop thanking God for something as vital as food?  I talk to him every day, asking for guidance and help to do the right thing when the time calls for a decision, even appreciating the sunsets that I sometimes have the pleasure of seeing on my ridiculous drive home.  For some reason, when I stopped thanking him for food (it seemed at the time) I lost the connection.  No, I don't think that saying a blessing before eating was my divine connection, but the forethought is definitely something to be considered.

So then I started considering why I have been feeling like I have been floating around.  My job used to be the dull ache in my spine, but I am really loving my new job and all the people I work with.  So now what is it?  I'm not unhappy... I'm disconnected.  I have been moving back and forth so much in the last few years that I haven't been able to maintain but a few good friendships.  When I went through my "Mr. Big Break-Up", where were my Charlotte, Samantha & Miranda?  No one kidnapped me and took me to Mexico, but can I really feel hurt by that? I had a place to stay for a short while while I got on my feet and remembered how to breathe, but I stumbled on my own through the dark until sunrise.  Haven't I been a Charlotte when needed? 

Moving also affected my connection to wherever I lived.  Moving every year for the last 6 has definitely left its mark on me and mine.  I cannot call any given city home.  Corona, Culver City, Los Angeles, Irving, Mansfield, Arlington, Dallas, Ft. Worth, Grand Prairie... My car is the closest thing to home right now... I need to pick a place and settle for a while. 

Settle.  I love to travel, but you can do that from anywhere.  It's time to start thinking about family.  But what about [insert forty things here]? It will all work out the way it's supposed to... Right? If this job stays as fantastic as it is now, I will find a place to settle down here for a few years.  If not, then the adventure begins again.  More lottery tickets, so to speak.  Settle doesn't imply agreeing to live with something that isn't fantastic, but to give something the proper time to grow and blossom and experience it's majesty. 

Family.  I cannot start trying to have a family until things are a little more stable in certain areas.  No one is ever financially prepared for a child, but my situation doesn't allow too much time for that to be a major issue.  Anyone ever seen 'Idiocracy'? 

Now to reconnect.  Perhaps my increased level of happiness due to my career being back on track and working a job I love will add to all other aspects of my life.  I don't want my happiness to revolve around that little line turning blue.

For those who don't know, in June I was diagnosed with Endometriosis.  It was also discovered that I was born without my right ovary.  This expedites both my rate of losing all my eggs (menopause) and my risks of having internal damage from the Endometriosis.  My incredible doctor (whom I miss dearly here in LA) gave me a few years to have kids naturally, if at all.  In the mean time, with no known cures or treatments outside of surgery or hormone shots, this was a major blow to my maternal side and another challenge obviously God thinks I can handle.  Thanks for the vote of confidence...  

So now the adventure begins.  The point of this blog.  To figure out what and how I am going to do.

I'm prepared to be unprepared.  I am prepared for those to happen completely out of sequence.  I am prepared for God's plan... 

Wish me luck. 
xx.a