Words Words Words

New song lyrics, waiting for a setting.

skzb — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 23:57:09 +0000

…or some other song it can be sung to. Anyway, *ahem* here’s my latest chart-buster:

My TV is on the food channel
Looking for new things to eat.
But when that music starts
It goes straight to my heart
Which stirs, shakes, and then skips a beat.
The palms of my hands become moist
I reach for fresh pepper to grate
I set the oven on kill
And hold myself still
As my soul starts to salivate
Chorus:

I want to have Alton Brown’s baby
Just cuz I love how he cooks.
We’d make a child, in the end
That’s a fabulous blend
Of his talent, along with his looks.

My eyes remain glued to the TV
In rapture, I don’t even blink.
Each kitchen applience
With gastronomical science
(Everything but the kitchen sink)
Is grist for a splendid concoction.
If I can’t cook it, it isn’t his fault.
I’m in love with his eyes
His shoulders, his thighs
His voice and his kosher salt.
Repeat chorus

Posted on Words Words Words.

New song lyrics, waiting for a setting.

ShareThis

Just felt like quoting…

skzb — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 19:02:09 +0000

“Labor is prior to, and independent of, capital; that, in fact, capital is the fruit of labor, and could never have existed if labor had not first existed,–that labor can exist without capital, but that capital could never have existed without labor. Hence . . . labor is the superior–greatly superior–of capital.” — Abraham Lincoln

Posted on Words Words Words.

Just felt like quoting…

ShareThis

In more important news….

skzb — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 05:11:09 +0000

Check out my grandson!

Posted on Words Words Words.

In more important news….

ShareThis

Contest

skzb — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 05:04:28 +0000

I’m running a small contest here. Two prizes, both of them signed and personalized copies of Jhegaala (now that I have my copies).

One copy will go to the seventeenth person (only one entry per person) to email me offering to send me a copy of The Forest People by Colin Turnbull. I know there copies available on Amazon for much less than Jhegaala. (Uh, just to be clear, you have to actually send me Turnbull’s book.)

On the Dragaera list, people have been talking about their favorite lines in Jhegaala–a conversation an egomaniac like me can’t help but love. So, in that spirit, the other copy will go to the first person who guesses my favorite line in Jhegaala. Only one guess per comment, minimum five minute wait between comments by the same person.

Posted on Words Words Words.

Contest

ShareThis

Any medical types out there?

skzb — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 21:40:22 +0000

The one weakness in the Mexican Healthcare Experience was the aftercare was a bit sketchy. Should I be using ice to reduce the swelling where the stitches are?

Posted on Words Words Words.

Any medical types out there?

ShareThis

In other news…

kit — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 19:42:44 +0000

…that Steve is too shy to tell you about himself — Jhegaala’s first printing has already sold out and gone to reprints.

p.s. Watch Dr. Horrible today. Tell your friends.

Correction: PNH very nicely wrote to me to say that what has happened is that actually orders from bookstores exceeded the initial amount printed, and Jhegaala has been reprinted to meet this demand. This does not actually mean the first printing has ’sold out’, as many of those copies will still be returned from bookstores. It’s still good news, but not as straightforward as I let on.

Posted on Words Words Words.

In other news…

ShareThis

And your language skills fail and negativity just won’t pull you through.

skzb — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 19:21:15 +0000

Doctor Natera came by, I think around 9PM. He’d been delayed by a sudden inrush of patients, I think at the other clinic, where he treats those who can’t afford the services of “Star Medica.” He asked if I was in pain, and we had the “little pain?” conversation. He convinced me not to try to drive home that night, which had been the original plan.

There was a Denny’s about a block away. About midnight or so (my time-sense goes bad around here) I resolved to walk there. I really, really wanted food. Standing up hurt. Reesa helped me dress, and we went downstairs. We tried to communicate to the staff that we were going outside and then back in, but had a lot of trouble getting the message across; no one on duty then spoke English. Eventually, I managed to mime that I was stepping outside to smoke, and they seemed fine with that and pointed me to the correct exit. We walked around the parking lot, out to the street, and about halfway down the block before a security guard on a bicycle from the hospital stopped us. I couldn’t understand his words, but it was obvious we were to return to the hospital. He was friendly, but firm.

We walked back, found what I think was a security manager who spoke English, and explained that we were not permitted to leave the hospital parking lot. He said it was for our safety, and I think it really was. Oh, well. At least I got a cigarette.

I undressed. It hurt whole heaps and bunches.

Then came the night. Mexican hospitals are strange: when you are recovering and need sleep, they let you sleep. Bizarre. The only interruption all night came from someone bringing in a bottle of water and setting it on the inevitable wheeled tray.

A good night’s sleep helped a lot, but I still hurt. In the morning, Sergio and Irene came, and we packed (Reesa packed, actually, I proudly pulled my own socks and boots on) and checked out, which was a very simple procedure. They put is in a hotel shuttle which would drive us to meet Irene, get my perscriptions, and then to the border.

Ooops! The border? The driver had no visa, and in any case the hotel shuttle was not permitted to cross the border, in spite of the hotel saying that they would do so.

So Irene and her brother drove us around a bit to find a pharmacy to pick up the prescriptions for my pain meds, anti-biotic, and anti-inflammatory. It was frustrating, because my credit card, though it worked fine in ATMs, kept failing at the pharmacies. But we got it, and I happily gobbled down the pills.

A lot of pleasant conversation with Irene and her brother, who seemed to think the world of Dr. Natera. And we spoke of the “Wall of Shame” and all cursed those who make the decisions for the US. Irene calmly matter of factly told the story of Sergio being arrested at the border as a suspected terrorist and held for 30 days. He was finally released because (wait for it) he had been a singer for Mariachi band that had played at the White House under the previous Bush, and new the Governer of New Mexico.

Why had he been arrested? They never found out; no one would tell them. Her telling of the story was, as I said, so matter-of-fact, and with so little bitterness, that it seemed as if her attitude was, “This is just part of life if you live near the US.”
How many others has this happened to? How many are still in jail because they don’t have the connections? It is one thing to know this is happening; it is another to hear how it happened to someone you know, and like.

We got into the long, long tine for the border crossing. There are people selling food and trinkets, and begging, all along the bridge over the Rio Grande. We talked of the stupidity of “Homeland Security” and of vague hopes for the future; they seemed to have no more hope that an Obama presidency would change things than I do.

They dropped us off at airport parking in El Paso. We found our car, and began the long drive home. Reesa did the driving, I did the moaning. I’m such a wimp!

I hope we manage to stay in touch with Irene and Sergio; they’re great people. If you are in the position I’m in: rich by Mexican standards, poor by the standards of what is need for healthcare in the US, then I recommend Mexico without reservation. I also want to thank Dr. Flash Gorden, who advised me about hernia care, treatment, and gave me some reassurances about Dr. Natera.

I’m sure I’ve left off a thousand interesting things; maybe I’ll talk about them in discussion, or later posts.

It is good to be home; I miss Irene and Sergio and hope we stay in touch.

Posted on Words Words Words.

And your language skills fail and negativity just won’t pull you through.

ShareThis

…and it’s surgery time, too.

skzb — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 19:01:50 +0000

I think it was around 11:30 or 11:45 at that point. The anesthesiologist explained that he was going to give me a tranquilizer (or did he say sedative? I can’t remember), then numb me from the waist down. I swallowed and nodded, mostly thinking at that moment of long, long needles inserted into me in terrible places in order to numb me from the waist down. I hoped the tranquilizer would be effective enough that I wouldn’t scream or anything.

He injected three hypodermics into the IV line. Then there was a blue cloth of some kind in front of me, over my belly, like a small curtain blocking my view of the place where I was being cut, and a nurse looking down at me. I said, “What’s going on?” She said, “You’re done.” I think I remember them starting to remove the blue cloth, but I fell asleep.

I woke up in the recovery room, unable to move my legs. I knew it was the local causing it, and was never really worried, but nevertheless felt the need to fight it and to try to move my legs. I tried very hard. I failed utterly. I fell asleep again. When I woke up, I tried to move my feet, failed again, and slept more. Then I woke up again, tried to move my feet, succeeded a little, and slept.

I was awake when I was wheeled back into the room. A kiss and a smile from Reesa, and she spoke, I think, about blogging things, but I was a bit fuzzy. I said, “I can move my feet! See?” Then I was in and out of sleep. I think Sergio and Irene came back then (Irene is the brother of the guy who picked us up at the airport, and Sergio is her husband; they all work for Dr. Natera, the surgeon, and they’re both wonderful) and asked how I was, which was fine.

The local wore off and I hurt badly. At various times, I was given a pain shot via the IV, a pain shot in my butt, and a pill the doctor described as a “narcotic.” None of them appeared to do any good. They all asked how I was, and I said, “There is pain.” “Little pain?” they all asked. “A lot of pain,” I said, permanently marking myself as a wimp. Then I coughed. That proved to be a terrible mistake. Reesa gave me a pillow and advised me to clutch it in front of my stomach if I needed to cough. Good advice; it helped.

Eventually they fed me: rice, and some sort of chicken dish; good for a hospital though not enough of it. I think this was around 3:30 in the afternoon.

I faded in and out much of the rest of day, until about 8 when I was fed again. Not enough. Feh. I wanted food. I also wanted a cigarette. Fortunately, in Mexico, the nicotine inhaler that is by far the best system for not smoking ever, is cheap, and doesn’t require a perscription, so that kept me reasonably sane.

I think it was during that time that Irene and Sergio took Reesa out for some shopping, which was awfully sweet of them. Or maybe that was earlier; my brain was not in top form, and I did a lot of the things Vlad does when his brain is messed up: getting the order of events wrong. Nice to have the reassurance I got that stuff right. (Pats self on back). Anyway, Reesa showed me the stuff she’d gotten for the kids, and a really beautiful ash tray for me, with what seems to be Aztec designs in it. I’m using it as I write this.

Posted on Words Words Words.

…and it’s surgery time, too.

ShareThis

When you’re lost in the rain in Jaurez . . .

skzb — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 18:31:48 +0000

As Reesa said, the couple who picked us up to drive us from El Paso to Jaurez were exceptionally nice. Up until then my arrangements with the medical group (medicaltourismco.com) had been very professional in feel; but this felt personal and family-like; in part because of the child car-chair in the back seat. I suppose this ought to be have bothered me, but in fact it was reassuring.

We drove past the border easily enough, seeing the rows and rows and rows of cars waiting to cross back into the US. My hosts made a remark about new laws at the border, and how long the wait was to cross. I muttered, “Bush!” and they laughed and nodded. It seemed that one word, my expression of contempt for Bush, at once caused the relaxation of a certain tension I hadn’t even been aware of, as if they suddenly went, “All right, these two are some of the good guys.”

Some of my prejudices were challenged, others reinforced. For an example of the latter, as we drove through a considerable part of Jaurez, I kept waiting to see a part of the city that didn’t cry out: The poor live here. I didn’t see one. Poor walls, run-down looking small housing, signs of neglect were in each of the many neighborhoods we passed through, making me feel like a privileged American. Which I am, in fact; that it was my comparative poverty that drove me to make this health-care choice does nothing to change my comparative wealth relative to so many of those I passed. While I curse the American health-care system, which caters to those better off than I; I am also aware that, by the standards of most of the world, I am a wealthy man. This is something I knew before, but now it hits me in face. It is humbling.

Walking into the mall the night before surgery, we saw a teen-age couple sneak into a spot underneath a stairway to make out in semi privacy. My biggest regret of the trip is that I didn’t grab Reesa and go make out in the spot next to them; thought of it just too late.

For those who ~~are as shallow as I~~ enjoy watching people, I have two remarks: one, the Mexican girls (and most of the women) in the mall wear too much makeup, and, two, Mexican men (and many of the boys) are beautiful. I mean, damn! I want to look like that. The only drawback is how many of them seem to know how good-looking they are.

Other differences between a mall in the USA and the one in Jaurez had to be looked for. The first is that there are more whole families there, and they seemed to my eye to be really happy to be out together, and having fun. The second is a women’s fashion issue the only my practiced eye would have picked up: there were a good number of low-cut dresses and tops, and a quite reasonable number of extremely short skirts and shorts; but no bare midriffs, which is odd considering the heat, and I assume to be cultural.

As Reesa has said, the hospital is clean and modern, the room by far the nicest I’ve ever seen. I felt shame at being in a foreign country unable to speak the language, but I saw no signs of impatience or annoyance at it from the staff or those associated with me. I didn’t run into any other American patients in the hotel, but no doubt there were some.

They came and prepped me for surgery, which involved making me wear the same hospital gown every other hospital makes you wear, sticking an IV in my hand, a consultation with a very pleasant and professional anesthesiologist, and a transfer on my back onto a gurney. There was little waiting; little time for my nervousness to get to the panic point, if it wanted to. Down the elevator, reassuring smiles, and into the operating theater with all of those lights (not yet lit) staring down at me. Here we go.

Posted on Words Words Words.

When you’re lost in the rain in Jaurez . . .

ShareThis

Further Border Adventures

reesa — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 22:49:24 +0000

Your first time or two visiting somewhere else, it’s hard to avoid comparing it to what you know at home. With some expected naysayers bleating about this medical venture of ours (usually quite racist in their tone), we’ve definitely been alert to perceiving the differences as well as the similarities to American culture in our time south of the border.

After Steve has a brief nap, he declares that his last pre-surgery meal will not be the attached hotel Denny’s even if he has to eat from snack machines. We decide to walk across the street to peruse the mall. Those of you dubious about eating out in Mexico will be assured to note that the creeping ooze of American food “culture” is quite thriving in Juarez: Burger King, the Scottish place, Wendy’s, and of course Starbucks reign among many other instantly recognizable logos across the city. (Well, technically they were putting the finishing touches on building a new Starbucks across from the hotel, but I’m positive they have more elsewhere.)

The mall is easily identifiable as a mall; Steve notes that if you blindfolded him and put him into the middle of the mall concourse without letting him see identifying signs, he would guess that he was in a Southwest town with a high Hispanic population, but would not be able to guess he was out of country unless he could see signs. Even the background drone of hundreds of talking people that is the default mall noise sounds like people shopping anywhere else.

There are a few familiar storefronts, and many more that are Mexican in origin but so obviously a counterpart to what we have in the US as to be easily identifiable. One observed quirk made me think of you, Kiki: there are six, (I counted!) six different shoe stores contained in one mall. We don’t spend much time looking at the shops because we are full of hunger, so after walking a few times between the various food courts and restaurant options we decide to see how they do Italian food in Mexico at a little café called Italianni’s. We’re seated along the side that is open to the mall thoroughfare, separated only by a wrought-iron half-wall. This is a superb place for people-watching, which is what we do for the whole meal. (More on those thoughts contained in another post, coming later.)

The meal itself is quite tasty, though I find I’m not that hungry myself. The best part of the meal (other than the people-watching) is the tasty drink that we couldn’t catch the name of due to the accent and speed with which the waiter pronounced it, but is essentially apple juice and merlot with a touch of sugar added. Delightful, and also attractive—they bring it to the table unmixed, with the deep red of the merlot in the top half of the glass slowly seeping down into the translucent amber of the juice.

We don’t linger after the meal but make our way through the still-bustling mall back to the entrance we know will point us toward the hotel. On one end the movie theater lines fill the food court and extend down the passage; we learn later that Wednesdays are a two-for-one ticket special. On the other end someone blares pop tunes at full volume while a room full of participants…exercise? Group-rate dance lessons? We don’t get close enough to tell.

One difference we observe returning to our room is that the road traffic does not seem to diminish at night. There are as many cars driving at 10 pm as there were when we arrived at 4:30pm. Steve spots the ideal place to cross the road, which is good, because otherwise it might have taken 20 minutes to get enough break in traffic. We return to our hotel and, though we attempt an early turn-in, are still up way too late for someone having surgery the next day. Steve is handling his decreased nicotine levels with surprising grace, and he does manage to get some hours of rest.

We awaken early enough for me to grab some complimentary breakfast, which is a generic “continental” set-up that is certainly no worse than American hotels and better than a few in which I’ve stayed. We meet our team assisting Steve in the pre-surgery process at the desk, and they decide we have enough time to visit a local pharmacy before Steve checks in. We linger too long in the pharmacy waiting for one of our purchases to be ready, but the nice things you hear about purchasing medical pharmaceuticals across the border we find to be happily true for us. (I obtained three inhaler refills for the price of one US refill, for example.)

We check into the hospital after chatting in the car about a police officer who was recently shot and discussing a bit of the local drug kingpin and some of his recent antics. The officers standing outside the hospital on guard all wear Kevlar vests as comfortably as if they never wore anything else. This is a distinct sensory contrast from when we enter, for the bottom floor doesn’t even smell like hospitals do and appears to be a fancy business building lobby. The illusion is only broken by the occasional scrub-dressed person passing through. It takes less than 15 minutes to process Steve’s paperwork which is notable since he left the chart he was supposed to bring with him sitting on the breakfast table back at the hotel. (We apologize to the assistant for making extra work.)

We take the elevator up and now it looks and smells much more medical. However, our expectations are scattered again when we get to our assigned room. It is seriously, no joke, the finest, classiest hospital room I have ever seen. Totally modern-looking medical bed, reasonably large TV, wood accents and floor (obviously a non-porous wood-like substance, but well done), and both a suede-covered recliner chair complete with built-in cup-rest and a suede-covered daybed-style couch with four huge pillows. Yes, really.

The prep team for Steve’s surgery is efficient and quick overall, they have four different people performing various preparatory duties on his different parts. Everyone seems to smile easily, even here. The only part that is obviously not-America (other than the luscious room and friendly helpful service) is the lack of latex. I don’t see most of the nurses using gloves for the prep, so one hopes that they are saving them for the doctor’s use at least.

They’ve wheeled Steve off and I’ve taken long enough to write this that he should be back within minutes, but for now I sit on a comfy couch, typing and waiting. I think I’ll try to find a net connection so I can post this at least somewhat close to real-time.

Posted on Words Words Words.

Further Border Adventures

ShareThis