Like some
migratory bird, she flew north each spring from
her home near Mexico City to spend a few months
with us in California. While here, she would
amuse herself knitting woolen slippers for every
member of the family or preparing herbal remedies
for my occasional attacks of the blues, which
Rosa cheerfully called "los nervios."
But she was happiest on those occasions when we
would take her to see the San Diego Padres play
baseball. Then she would rise to her full five
feet and sing the national anthem proudly, in a
fine vibrato, although the words she sang were
all of her own invention.
The day she
broke her hip, she was en route to us, but had
stopped to visit a sister in Ensenada, seventy
miles south of the San Diego-Tijuana border. The
phone call came from Ensenada one bright June
morning while I was at my office in one of San
Diego's large medical centers. In a frightened
voice, my husband's cousin Sara poured out a
jumbled message. Rosa had fallen, they took her
to the hospital, the doctors were talking
surgery, we must come right away. Images flooded
my mind: Rosa puttering happily in my kitchen,
cooking the best albondigas in the world; Rosa
guiding me through the colorful mazes of a market
in Mexico; and a future image of Rosa diminished,
moving painfully from bed to bathroom with a
walker, as I had seen so many elderly patients
do. My voice was shaking as I reassured Sara that
we would be there as soon as possible.
The hospital in
Ensenada is an old one story structure huddled
between a paint store and a taco stand. We found
Rosa in a narrow manual-crank hospital bed which
occupied virtually the entire cubicle allotted to
her. Her left leg was supported by Mexican-style
traction consisting of a sheet wrapped around the
ankle and looped over a metal bar, then weighted
by means of a plastic gallon water bottle filled
with water. Although there was no room in the
cubicle for even one chair, her bed was ringed
with chattering family: sister, brother-in-law,
niece, two small grand-nephews. The bed itself
was strewn with the fragrant remains of tacos and
burritos and fresh chile sauce. Rosa looked small
and pale but serene in the warm glow of family
and food.
Having spent
twenty years as a pediatrician, I had forgotten
most of what little orthopedics I ever learned.
But I remembered enough to know that time was of
the essence in pinning a fractured hip, and I
asked the nurse who came to greet us if we could
speak to the orthopedic surgeon.
"Ah,
señora," the nurse told me,
"regrettably the orthopedic surgeon is away
in Guadalajara, but he should be back in a week
or two." I must have blanched, because she
hastened to add, "but, if you wish, you can
speak to the intern who is on duty here tomorrow.
He, too, is an orthopedic doctor." I felt
only marginally reassured, but the conversation
was clearly over: the nurse was busy plumping up
Rosa's pillow and smoothing back the hair from
her brow.
Dr. Garcia, the
intern, looked frighteningly young to me, but he
exuded energy and confidence. Yes, he could
certainly perform the required surgery--he knew
the procedure well. All he needed were the
necessary surgical instruments; he would order
them from Mexico City immediately. They should
arrive within ten days. Ten days! Didn't this man
realize that if Rosa were in a U.S. hospital she
would already be on her first post-op day by now,
up and moving? Gently, patiently, the young
doctor pointed out to me that this was not a U.S.
hospital, but was, rather, a small hospital in a
small town in a poor country. High tech surgical
instruments were hard to come by. But
perhaps--and his face lit up--perhaps the Señora
and her husband could purchase the instruments in
California and bring them to Ensenada? He looked
eager, a child peering through a shop window at a
shiny toy.
After a wild
drive north and hours of frantic searching, we
finally located the appropriate surgical set in a
medical supply store in San Diego. The salesman
astounded me by offering to buy back any unused
instruments after the surgery. Nothing in my
medical training had prepared me for any part of
this experience. Feeling like Alice in a weird
wonderland, I paid the man, and we raced back
south across the border with our sterile cargo.
Dr. Garcia caressed the package with undisguised
love: he could hardly wait to wrap his fingers
around the smooth metal. Mañana, he promised.
Tomorrow he would operate--provided, of course,
that there was an operating room available, that
there were enough nurses in the hospital, that
our family had supplied enough blood . . . He
disappeared with the surgical pack, smiling
happily. I began to understand dimly that I was,
indeed, moving through a world whose rules were
utterly different than those of the crisp,
efficient medical world I knew. Here was a world
incomprehensibly poor in material resources, but
vastly rich in humanity; and everything here
depended on people: their ingenuity, their
generosity, their love.
Of course,
there were plenty of willing blood donors among
the family members. My husband and I phoned the
hospital director at his home in the evening to
request his personal help in securing an
operating room. We made the call from a small
shop whose owner had opened after hours,
especially for us, when Rosa's nurse sent us out
to buy a surgical drain they would need. Finally,
when Rosa was prepped and ready, and lying on the
gurney, my husband had to run to the corner store
for nail polish remover to clean her manicured
nails before she could go to the O.R. The nurse
who wheeled her down the hall to surgery held her
hand, murmuring endearments like a mother to a
small child.
Rosa survived
the surgery, and eventually returned to her home
outside of Mexico City. But she never again
walked without fear, and her spirit slowly
withered away like a wild bird in captivity. She
died almost two years later, on Easter Sunday, el
domingo de la resurección. Now, whenever we
visit the family in Mexico, we visit Rosa too,
under the pepper tree where she lies with her
parents and a brother who went before her. And
there, on sunny afternoons, a lone swallow swoops
and dives among the leaves, its wings humming
with a fine vibrato.
In these
turbulent times for our own health care system,
beset as it is by shrinking resources and rising
human need, I often think of the little hospital
room in Ensenada where pain and hope mingled with
the fragrance of fresh tortillas, and where Rosa
held us beneath her wings in an unbroken circle
of love.