29 December 2008
24 December 2008
Torture
Never again, I thought. I am never, ever going to cause myself an ingrown toenail.
That was six years ago.
It just happened again.
I cut my toenails back in November. My big toenails grow with a curve, and last month I didn´t keep in mind that life lesson I learned when I was in 10th grade. The day after cutting – Monday – my toes were fine. Two days later, though, my greatest fear returned: it was ingrown. It´ll grow out, I thought. I lied to myself for three weeks -- it will heal on its own, no painful clinic visit involved.
Then, last week, I attempted to perform self-surgery by trying to cut off the jagged piece that was growing into my skin. It appeared successful, for about a day. But the sharp pain returned, reminding me constantly every time I put pressure on my toe that I need to cut my toenails straight across, not try to remove every last bit of growth. At times unbearable, I walked with a limp. I felt no pain while barefoot or in sandals.
Then, this past weekend, I promised myself, -now-. Conveniently, Mexico City has no shortage of podiatrists. In fact, I found three within two blocks of my apartment. All of them were closed on Sunday, however, and I had to work Monday, so I decided to wait until yesterday, when I was in Santiago, Veracruz, for Christmas, to get it fixed.
Forty minutes waiting at the small, private clinic and the doctor didn't arrive. Ahmed and his mom asked the receptionist when the doctor arrived.
It sounded flakey, "well, I think one of the assistants sent a text message."
"Can't you call him then and ask when he'll arrive?"
"No, we can't call cell phones from the landline."
The inconveniences of Mexico's phone service. I said, forget it, I'll wait until tomorrow, and we left. Then Ahmed´s mom recognizes the doctor pulling up in his car. We run/limp back to the clinic, the doctor looks at my toe --it's infected-- and says he'll give me antibiotics and it'll be fine.
I say, no, it's ingrown and pushing into my skin, so the doctor, with no hesitation, says,
"Alright, then we'll take out the entire toenail. Are you diabetic?"
"No."
We go to a small operating room, where I climb up onto the bed, the nurse puts my foot on the tray. I'm sitting up, and she says, "Lie down".The doctor orders the nurse to gather anasthesia. I stay calm.
Then, he sanitizes my toe with alcohol. I feel a little prick, and a needle entering my body, shooting me up with local painkillers.
"Are you diabetic?" he asks again.
"No."
Then another prick, this one more painful, and then another, the most painful. I'm calm, but I can almost feel bits of calcium come off as I grind my teeth, and I squeeze my hands together, cracking my knuckles simultaneously as he gives me a third injection. Then a fourth, and he quickly inserts something between my toenail and my skin. I can feel pressure and pain, but nothing as stinging as the anasthesia. He asks me if it hurts, and I say yes. I think, what does it matter if it hurts, you're going to pull it out anyway and you've already loaded me with painkiller.
The doctor clamps the tweezers, or whatever he is using, and lifts my toenail from its place and pulls it out in one piece. I can see Ahmed and his mom from the corner of my eyes and they grimace. Later they tell me there was a little blood, as if I were sweating out a few drops.
"Ya?" (It's out?) I ask the doctor.
"Ya."
That was quick, I think. The whole process took less than five minutes. Those stinging moments of pain were some of the most intense I've felt.The nurse cleans and bandages my toe, then I limp out of the OR, clumsily, and the doctor writes me up a prescription on his typewriter.
He's very to-the-point, even curt.
"Name?"
"Bronson Pettitt, with four t's."
He writes it like Petttit, but it doesn't matter.
"When should I start on the antibiotics?"
"Now. It's going to start hurting once the anaesthesia wears off."
"Was it ingrown?"
"Yes, very ingrown."
"Can I see it?"
"Of course."
I hobble into the OR and ask the nurse. She grabs a piece of dressing and picks up my toenail from the floor. It's extremely curved, nearly a semi-circle. The edge is jagged on the ingrown side, with two sharp points that pierced my skin whenever I pressured my toe.
This perfectly removed big toenail would look creepy if I sent it to one of my enemies with a note that said, "This is only the beginning." Luckily for them, I have no enemies.
I wobble back into the doctor's office and he gives me an antibiotic and an
inflammatory. For the pills and operation, 350 pesos, or about $27 dollars, no insurance.
All in all, the same treatment I would've got in the U.S. -- maybe here a little cruder, but clean and efficient no less -- and at least ten times less expensive. I like to think that this time around, I learned my lesson.
On a side note, I´ve been in Mexico six months today. Later, highlights on my time here.
That was six years ago.
It just happened again.
I cut my toenails back in November. My big toenails grow with a curve, and last month I didn´t keep in mind that life lesson I learned when I was in 10th grade. The day after cutting – Monday – my toes were fine. Two days later, though, my greatest fear returned: it was ingrown. It´ll grow out, I thought. I lied to myself for three weeks -- it will heal on its own, no painful clinic visit involved.
Then, last week, I attempted to perform self-surgery by trying to cut off the jagged piece that was growing into my skin. It appeared successful, for about a day. But the sharp pain returned, reminding me constantly every time I put pressure on my toe that I need to cut my toenails straight across, not try to remove every last bit of growth. At times unbearable, I walked with a limp. I felt no pain while barefoot or in sandals.
Then, this past weekend, I promised myself, -now-. Conveniently, Mexico City has no shortage of podiatrists. In fact, I found three within two blocks of my apartment. All of them were closed on Sunday, however, and I had to work Monday, so I decided to wait until yesterday, when I was in Santiago, Veracruz, for Christmas, to get it fixed.
Forty minutes waiting at the small, private clinic and the doctor didn't arrive. Ahmed and his mom asked the receptionist when the doctor arrived.
It sounded flakey, "well, I think one of the assistants sent a text message."
"Can't you call him then and ask when he'll arrive?"
"No, we can't call cell phones from the landline."
The inconveniences of Mexico's phone service. I said, forget it, I'll wait until tomorrow, and we left. Then Ahmed´s mom recognizes the doctor pulling up in his car. We run/limp back to the clinic, the doctor looks at my toe --it's infected-- and says he'll give me antibiotics and it'll be fine.
I say, no, it's ingrown and pushing into my skin, so the doctor, with no hesitation, says,
"Alright, then we'll take out the entire toenail. Are you diabetic?"
"No."
We go to a small operating room, where I climb up onto the bed, the nurse puts my foot on the tray. I'm sitting up, and she says, "Lie down".The doctor orders the nurse to gather anasthesia. I stay calm.
Then, he sanitizes my toe with alcohol. I feel a little prick, and a needle entering my body, shooting me up with local painkillers.
"Are you diabetic?" he asks again.
"No."
Then another prick, this one more painful, and then another, the most painful. I'm calm, but I can almost feel bits of calcium come off as I grind my teeth, and I squeeze my hands together, cracking my knuckles simultaneously as he gives me a third injection. Then a fourth, and he quickly inserts something between my toenail and my skin. I can feel pressure and pain, but nothing as stinging as the anasthesia. He asks me if it hurts, and I say yes. I think, what does it matter if it hurts, you're going to pull it out anyway and you've already loaded me with painkiller.
The doctor clamps the tweezers, or whatever he is using, and lifts my toenail from its place and pulls it out in one piece. I can see Ahmed and his mom from the corner of my eyes and they grimace. Later they tell me there was a little blood, as if I were sweating out a few drops.
"Ya?" (It's out?) I ask the doctor.
"Ya."
That was quick, I think. The whole process took less than five minutes. Those stinging moments of pain were some of the most intense I've felt.The nurse cleans and bandages my toe, then I limp out of the OR, clumsily, and the doctor writes me up a prescription on his typewriter.
He's very to-the-point, even curt.
"Name?"
"Bronson Pettitt, with four t's."
He writes it like Petttit, but it doesn't matter.
"When should I start on the antibiotics?"
"Now. It's going to start hurting once the anaesthesia wears off."
"Was it ingrown?"
"Yes, very ingrown."
"Can I see it?"
"Of course."
I hobble into the OR and ask the nurse. She grabs a piece of dressing and picks up my toenail from the floor. It's extremely curved, nearly a semi-circle. The edge is jagged on the ingrown side, with two sharp points that pierced my skin whenever I pressured my toe.
This perfectly removed big toenail would look creepy if I sent it to one of my enemies with a note that said, "This is only the beginning." Luckily for them, I have no enemies.
I wobble back into the doctor's office and he gives me an antibiotic and an
inflammatory. For the pills and operation, 350 pesos, or about $27 dollars, no insurance.
All in all, the same treatment I would've got in the U.S. -- maybe here a little cruder, but clean and efficient no less -- and at least ten times less expensive. I like to think that this time around, I learned my lesson.
On a side note, I´ve been in Mexico six months today. Later, highlights on my time here.
22 December 2008
I need dance lessons
I wish I could dance. Almost every Mexican can dance, and many dance well. I don’t know if it comes to them naturally, or it’s a part of their educational curriculum, or they just go to enough parties, weddings and clubs that it becomes a learned talent. Mexican and Latin music are more dance-friendly as a whole – for example, Norteño music with accordion whines and an army of brass is bouncy and good to dance with short, high steps. When you listen to salsa it’s impossible not to follow the beat, even if it’s just with your fingers. Reggaeton, with it’s outright sexual lyrics and dirty, penetrating beat, seems to somehow justify grinding against other people, and Jarocho music from Veracruz makes you wish you would’ve taken at least a class or two in tap dancing.
Maybe Americans lack the culture – and proper music – for dancing, but being in Mexico, it’s tempting to get better at it, and quickly.
Maybe Americans lack the culture – and proper music – for dancing, but being in Mexico, it’s tempting to get better at it, and quickly.
19 December 2008
Monopoly
I make up for my near-complete lack of athletic skill with my aggressive dominance at Monopoly. On Sunday I played two friends, Ahmed and John, who were going bankrupt as I was buying hotels on the Baltic-Mediterranean block (the Ciudad Neza of Mexico City, one of the big slums) and the Pacific-Pennsylvania block (the ritzy, snooty, pretentious Polanco neighborhood of Mexico City).
I’ve been a Monopoly dork since I was young. Despite my strongly liberal leanings, I’m not afraid to show my capitalist side. I’m also good at Scrabble. They should make those two games into sports. Watching TV last night, John asked, “Since when did people playing poker on become a sport? Why would you watch that?” I wouldn’t. But I would watch people gobble properties up and baffle other players with words they’ve never heard of.
I’ve been a Monopoly dork since I was young. Despite my strongly liberal leanings, I’m not afraid to show my capitalist side. I’m also good at Scrabble. They should make those two games into sports. Watching TV last night, John asked, “Since when did people playing poker on become a sport? Why would you watch that?” I wouldn’t. But I would watch people gobble properties up and baffle other players with words they’ve never heard of.
17 December 2008
Changing pesos makes no cents
I think pretty soon I’ll have written about enough annoyances to put together a list of the 10-most irritating things about Mexico.
Here’s another: Nobody has change in this country. I was in line at a bank yesterday and THREE people in a row asked for change. The teller refused to give any of them change. In a bank! Luckily, I didn’t need change. One time I took 2,000 pesos (about $200) and switched them for 20-peso bills (about $2) at a bank. The teller turned white and quickly glanced around to make sure her boss wasn’t watching, but for those two weeks I didn’t have to bother with vendors telling me, in their nasally chilango accent,
“Pos no tengo cambio joveeen” (I don’t have change, young man [but in a nasally, exaggerated, sing-songy accent]).
I frequently diss them in my posts, and some times they deserve it (but I have a story about a good one which I will post shortly) but taxistas are among the worst offenders. Unlike vendors, who finally give in and grudgingly give you cambio, even if it´s their last bit, taxistas will downright take advantage.
“No tienes cambio brother?”
“No, neta no lo tengo (No, I really don’t have any)”
“….Utz pues, solo te puedo dar cinco pesooos (ootz, well, I can only give you five pesooos),”
You hand your money over reluctantly and you get out of the taxi four pesos poorer than you should be.
Carry change. Lots.
In that same vein, even stores rip you off. Many prices in supermarkets are listed in one-hundredths of a cent, while the lowest coin in Mexico is a ten-cent dime (.007 dollars). So if you buy a kilo of apples for 22.46 pesos, you’ll get charged 22.5 pesos. Those .04 pesos, which are worthless, add up, and multiplied by the number of things sold, well…
That’s like if U.S. vendors started listing their products at $3.238, for example. While the shopper would think it would cost $3.23, the register would ring it up as $3.24.
Here’s another: Nobody has change in this country. I was in line at a bank yesterday and THREE people in a row asked for change. The teller refused to give any of them change. In a bank! Luckily, I didn’t need change. One time I took 2,000 pesos (about $200) and switched them for 20-peso bills (about $2) at a bank. The teller turned white and quickly glanced around to make sure her boss wasn’t watching, but for those two weeks I didn’t have to bother with vendors telling me, in their nasally chilango accent,
“Pos no tengo cambio joveeen” (I don’t have change, young man [but in a nasally, exaggerated, sing-songy accent]).
I frequently diss them in my posts, and some times they deserve it (but I have a story about a good one which I will post shortly) but taxistas are among the worst offenders. Unlike vendors, who finally give in and grudgingly give you cambio, even if it´s their last bit, taxistas will downright take advantage.
“No tienes cambio brother?”
“No, neta no lo tengo (No, I really don’t have any)”
“….Utz pues, solo te puedo dar cinco pesooos (ootz, well, I can only give you five pesooos),”
You hand your money over reluctantly and you get out of the taxi four pesos poorer than you should be.
Carry change. Lots.
In that same vein, even stores rip you off. Many prices in supermarkets are listed in one-hundredths of a cent, while the lowest coin in Mexico is a ten-cent dime (.007 dollars). So if you buy a kilo of apples for 22.46 pesos, you’ll get charged 22.5 pesos. Those .04 pesos, which are worthless, add up, and multiplied by the number of things sold, well…
That’s like if U.S. vendors started listing their products at $3.238, for example. While the shopper would think it would cost $3.23, the register would ring it up as $3.24.
15 December 2008
Big hands, little napkins
One of the more frustrating things about having large hands and lengthy fingers here is that I use many napkins. Mexicans tend to have smaller hands than gringos and use less to clean themselves, whereas my pile of dirty servilletas is a small mountain. I should learn to play guitar.
Small hands and small feet go hand-in-hand (pun intended) but luckily I, with a size 10, am lucky that 10 or 11 is usually the highest shoes come. Some gringos I know find it nearly impossible (utz joven, te va´salir más carooo) to find shoes their size.
Small hands and small feet go hand-in-hand (pun intended) but luckily I, with a size 10, am lucky that 10 or 11 is usually the highest shoes come. Some gringos I know find it nearly impossible (utz joven, te va´salir más carooo) to find shoes their size.
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