Argentine Medicine: The curiosity and the trauma.

Classic Argentine gestures indicating:
Frustration, Ridiculousness and Watch Out!

It turns out that I’m still alive… but I haven’t written for a long time due to lack of internet and an evil lingering cold that I’ve been fighting the last two months. Don’t think I haven’t been occupied, though. I’ve been enjoying the Argentine healthcare system (this is that moment where I wish sarcasm actually translated via blogs, jaja!). Here’s what I’ve got for you:

Maybe I’m a bit nervous to begin with, but it’s been a little traumatic trying to navigate Argentine medicine. Let’s start with the good news: I have absolutely amazing medical insurance. Everything has been completely free, and that’s phenomenal. I suppose I can’t really complain too much considering the above-mentioned detail, but I’m going to anyway.

We’ll start with routine medical care. As soon as I got insurance, I scheduled a regular doctor visit and just picked a clinic conveniently located next to my house. I should have known better: Randomly picking a doctor in any country is a bad idea. So I found myself in a dirty, old clinic waiting next to howling children for hours. Finally, I was called into my new doctor’s office—and he was impressively old. I mean, people that old don’t normally leave their beds in the morning, let alone practice medicine. As much as I’d love to adopt him as my new grandfather, his medical advice was far past expiration date and I think I’ll continue shopping around.

Going to the gynecologist, on the other hand, was a lovely experience. I got a cute, chatty porteña who told me to drop my panties and began the routine items we ladies are all used to. The only odd detail: instead of her keeping my cultures, she gave them to me to carry to the laboratory nearby. While I did my best to keep them safe in my giant purse, I couldn’t help thinking that in the US we’d be a little concerned about contamination. However, I liked her enough I’m not going to whine too much.

As I mentioned, I’ve also been sick. In fact, I’ve been really sick. For a long time. After developing a stuffy nose and a cough for the third time in the last two months I decided I wanted some good drugs and asked my co-workers what they do when they’re sick. Apparently here you don’t go visit your doctor for a cold; instead you have two options: (a) either “order-in” and a doctor will come to your house or (b) go to the emergency room. While option (a) sounds convenient, there’s a 48-hour window so if you’re like me and can’t stay in your house for 48 consecutive hours, you’re left with option (b).

My first ancient practioner experience demonstrated that random point-and-choose isn't the best technique for choosing a medical facility, so I asked around and ended up in an ER my friend recommended. It was filled with stuffy noses, appalling coughs and all other manner of strange afflictions. After waiting an hour and a half the youngest little doctor I have ever seen called me into a back room where I timidly purched on the edge of a cot, next to a convulsing man. While she tried to figure out how to turn on the light to look at my throat, I described my on-and-off illness and told her I was worried that I might have some problem that I couldn’t shake with my own immune system. She nodded gravely and then told me we were going to do some tests.

Armed with little slips of paper, I ventured off, asking directions to different sections of the hospital. First, I had a throat culture to verify I didn’t have strep throat (this seems normal enough). Next, I wandered downstairs… for x-rays? Since they’re called “ecolograms” here I didn’t actually realize that’s what I was getting into. Interestingly enough, I’ve never had anyone x-ray me for a sore throat and a cough before, but apparently in Argentina they need to see your skull to diagnose a cold. The x-ray technician was a young kid with a euro-mullet who began hitting on me shamelessly. “Please put your arms over your head, stand sideways, and by the way, do you have a boyfriend?” When we were done he let me know that my photos had turned out absolutely beautiful and that he had all my information “except your phone number!” I coughed and gave him my loveliest sick-face smile.

Returning to the main floor clutching my sexy x-rays and throat culture results, I began searching for my little tiny doctor. Apparently, she was done for the day. Instead, I was attended to by another young male doctor. Unfortunately, this one wasn’t charmed and didn’t want my phone number. Instead, he seemed infuriated by my inability to speak quickly. Due to the masses of people waiting, he was obviously in a hurry. At this point I had been there about three hours, I felt awful and I had a doctor huffing at me as I attempted to explain, in my nervous Spanish, why I was in his office. So I did something really productive: I started crying. The doctor didn’t care: in fact, he seemed even more irritated. How dare I cry when he had other people to attend to? He glanced at my x-rays, ordered me to breath, listened to my chest, prescribed me some allergy medicine and ceremoniously shoved me out the door. Three pharmacies later I finally managed to purchase my medicine and headed home on the bus with my x-ray souvenirs. Maybe next time I’ll try option (a).

This week I was also privileged enough to experience even more interesting Argentine medicine. My first ancient doctor had ordered blood tests and my lovely gynecologist informed me that uterus ultrasounds are a routine part of feminine healthcare. So Thursday morning I found myself in a bustling laboratory, with a urine sample in my purse, prepared for uncomfortable poking and prodding.

Actually, I have to say that the uterus ultrasound is a good idea since often feminine maladies aren’t discovered until you’ve got a serious problem. It was incredibly painless (although I couldn’t help but giggle like a 15 year-old when she put a lubricated condom on a wand and stuck it up my vagina) and I even got to see my special lady parts on TV. I left with more souvenir photos—even sexier than the chest x-rays! I get to go back for the blood test results in a few days and then I can schedule my follow-up visits…

It seems like the entire medical experience is not just the system, or the insurance, or the practitioner… but also a bit of random luck. At first I was feeling terrified by the whole experience, but I have to admit that my fear has morphed into curiosity as I’ve discovered they do so many odd new little things here. I suppose there are good and bad doctors everywhere… and getting all of the routine items checked off is a pain no matter where you live.

Next up? The dentist. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Salvation Soup

I’m sick. You know that kind of sick where your head feels like it’s full of cotton balls and mucus? That’s me. Today at work I nearly burst into tears because someone was singing loudly. Obviously a sign I needed to go home.

Leaving work I briefly considered the option of taking a taxi, but decided that the bus was a better option and I trudged to the bus stop. Except there was no bus. I grumpily walked to the subte stop… and there was no subte. Apparently there’s a giant demonstration happening in the city center (where I work) which I was completely unaware of. This left me no choice but to hail a cab, except – where to find one? I spent about 20 minutes wandering up and down a maze of streets, drums and picketers before I finally encountered a taxi headed in my direction. I climbed into the cab and ceremoniously burst into tears. The taxi driver was more than generous, and once I was capable of speaking again we discussed the desperation that public transportation can produce. I arrived home in one (slightly tattered) piece.

Walking into my home, I was met with a giant smile and a big hug. Is there anything better than that? My roommie Natalia had just made the most aromatic, delicious pot of vegetable soup and we sat down and ate a warm, comforting lunch together. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful for a bowl of soup before in my life. It was like drinking salvation.

I definitely still feel sick, but it's amazing how a little bit of love can completely turn around an awful day. Here’s to winter, being sick, cold toes, stupid protests, taxi drivers, hot soup and above all, good friends.

My coffee is bubbling and it speaks Spanish.

Why is it that somedays I just don’t know? I don’t know what I want, I can’t figure out how I feel: decisions are illusive concepts floating just above the reach of my mental capacity. For some reason I think Argentina exaggerates this. I feel things more strongly, I take them more seriously – I am hit in the face by the most random, abstract little moments of what should be considered normalcy and then I’m confused.

And let’s not even talk about boys. That’s what I’m doing up at 4am: worrying about the “what-if’s” of the improbable. Dating in Argentina is like waking up one morning and discovering that when you pour your normal cup of morning coffee it starts bubbling and speaking Spanish. And you think, “WTF! I am SO not awake enough for this nonsense. I’m going back to bed. Wake me up when the coffee is drinkable.”

Ok, so I’m awake. I guess I’m just not prepared. You’d think that after being single for a couple years I’d be competent enough to go on a few dates and not be left laying awake all night chewing them through my tired little mind. No! That’s apparently not how it works. Apparently I’m still 16 inside when it comes to men. Except now I’ve got a healthy dose of cynicism to add to the mix. That’s probably why the coffee is bubbling. Why is it speaking Spanish? Obvio: that’s the Argentine factor.

I’m going to go kick something and try to go back to sleep now.

Oh baby, it's COLD outside!

It getting really, really cold here. Last year I arrived in the middle of winter, but I lived in places with central heating so my home was always warm. This year it’s a bit different. With the open roof and the paper-thin walls I’m discovering a new meaning for “chilly.”

November, 2007: pre-Argentina.
These are the people I want to be warm with. Miss you guys!!

Argentina makes me realize just how cushy my American life was. I miss my cozy, warm car. I miss not having to walk 15 blocks in the rain to work. I miss having central heating at home and at work.

This big, cold concrete city is teaching me how to be a little more resilient. There are so many things here that are just not easy the way things were in the states. I’ve learned to budget and live on a pittance of what I used to make in Cali. I’ve learned how to communicate in another language - personally and professionally - and simply refuse to give up even when no one understands me and I look like an idiot! I’ve figured out how to navigate a giant city without a car. I’ve learned to tolerate being pushed and shoved on buses and subways and in stores and in lines. I’ve discovered patience while waiting for 15 hours in a government office. I’ve learned how to be truly alone and appreciate my independence.

That’s just the way it is here. And, well, maybe I’m a little stubborn too. There is a part of me that relishes the daily challenges and feels life is sometimes more valuable when you have to work hard for it.

Other days I just don’t feel so tough. On these days I miss my cozy, warm, cushy little American life. I have to admit at the moment I’d really love to crawl into my car and drive home and curl up in front of the fireplace with the people I love. I suppose I’ll have to content myself with a cup of hot coffee and Skype for now. And when I make it back some day, you better believe I’ll appreciate those little comforts in an entirely new way.

Ruda Must Live!

Lately it's started to get cold at my house. We have a small table covered with struggling little plants. Since I’m a bit of an "indoor gardener" I am genuinely concerned about the survival of our tiny green friends. One, in particular, seems to be close to the end of his little plant life. He has sad, dry, shrunken little leaves. His name is Ruda.

Personally, I think Ruda’s sad state is a result of my roommie, Nati’s good intentions: immediately after purchasing him she decided to relocate Ruda to a rather large clay pot. Unfortunately, he didn't have time to root in well before the cold hit.

However, Nati she has a completely different theory. Ruda plants are said to have the power to absorb energy in a home. You are supposed to place them at the door of your house to suck up all the negative vibes. If the leaves get dry and it wilts, it means there is an overabundance of bad energy in your home. According to my Nati, our neighbors are spawning evil energy and therefore the plant is dying. In fact, the current Ruda is a replacement for a previous version who met a similar fate: it shriveled all up and died. I thought it was due to the fuzzy white bugs growing on it's leaves but according to Nati there's evil energy somewhere in our building.

I've always loved houseplants because they do have a bit of personality. Plants appear to be just "objects" but if you get to know them you discover they have personalities, they respond to attention, they love it if you talk to them, they appreciate sun and fertilizer and other little plant treats. Apparently, Ruda is sacrificing his tiny plant life for us by keeping our house warm and loving. He’s protecting and saving us.

Regardless of if it’s an untimely re-potting or an abundance of negative energy, I'm worried about the little guy. I want him to live. I want him to be happy. Somehow it seems so symbolic and sweet, and while my logical brain knows the rational explanation for plant troubles, my heart reaches out to Ruda’s little fight for the joy in our home.

Saying Goodbye and Starting Over

This was a sad week. Two of my girlfriends left, and my best friend, Natalie is leaving next week. So my recent activities included moping and good-bye parties. Top that with some male rejection and I’m left feeling a bit blue.

I suppose that it’s just the life of a foreigner, but this is the third time I’m “starting over” with friends. The problem is we are all transient: we’ll all leave eventually; even me. The Argentines know that! They don’t want to get too attached to us either.

Here’s the rainbow, though: I’m getting better at making new friends. That’s never been a personal strong point but this year has definitely forced me to be proactive about cultivating relationships, especially with other females. It’s amazing how effective a smile and a couple text messages can be. The people I’ve met here in Buenos Aires are all so interesting: everyone arrives with a story and a sparkle to them. The average escaping American I meet here is much higher caliber than the average person I meet in the US. While I’m lamenting the fact that my friends are leaving, I feel lucky to have met them, since they’ve each enriched my life in so many ways.

Someday I do have a desire to settle into a city and simply stay. Develop a network of close friends that I can keep for years. True intimacy doesn’t happen overnight, and I deeply miss the people who are close to my heart. For the time being, though, I’m planning to direct my energy into meeting more permanent friends… foreigners and Argentines… and maybe “starting over” won’t be so bad. I’m sure each person will contribute their own personal magic for a journey of discovery and hopefully a little adventure too!

New Bed! (Happy Dance)

Stitch loves our new bed too.

I bought a new bed; I'm completely ecstatic! It is my first large purchase in Argentina and I think it might mean I'm settling in a little bit. I'll have to stick around long enough to get some use out of it :)

A bed was also completely necessary. The need for new sleeping accommodations became obvious a couple weeks ago when the old bed ceremoniously crashed to the ground with a frightening thump. Not only did that scare me, but I began wondering if it was time for a diet?! Anyhoo, I did a janky repair job which left me sleeping tilted downwards and to the left. I've been reluctant to actually go make a big new purchase since I'm not 100% sure about housing and living at the moment, but the dreams of sliding down walls, hills, and mountains slowly convinced me.

Bed shopping was in and of itself an interesting experience. I trekked all over the city and peeked my head into a myriad of different stores. This confirmed the absolutely appalling customer service that is often found in Argentina. A bed is a fairly large purchase; you'd think SOMEONE would want to help me. Sheesh. Most stores only have a couple different options, so I had to visit to quite a few places in order to encounter any selection. Finally, I found a decent store and had fun laying all over beds and hearing about springs in Spanish.

I thought I actually had made a decision, when I was wandering through my neighborhood and I saw THE store. I'm not sure why it was THE store, but it was. I felt it the moment I saw the big, tacky green sign. The woman was magically helpful, engaged me in a rambling discussion about Obama and US politics, told me truly useful bed-related information and had an impressive selection. So I signed the little dotted line and they delivered it this morning.

I'm sitting in my new bed right now. It's needing some new throw pillows, but that's besides the point. It's glorious, it's marvelous; I LOVE it. Sweet dreams :)