Chapter 4

The first few days running my new little clinic were so full of cleaning and organizing the medicines that I hardly noticed the lack of patients.  The Petén was home to some of the largest rats I had ever seen, and during the last nurse’s absence, they had broken into the supply of laxatives and subsequently spread them and other unidentifiable materials over all the other shelves.  Every bottle had to be carefully wiped down and checked for expiration date. 

While I worked, I practiced my new Spanish vocabulary and tried not to jump at each new scratching sound in the thatch roof.  My clinic was inhabited not only by the rats, but by small lizards, innumerable bugs and the occasional tarantula or scorpion.  Focusing my thoughts away from the strange sounds, I dreamed of the many people I would help here.  The babies who stop crying, the smiling children, and the adults I would counsel.

I was content setting the little clinic to rights, but as the hours started to drift slowly by, I could only spend so many hours studying medical books and praying for the patients that God had sent me to care for.

You can imagine the thrill that came to me when I heard the slapping of running flip flops outside on cement porch and the call of “Buenas!”  God had finally answered my prayers.  My moment had come.   The moment I had sacrificed so much for, and prepared for, and dreamed of.  My moment to ease someone’s suffering and be their savior.

I hurried to the pharmacy.  The brown face staring in through the window was much smaller than I had expected, but I didn’t have much time to register this before the little girl cried,

“Mom says to come quickly.”

 My heart leapt.  Was my first case to be a real, live emergency?  When she saw my confusion, her words slowed down, but the urgency did not leave her voice. 

Slipping my feet into my rubber flip flops, I looked anxiously around my tiny clinic, adrenaline impeding my ability to choose supplies decisively.

“What’s wrong with your mother?” I demanded from the anxious little face, desperate for a clue as to what should be my next move. 

“It’s her goose.” she replied, “The neck is flopping.  It’s my brother’s fault, he hit it with a stick and now it might die!   Mom wants you to come and massage it.” 

My eyes widened and my face flushed.  My excitement turned to indignation.   Did I hear the word correctly?  Could my Spanish be the problem here, or did these people really think I had traveled 3000 miles to attend to their poultry?  

I grabbed my Spanish/English dictionary, but yes, ganso was the word, and yes, she was talking about a bird. 

“I am not a veterinarian,” I replied tersely, but then I suggested that when her mother had time, perhaps, she could bring the family by for a routine checkup and vitamins.  I saw the dread creep over her little face as she realized she would be conveying the bad news.  She turned and headed up the dirt road towards home, much more slowly than she had come.

I plopped back into my small plastic chair and retrieved my cumbersome textbook, but I was now unable to focus on the signs and symptoms of renal failure.  I had niggling thoughts all trying to get in around my concentrated effort to learn and prepare myself for future patients.

Finally breaking, I listened to the small voice asking me if pride was what was keeping me from attending the goose.  I admitted that my pride was hurt, but I was certainly not qualified in this type of medicine.  The longer I insisted that God could not possibly be asking this of me, the more convinced I became that I was turning down the first open door I had seen in a week. 

I slowly started looking at my supplies and questioningly began adding this and that to my bag. What do you need to massage a goose’s neck anyways?  Are they fuzzy?  Furry?  Feathery?  I had never seen a goose up close and it certainly wasn’t on my bucket list.  Little did I know that someday my list of actual life experiences would be much longer than my bucket list. 

A few minutes later I arrived at the simple home of saplings and tin.  This family of six had two small rooms for sleeping and cooking.  At the time, it seemed insufficient to me, but I did not yet realize how much of life in the tropics is lived outdoors. 

With little questioning on my part, a child pointed to a dark corner where the goose lay, with its distraught owner crouched at its side. 

She looked up at me with pain in her eyes and asked, “Is it a goner?” 

I felt a pang of fear and inadequacy as I realized I had no idea what normal goose vital signs were, or where to find them.  I clawed through my mental space realizing there was no box labeled ‘goose’.  For the first of many times, and I pulled my professionalism around me like a cloak and used the phrase that would become an old standby. 

“Well, now, let’s take a look.” 

I had no hope for this goose, and even less for my reputation, but I reached out my hands and touched the limp neck.  It was fluffy and feathery, making massage difficult.  After a few moments of awkward stroking, I wrapped it carefully in an ace bandage.  I then introduced myself to Doña Mima and her little tribe of adorable children.  A talkative woman, she explained to me how she spent her weekends selling tacos and other small food items at her mother’s store to make ends meet.  After many months of working and saving, she purchased this goose and was fattening it for Christmas.  Losing the goose would be a terrible loss for her family and might mean no celebration in December.  How could she and her family face Christmas without tamales?

As I started to realize the importance of the animal lying at my feet, I said a quick prayer that God would heal the sprained goose’s neck so this family could reap the benefits of their mother’s hustling.  After several cups of fresco and another forty-five minutes of chatting, I returned to the clinic to scrub my hands clean and try to re-gather some of my dignity.  I hoped this would be the last I would hear of geese.

The next morning, I had only been in the clinic for a few minutes when I heard the slapping of many flip flops on the front porch. 

“Buenas!”  shouted Flor, their oldest daughter.

   Five smiling faces with hair slicked back and perfumed with baby oil smiled in at me from the bench on the front porch. 

“We’re here for our checkups,” said Flor, “And my brother has some weird skin patches that Mom wants you to look at.   Oh, and by the way, the goose was up and walking around like new this morning!”

Over the next several weeks, new patients dribbled in as Doña Mima spread the news to her taco customers the new nurse cared about patients.  I never again was called on to treat a goose, but I am thankful for the goose that gave me the chance to spend my first hour in a village home.

 I learned that things are often more than they seem, and when in doubt, follow your patient’s lead.  Had I allowed my pride to win, I may have never found my way into the hearts of the people of Santa Rosita.