Meeting the parasites

It was bound to happen eventually. We were told to expect it. No, plan for it. It could happen at a moment’s notice and even to the well-prepared. Despite these admonitions, I was bound and determined to be the exception.

That was before yesterday morning when I woke up nauseous, feverish and weak. And , folks, I knew I had been had. Somewhere along the way, I had been infected.

Getting parasites, amoebas, worms, or some combination of the three is just simply a part of living the Ecua-life. They’re nearly impossible to avoid and no matter how careful you are, they always seem to find a way to make themselves at home in your digestive system. 

So what was my mistake? Well, I’m still not entirely sure (and probably won’t ever be), but I did rinse off a small piece of fruit in tap water…and then ate it. (gasp!) As harmless as that sounds, it’s obviously enough to wreak havoc on a gringa’s stomach.

I spent the majority of the morning moaning and groaning and heaving the few contents of my stomach into a plastic bag. My wonderful host mom, seeing my plight, whipped up a large carafe of oregano tea to help dispel the nausea. (I had never heard of this home remedy before but it definitely works.) By lunchtime I had worked through a fourth of the carafe but, aside from the lessened nausea, was only feeling mildly better.

My bestest friend...oregano tea

After a phone call with one of our WT directors, I decided it would be best to seek medical attention before things got worse. Actually, I came to this decision only after being strongly encouraged by the director to do so. I did not relish the idea of sitting in a waiting room for hours while my stomach hosted a three ring circus.

After lunch, my host mom and older sister, Fernanda, packed me up in the car (so thankful we have not one but two cars—I couldn’t imagine having to take a bus or hail a taxi in my state) and drove me to the hospital.

Now, I won’t lie. When I heard “hospital,” visions of some ramshackle, cinderblock warehouse overflowing with the sick and diseased and barely a staff or medical supplies to treat them filled my mind. Of course, this was completely ridiculous as I had seen hospitals and clinics in Quito, but what can I say? I wasn’t feeling well and my imagination was getting the best of me.

The hospital did turn out to be a bust, though not for the aforementioned reasons. Since I had neither diarrhea nor a temperature, I was deemed fit as a fiddle by the triage nurse and was told, if I so chose, that I could visit one of the local clinics to seek additional treatment. By this point, all I wanted to do was crawl up onto the nearest cot and pass out.

Thankfully, my host family was not so easily deterred. Off to the clinic we went only to be met by a long line of the sick and diseased in front of us (so maybe I wasn’t completely off). Seeing that I was going down fast, my host mom took matters into her own hands. She grabbed the first employee she could find and informed them that I was an American and needed to be treated right now. (At least, I think she said something like that. It’s difficult to translate Spanish when you’re dying.)

We were immediately directed to a traveling community health RV that was parked outside of the clinic. At first I was skeptical about just what kind of treatment I was going to find inside. After all, it didn’t really look like much—more or less a step down from a Red Cross RV. But we were met at the door by two women, one a nurse, the other a doctor, and my mind was instantly at ease.

They were young and friendly, but highly competent and, unlike the hospital, took the time to take my vitals and hear me out. I left with antibiotics, pain relievers, oral rehydration salts, and much more peace of mind. And the best part? I didn’t have to pay a dime. After going through all this, the last thing I wanted to do was have to worry about filling out paperwork for insurance.

As the day progressed, I felt increasingly more myself and by today was feeling like the old me again. Thank goodness that whatever I ended up with was only a 24 hour thing. And thank goodness it happened now and not next week when I’ll be teaching!

So will I go through this all of this again at some point this year? Most likely. And I admit, I’m not looking forward to it. But there’s some comfort in knowing that I’ve been there and made it to the other side and am none the worse for wear.