Free
Healthcare in the Third World
November 2005
Part
I: Open Wound
The car door opened and my screeching bicycle torqued to meet it, the
glinting metal point of the aimed at my chest. As my front wheel coupled
the maw of the open door, my body catapulted the handlebars, pounding
straight into the menacing aforementioned glint, which dug under the skin
protecting my breastbone protecting my now rapidly pulsing heart, gouging
a not-so-pretty crater in my chest. (Ed.: Egregiously grotesque imagery
provided to scare and beckon reader onward.)
I had been returning home from a computer store, the sun turning the usual
hazy haze to a brighter hazy haze. It was maybe 5 PM, and traffic was
moving at a slow-but-steady clip. I too was moving along at a swift pace,
iPod jammin’ to some old school Kris Kross. Cruising down
a slope I spied a long backup at the traffic light ahead, a perfect chance
to hug the curb and fly by the backlog of autos on my svelte 2-wheeler.
I was just floating by.
Just floating by, of course, until Mr. Man decided to open his passenger-side
door. I remember blurting out a futile “Oh no!” (or something
perhaps a little more NC-17), then slamming on my brakes as my body javelined
itself chest straight for the point of the door, calculating in an instant
to take the brunt of the blow with the breastbone rather than allow a
supple and crucial organ (read: liver) get mangled.
After my requisite stumble to the sidewalk, in one swift move I unplugged
the headphones from the iPod and yanked the white cable up through my
Grêmio jersey (carefully leaning forward so as not to bloody it
with my gaping wound), admiring the poetry in the fact that my beloved
team’s jersey was blood-stained and torn, scarred in concert with
my flesh.
Curiously, the culprit of this heinous crime, Mr. I-Get-Out-The-Car-At-Stoplights
reacted rather coldly to my condition. Giving me a quick once-over, he
turned back to the car, checked that his door still closed flush, and
waved his driver friend on. There’s no problem here, his
actions demurred. To his credit, I felt relatively okay, and there was
a hospital only a block away, but apparently he was a bit more preoccupied
with his happy-hour date than my sweaty and bloody half-naked self.
Can’t say I blame him.
So there I was, alone on the street corner, with the afternoon traffic
whizzing by, my bicycle limping around, my black backpack baking in the
sun.
I set off, calling Vitor, the most likely to answer his phone and get
the cavalry going. As hoped, he answered in an instant, and the cavalry
(he and my cousin Ana, his wife), were off to meet me at the hospital
across the street. As I waited, I smiled to myself a bit: this would make
a good story for my site.
Part II: Festering Wound
Though the closest hospital had no emergency room, a cab ride and a few
bucks later were all it took to get me the facilities I needed. After
a quick check-in, I entered the vast concrete cube ante-room with a dozen
drawn faces yawning at me with their tired eyes; I assumed my position
at the end of a horseshoe-shaped chain of airport bench chairs. It was
hot, there was nary a magazine in sight, and I was about number 18 in
line. A long wait awaited.
The emergency waiting room experience was bland and relatively uneventful,
save for a few choice moments:
Cut
to the scene: a steadily growing line of sweaty, bloody, stinky,
sore, tired patients, with orderlies calling out names at a slug’s
pace. Whenever a patient is called, everyone shuffles over one seat, so
as to eventually reach the seat of honor next to the coveted suture room.
What’s he got? they wonder, as I hold an ice-cold can of
Coke to my bruised knee. What’s wrong with you? they ask
with their suspicious looks. You probably don’t need to be in
this line ahead of me, their tone insinuates.
The lady two down with a child on her lap tells how her daughter fell
off the balanço on the playground.
Balanço = balance = teeter-totter, I think to myself.
Poor girl, I think to myself.
She’s crying.
I offer them a Coke.
"Não, obrigada," they reply.
One hour goes by. The monotonous drool of musical chairs continues.
The man next to me tells me he sliced open his hand with a cleaver in
the office kitchen.
Slice!
Tough break, Lefty, I think. You’ll have to wait until
I’m all stitched up, too.
As I’m lamenting his bad luck, it hits me that balanço
is the name for swing. Ohhhh, the little girl fell off a swing! That’s
much more serious than a teeter-totter. I feel sorrier for her than before.
That’ll be a long wait getting that bump on your head MRI-ed,
I think. Too bad you aren’t ahead of me, little girl.
2 hours go by, and still 6 people wait in front of me. My butt is steadily
getting sorer, though the knee is holding up. The gash in my chest doesn’t
hurt an ounce.
Vitor and Ana come back, amazed that I still haven’t seen a doctor.
Not only that, we haven’t even been attended to by even a nurse,
an intern, or anyone dressed in anything remotely resembling a white gown.
One would think they would offer ice or bandages or at least some perfume
for the smelly people in line, wouldn’t one? This one would.
It’s still hot. The troops are getting feisty. I’m cool as
a cuke, but bored and hot and bored.
Part III: Closed Wound
And just as I’m wondering all of this, just like that it’s
my turn! At first I almost miss my chance, not recognizing in my drooling
daydreamy state that “Crol Vinderle” is actually me. But they
stare me down as the token gringo, and I’m up and practically prancing
through the swinging door!
It’s glorious inside. Imagine those suture rooms in those war tents,
except in a big boring hospital room and with really cold air conditioning.
My nipples go taut in an instant. Like I said: glorious! I’m shuffled
over to one of the closer beds on the right side and instructed to lie
down.
A cute couple of interns are delighted to be on the gringo’s case,
explaining to me in their passable English that I’ll need a tetanus
shot, escorting me to a little side booth and administering the injection.
I’m still in a bit of a fast-forward daze, now that showtime has
hit after the 3-hour pregame, and all I can think about is that all this
attention and service is free. Free-free-free. Gotta love it,
now that I’m inside the club and no longer waiting outside the door.
Pump me full of whatever you got.
The girl, Priscila, leads me back to the hard cold aluminum table, reaching
for what appear to be frayed tennis strings dipped in blood. She stitches
me up with all the precision of a doctor, or that of an intern. It doesn’t
matter: It’s my first time—I can’t tell the difference.
1-pull-jerk-2-pull-jerk-3-pull-jerk-tie-tie. “Do I need to
do more?” she asks the old doctor. “No, that looks fine.”
I, meanwhile, wonder.
She doesn’t ask my opinion. “You’re all done!”
Epilogue
Within 10 minutes I was being hastily shuffled out the door, the humid
dank air condensing on my skin in an instant.
I was once again a free man, armed with 3 cat-gut stitches and one more
experience to write home about, a story of the magic of free Brazilian
healthcare: not pretty, not really that interesting, not necessarily pleasant,
but free as refills at McDonald’s.
Not that they actually have free refills at any fast-food joints
here in Brazil—too many people would camp out, injecting it 24 hours
a day, they figure.
But that’s a story for another time.
Carl
Winter is a Taiwan-born Brazilian/American dual-citizen, living in Brazil
for the first time at the age of 28. The posted stories, pictures, digit$ and flix are meant to give an indication of the daily fabric of Brazil —
from an outsider's inside perspective.
If you are planning a trip to Brazil, or just want to say hi, email him
here.
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