Last night I accompanied Candice and Bri to the airport for Bri’s mom’s flight home. It was nice having a mom around for a few days, thanks Mrs. Widbin. Anyway, as we are making our way back I notice Candice is having some trouble breathing.
“Can I drink some of your water? If I can swallow, then I know my throat’s not closing up.” Not the most comforting statement. We wait a couple minutes to see if it gets better or worse. It seems to be getting worse, so we ask our driver to take us to the hospital. It’s now somewhere around 11:15 P.M. So our driver hits the gas as he and the other man traveling with us discuss what could be wrong with Candice. We speed into the hospital and get right to the door. (Note, most of the following dialogue was in Spanish and my poor attempt at Spanish, it has been translated to English here for your convenience.
“She can’t breathe, she needs oxygen.” I say.
“Oh, come right in and go on through.” the guard responds. We get taken all the way to the back to the emergency room which is a large room with about 15 beds about 3 of which are occupied. After being ignored by the 7 personell standing 2 feet from us, we sit Candice on the bed and I start talking to them.
“My friend can’t breathe.”
“Where is your paper?”
“What?”
“Your paper.”
“SHE CAN’T BREATHE.”
“Yes, I see. Where is your paper? You need one and have to pay for a consultation.”
“Okay, let’s go get the paper, where’s the paper?”
“In the front.”
“Are you going to watch here while I’m gone?”
“You need a paper.”
So we go to fill out the paper, which is telling them her name and what’s wrong (she can’t breathe). Then I had to go to another window and fill out who I was, and what was wrong (she still can’t breathe!).
So we have the paper, go to the back, give it to them, and I’m told I have to leave (Bri had to stay in the waiting room). I stand outside the door and peek around as much as I can to see what’s going on. Not much. Mostly the whole staff laughing about something on the computer while one person takes Candices blood pressure. About 15 minutes later they tell me to come back in.
“She needs medicine.”
“So give it to her.”
“Here is the paper, go outside to the pharmacy and get it filled and pay for it then come back and we’ll give it to her.” Someone is trying to be constructive at this point by putting a plastic bag over Candice’s face for her to breathe out of. I figured that causing a scene by punching everybody in the room wouldn’t be as helpful as getting the medicine, so off I go again.
To get life saving medicine in this hospital, one has to wait in the pharmacy line, then hand over the paper,
at a different window, then pick up the medicine at a third window. Off again to the back.
“Here, here it is, take it and give it to her.”
“You have to leave.”
So more waiting, then a little more, then we send our driver to see what’s going on (yes our taxi driver stayed the whole time, and while we paid him out the wazoo for it, he was very helpful and friendly).
Our taxi driver, who only know personal pronouns in English, tells us : “I need to chest picture me so to see if. Maybe ten more minutes.”
So 25 minutes later, we were off back to the house, making it home at about 2:30 with a breathing Candice and lighter hearts. God was definitley with us. Peace.
