Stranger in a strange land

You think that there is nothing worse than a sick child for whom you don't know what to do. Until you have a sick child for whom you don't know what to do and you find yourself in a foreign, third-world country and suddenly lose your grasp of that land's language as panic permeates your brain.

Today Madelena and I had the über bonding experience of a medical emergency — a serious case of adenovirus and its powerful effects on a 14-month old body. My baby girl was miserable, and the stories about liquid poo suddenly lost their romance and became more like a way by which to tell time - liquid poo every 10 minutes, accompanied by screams and tears and a sudden dearth of clean towels in our little apartment. I finally found an emergency doctor who spoke English not as well as I would like or he thinks, but it was enough to bridge the gap. We journeyed to the most dangerous part of Antigua (for Americans or "whitey" as I came to think of myself) where the doctor's office was located, behind a gate with a rifle-armed guard. Among the handful of beautiful 4 foot Guatemalans, I stood out like a black man at a Tom Metzger dinner party/rabble rousing.

The doctor was kind and efficient and, in retrospect, humorous in his command of the language.

"When the diarrhea come no more, you throw yourself on the medicine." For a brief moment, I imagined the medicine as a bomb upon which I needed to throw my body to save my child, but was able to recover enough to discern what he meant. "For the test, you irritate her anus and expire the feces." I didn't even want to translate that to Spanish and back, so instead asked if I could use a soiled diaper. Thankfully, there was no need to irritate her little anus, and a diaper would do.

We waited then for over an hour for taxis that said they'd come and never did, as the rain began to pound the dirt street outside of the doctor's office. I realized that I knew no one here, had no phone number to call as darkness fell and we were miles from our home and unable to find our way — though to walk into the street with my little brown baby would have put us immediate danger because of the anti-adoption sentiment and recent raid, and was in no way feasible. I began to sweat in a horrible, acrid way that made me feel even more panicky, unpleasant and obvious among the few other women around me. Finally, as the sun set and I began to hatch a plan to coerce the doctor into taking us to our home, our taxi arrived.

The cab driver was my savior. He brought us home and waited 20 minutes after I asked our guard to call the maid to come back and care for Madelena so I could spare her the next hour or more of errands in the dark streets of Antigua. Then it was off to the laboratory to have her diapers analyzed, waiting in dimly lit reception room where I had the surreal experience of watching Backyardigans in Spanish while a Mayan woman next to me laughed every time Pablo spoke. The TV was in a cage, high on the wall, as if someone might otherwise walk out with its early 80s self. Then it was off to the first of four pharmacies to get our prescriptions filled, finally finding one that was still open though in one of the more dangerous parts of town, so all personnel and goods — even toothpaste — were kept behind a barred counter where money and goods were slid underneath the 6" opening at the bottom. Por fin, it was time to get home to my baby.

When I walked in the door, I found Madelena playing with Doris on the sofa, throwing blocks on the floor in her inimitable way, applauding for herself. She looked up at me, quizzically as if to place my face...someone she knew.... but from where...and then broke into an ear-to-ear grin and threw up her arms to be lifted into mine. And I knew that as awful, truly awful the last four hours had been, I would go to more than hell and back to have that greeting and know that my child would be well.

We're moms. It's what we do.