The taxi speeds through the Tijuana roundabouts. Poverty is rampant: walls of trash and rubble, the occasional shanty shack, and more clotheslines than you see in America. But it’s not as bad as I expected.
We talk about hookworms the entire time. The driver doesn’t speak much English, but he seems to understand the word hookworm, since he looks Jasper’s way when he carelessly talks about how many worms he’s infected himself with. Jasper takes out his old passport photo – just to prove how horrible he looked. His face was bloated with Prednisone, he had several chins, his eyes looked puffy and bloodshot. The taxi driver studies it too, narrowly missing a car in the intersection. Finally, Jasper says, “Pull over here,” and we get out on a busy street filled with one story shops; car repair, a bakery, taquerias, offices. It isn’t glamorous and I again question it – what the hell am I doing?
You’d never know this was a doctor’s office, but then again, I’m used to UCSF. I love the contrast to my choices. The first stem-cell drug on the market at one of the top rated medical institutions in the world – or hookworms from some stranger I met on the internet?
Which is safer?
We walk down a tiled floor, past a room and the kitchen. The TV is on, and the coffee table filled with magazines. Dr. LLamas comes down the stairs and greets us. He hugs Jasper and we chat briefly, then the two go off somewhere to “discuss things”. A beautiful woman clicks around the kitchen in her suit and high heels, offers us beverages, then returns upstairs when we decline. I sit, nervously flipping through magazines. My husband falls asleep.
They finally descend, and it is my turn to follow Dr. Llamas. He brings me to the second floor, where typical medical rooms stand side by side. I’m somewhat relieved to follow him into a doctor’s office – patient bed with paper on it – a big wooden desk he sits behind. An accupuncture poster hangs on the wall. Large volumes on homeopathy rest on his shelf.
His head is big and smiling. He is jovial, obviously intelligent, and kind. We chat about my history, he writes old fashioned notes. Sometimes he shakes his head at my tragedies. We go on and on.
There’s a knock at the door. “El Vampiro”, he jokes. We pause to enter the blood taking room. I black out as I stand, anemia + low blood pressure, following their voices as my sight slowly returns. The blood man talks rapidly with Dr. Llamas in Spanish, and ties the tourniquet as he pokes for a vein. He never puts on gloves. I see a little dirt beneath his fingernails. He swabs my skin with alcohol, then feels, then swabs, then pokes. If he felt it after swabbing, then swabs again, isn’t the swab now contaminated? I think of all of my father’s warnings. I try not to panic. It’s too late, he’s drawing blood. I may add something else to the list of what I got in Mexico. I’m jumping into this with such blind trust, it’s ridiculous.
Yet if I tried Prochymal, the stem-cell drug, I had to sign a waiver stating I wouldn’t get pregnant for 5 more years. Because they have no idea what effect stem cells will have on the fetus. Or me. At least hookworms and women have been procreating together for a long, long time. El Vampiro fills his vials, and we go back to the office and continue writing down my endless disease history. Hours pass.
He lays me down on the paper covered table, and starts to palpitate my intestines. The ilium is hard and blocked. He feels the entire abdomen, and we agree that the inflammation seems worse in the ileal-cecal valve. I’ve had 4 partial blockages now in the last 2 months. So painful, the entrapped gas and feces can barely make it through. I fear another surgery. I underplayed it because I didn’t want them to reject me. I’m anemic with stenosis, exactly the sort of patient they deny. Dr. Llamas tells me to feel this area often. I am my best marker of success, and I will notice when the inflammation starts coming down. I sigh. For a flickering moment, I feel a surge of hope.
“I think this is going to work for you, it will just be hard to wait. You may have a hard time getting through the side effects.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, touching me, reassuring. I have never had a doctor show such kindness and confidence. I don’t believe him, but it sure is nice for a change. I am taller than him standing, but his white coat and gentle manner make me feel childlike. I hope I come back for my next dose improved. Just to see his smiling face.
Jasper and my husband are finally joined, incredulous at the time. I guess I’m their first patient with a 20 year disease history. Dr. Llamas gives each of us a hug, then helps flag a taxi to take back to the hotel. The blood test is done. The exam is over.
Nothing’s in the way between me and my worms.
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