Probaditas de Morelia

(Part 1 here)
Three trips to the medicine cabinet, food, and regular bodily functions had done nothing for my pain. It was time to get serious. We consulted Marisol’s dad, a non-practicing, but U.C. Davis educated, vet. He prescribed a strong drug that was a sure cure.

That night we had plans with friends who we are always canceling on for reasons much less compelling than what I could proffer that day: the pain of trying to digest what I could only surmise was a bag of rusty, burning daggers. So we went. 25 minutes later I was limping up the stairs to my apartment thinking I just needed to lie down. Five minutes after that I was limping back down my stairs on the way to the hospital.

This was not a medical institution that filled me with confidence. The consultation fee was $4.50 and the “doctor” that attended to me wore fake, green contacts, a white t-shirt with a big heart on it, and had bleached hair tips. After some arguing with her apparently more experience doctor colleague I was told I had Colitis, given some pills for the pain, and an enormous injection of the same which left me grinning, giddy, and unable to read.

I woke up groggy but amazingly without pain for, oh, about half an hour. With a few more doses of the new medicine it became clear that it cured an illness I did not have. The waves of intense discomfort came and went with increased ferocity. By 2pm we were again in a hospital – this time the cities best – talking with what appeared to be a real doctor. Blood and urine tests and an hour of waiting provided the answer: Salmonella. Most likely from my own cooking. In Palo Alto. California.

Vital Stats
Taxi rides: 7
Different medicines taken: 6
Days of mind numbing pain: 3
Doctors visits: 2
Overly easy eggs consumed: 2
Ears accidentally pierced: 1