Volume 10 - Issue 1, February 15, 2008 - Lake Chapala Review

Page 40 Lake Chapala Review
February 2008
The First Hard Fall
by Bernardo Picaso Translated by Louise Drummond
One evening at the
beginning of the month of
November: my son spoke to
me by telephone, “Yesterday
afternoon my nephew
Jorge came to tell me, “I
want to invite you and my
grandfather. On the last day
of this month I am going to
marry.”
I was very happy. For a
long time I have wanted
to be a great grandfather--
-I hope that this gallo does
not disappoint me. From that day on the great talk
of the family was of Jorge’s coming wedding. Among
many things was mentioned the place where the event
would take place: “It is a large and pretty space, but its
furnishings are all made of plastic, so it is cold.” Most of
note: the tuxedo, the black shoes, and coat for the cold
room. The tuxedo I shall rent, the shoes I shall buy. And
the coat? I will also buy it. Ni modo, it can’t be helped,
but I will not be cold at the wedding of my dear grandson.
On a splendid blue skied morning, accompanied by my
wife, I walked to the Plaza del Sol to buy my coat for the
wedding.
Having managed to get us there, upon passing the
restrooms at the mall, I needed to urinate, and I said
to my wife, “Wait for me. I am going to the restroom.”
It only takes a second for things to happen in life and I
tripped, and unfortunately, fell, nearly breaking the step
with my forehead. But the step did not break. It was
clear that I was the worst off. My forehead, according
to my wife, oozed a lot of blood. She became alarmed
and asked for help, which we was graciously given. The
mall’s paramedics arrived right away. They looked me
over, asked me questions, bandaged the wound, gave me
a pill, and serum. The only thing they didn’t do was to
give me a mint for the bad taste in my mouth.
Suddenly I heard a series of datos, facts, which
I did not understand. One paramedic asked the other,
and he asked me, “Where shall we take you?” Without
thinking much I said, “I am the play thing of IMSS,”
and once again, I lost. They put me into a Cruz Verde
ambulance. I excitedly thought, “At last, I am going to
travel in a vehicle with a siren,” but that day was not my
lucky day; they didn’t even use the horn. They took me
to Emergency where they put me onto another gurney,
and delivered me with the case history tucked below my
feet. They left me in a corridor because there was no
room in the emergency room. I was not alone in the
hallway, but had the company of other sick and injured
people. In less than half an hour a tall, black haired, clear
eyed doctor with a smiling face arrived. He read my case
history and yelled, “Who will suture this patient?” From
far behind me a woman’s voice said, “Me,” and a short,
young, pretty blonde opened a passage until she got to
the doctor. She looked at me coldly, tore off the bandage,
the hemorrhaging started again, the doctor topped the
wound with gauze, and to my newly arrived son, said
“Put your hand here and don’t take it away until I come
back.” As luck would have it, he finished his shift and did
not return.
The doctor on the next shift ordered that my wound
be stitched. The nursing supervisor said to him, “The
patient has waited an hour for the surgical unit for his
treatment.” At which, I had lost hope that they would do
a tru-tru on me, they took me to a room about six by six,
so small that they couldn’t turn the gurney around, but
an attendant found a way to put the light over my bed so
that the intern could stitch me. The intern covered my
face with a white towel. I could hear, but saw nothing.
A voice ordered, “Lupita, get me two number seven
curved needles, and number ten thread. Now the voice
is a woman’s and says, “There are only number four and
number five needles, and I brought you number seven
thread.” Again, I heard the voice of the intern consulting
with the doctor in charge, “Suture with this thread and
these needles?” “Yes,” said the doctor. “There is no
other.”
“How will my face look?” I thought. The intern
started to instruct me, “Don Bernardo, I am going to use
a local anesthetic which I will inject into your forehead
several times. It will not hurt much.” After twenty
puctures, all of which hurt, he asked me, “Does it hurt?”
I answered, “Yes, it hurts a lot.” “That can’t be. Your