After five weeks of a wicked cough
After five weeks of a wicked cough, I finally do that thing I hate to do and call a doctor. It’s Easter weekend and there are no clinics open, so the doctor rolls up on a motorcycle for a house call.
It’s hard to ignore the irony of a doctor riding a motorcycle, but everyone does here. I see families of four on scooters, the two kids each on a parent’s lap, or maybe one standing on the seat sandwiched between two adults, arms wrapped around the neck of the driver. In the beach towns there are twelve year old girls weaving skillfully through traffic, sometimes with a younger sibling on the back.
I’ve never had a housecall before. I’m not sure if it’s possible to get a housecall in the U.S. and my mind refuses to even consider the cost. But Dr. Corres shows up in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck, a ballistic medical bag on his back, and a helmet under his arm.
He proceeds with a thorough series of questions and tests. He rules out antibiotics, and makes a list of minor medicines that will help. He says he wants to see a chest x-ray and writes me a prescription. He’s there for 35 minutes, and charges me 500 pesos.
500 pesos is about $30 USD. I am prepared for this but it’s still hard to accept. I try to be respectful but am torn between the desire to give him more and disgust for my own country’s medical system.
My cough gets better and then worse over the next few days so I walk down through the murals of Xochimilco to one of the x-ray clinics. The lady behind the desk has silver in her front teeth and is very patient with my shitty Spanish. Five minutes later I am being x-rayed with an ultra high-tech machine by an actual radiologist.
Like many doctors these days he looks fifteen years old, but I’ve seen his MD hanging in the sitting room. After a ten minute wait I walk out with a large film of my chest image and a full write up by the doctor. It costs 465 pesos.
Every medical professional I have seen here, from the dentist who did my implant and crown, to the imaging personnel, to the doctors, to the Zapotec healer who cured my constipation — have all been extremely meticulous, providing first rate work at one third to one twentieth the cost of the U.S.
It makes me love Mexico that much more to feel so well taken care of here. Tomorrow I’ll walk to the doctor’s office to hear what he has to say about my poor, suffering lungs. There’s good taco dorados over there so I’ll be sure to arrive hungry.
