El Scorpio

November ##, 2009, Room 10, Hostal Carlos Einstein, Playa Mazunte, Oaxaca, Mexico—We had just made steak sandwiches. Some of you may already grasp the inherent splendor of a steak sandwich but we were eating cheap in Mexico so these were very important steak sandwiches, rare delicacies intended to be enjoyed with leisure and comfort. I was carrying the plates into our room and carefully examining each (I have an eye for sandwiches), deciding which deserved my tribute. This is when this story stops being (entirely) about sandwiches, because this is when Emily screamed. From the scream I could tell it was something worse than stubbing a toe but less bad than being pursued by a scary person. It took one second upon seeing where she was standing in the doorway to know what had happened. Reaching into our secret key spot above the door Emily's right hand had encountered the forever-unseen protagonist of this story, an arachnid with armor and the ability to adjust the potency of its poison to suit the victim. If Emily was a creature the size of a hand she surely would have perished in minutes.
All previous information we had received about scorpions in Mexico was that they weren't really that dangerous, something akin to a bad bee sting, and that there were easy remedies for more serious cases. All previous information we had received was bullshit. Since she had been stung in the thumb, an extreme extremity, I figured that by the time the toxin had dissapated throughout her body the effect would be a mild numbing. I layed her on the bed and monitered the progression of the burning sensation she was feeling. During this time I was able to finish my sandwich, hardly as relaxed as l would have liked to have been, and set the other aside until she felt well enough to eat it. While I ate she reported the sensation moving from hand, to arm, to face, to the other arm, to the legs.
"Stay calm, keep your heart rate down," I told her between juicy bites. It wasn't long before she said her entire body was pins and needles.
"If it's hard to breath we'll go get help," I reassured her, not expecting it to get that far. Not more than five minutes later our fears were reality. I ran downstairs to ask advice from the locals. Crazy Carlos told me to rub lime on the sting and go catch a collectivo truck into town towards the hospital. Super sweet Cesar ran to the street to fetch a cab. But it was blunt-blazin' Beto that stepped up and offered a ride. I carried completely incapacitated Emily downstairs to the car and held her in the back of the hatchback while Beto raced us to the hospital (mistake #1), all the while smoking a huge hash joint which I thought it would be wise to partake in (mistake #2).
Upon arrival at the Pochutla Hospital I could see the displeasure in the masses of people crowded in the hallways and camping in the courtyards at the gringo carrying his drooling girlfriend who would surely be seen before them. While wandering around the hallways unable to read the signs and avoiding both eye and body contact a door popped open and we were ushered inside. This is when the story gets really crazy.
All we thought she needed according to our limited but logical knowledge was an antivenom shot. But first, the paperwork. In this sense the Mexican medical system is vastly superior to that of the USA, as we had not even proof of name let alone an address or HA! insurance. The nurse, or whatever he was, sat Emily on a half bed and then sat himself in front of a very shiny new computer. Then he turned to his typewriter, fed in the form and started with the questions. Of all the information that he wanted—and that we would have surely been required to give to be seen in the USA—after fifteen minutes or so he settled for just her name and the fact that I was her husband. Ok, we're ready for the antivenom now. Not so fast, they have to draw some blood first. Why you might ask (and we did)? "To make sure it isn't something else."
Not that I expected them to have them but we were certainly spoiled by American technology and we now realize how cool those little vacuum capsules that suck the blood right out are. They did it their way which consists of stabbing needles into Emily's arms and hands and waiting for the blood to drip itself into a vial. Not getting enough flow? Go get another nurse. She failed as well? That's ok, just try a bigger needle. That didn't work either? Try another spot. How about the back of the hand? Still not working huh? Just rub her arm like your milking a cow. Missed the vein? Just slide the needle in and out with a little upward pressure so you can watch it pass beneath her skin. Still haven't got enough? O yeah, we just realized that the venom has slowed her circulation to near zero and her extremities are cool to the touch. Five nurses, countless puncture wounds, a vial and a half of cold syrup blood, me stoned out of my head doing everything I can to not faint and/or scream at them and rip the needles out of their incompetent hands, and finally they come up with their ultimate solution, a 60-watt incandescent light bulb for Emily to park her numb-from-the-inside body under until she regains circulation. Is it just me or did we sort of lose sight of the issue?
Blood has been drawn, hours have passed, Emily has been thoroughly tortured but is still suffering, and I'm about to lose my mind half from dehydration and half wondering when they're actually going to do something productive. Eventually they move us out into a hallway with beds along the wall. We're flanked by a seriously ill little boy and what may have been a stabbing victim. They hook Emily up to a mystery IV bag and tell us it will be gone in two hours. By now I'm positive that we're going to leave this place sicker than we came. Also, fittingly, Emily has begun to feel better already on her own, proving that whatever this place did or would do to her was completely unnecessary. But we decide to wait out the bag because eh, who couldn't use some extra fluids?
It's well into night now. The guy that checked us in says he'll get us some food but he doesn't. That's it we're outta here. The bag is done and Emily is going to live, but wait, there's more! The cashier has left for the night—there's no way to pay—you'll have to sleep here! While we're at it we'll throw in an extra IV bag for the night so that you have to sleep with that needle still in the back of your hand. This was the second time I had to seriously restrain myself. They assured us there would be no charge for the night and since we're on a budget and the other option was a hotel in shitville Pochutla we made the best and cuddled up for a free night's sleep.
You should know by now that things wouldn't be that easy. Every hour or so we were awoken by either a scream, a cry, or an ornery security guard who didn't like me being in the bed with Emily. He insisted that I sleep sitting in the plastic chair next to the bed. You should also know that I told him to fuck himself and tried my best to get what sleep I could in bed with my girlfriend. As soon as was possible the next morning we were up and ready to go. I politely (really) asked the nurse to remove the needle from Emily's hand so that we could go. She told me that she wouldn't take it out until I went and payed her bill. I really unpolitely told her that if she was going to hold Emily hostage I would remove the thing myself and went for it. They removed the needle and with me as a crutch Emily walked to the cashiers line.
While we waited to pay our $50USD bill (almost entirely unnecessary blood tests) I tried my best to convince Emily that the best thing to do would be to walk out the door and not look back. She fought me and insisted on doing the "right thing". After waiting for the cashier to do his business on his typewriter we handed him a credit card to be done with it. Oops, this hospital only accepts cash. Sorry, I forgot to hit the ATM before rushing my girlfriend to the emergency room.
As we walked out the front door the guard stopped us and asked us for proof of payment. I told him we needed to go to the ATM and we'd be right back. He believed me and we escaped into the sunlight, limping into the dawn like the only two survivors of some classic horror movie. We'd survived the "Hospital from Hell", traumatized but alive; we just couldn't get hurt again.

PS—We later discovered that we should have gone to a local clinic to get the antivenom shot which she never got.
PPS—Emily's sandwich had been eaten by animals in the night.

Vamos al sur!