Baños Day 3

Sunday, September 14th, 2008.

Forenote: Pictures will be added later due to internet that should have been upgraded in the Jurassic Period or before 400 A.D.

Baños, Day 3:
Alisa is asleep. I’m awake in bed. In the bathroom. In bed. Repeat and add water – lots of it.

Guest writer: Nathan Conroy’s mind.

We’re supposed to leave for Cuenca today, but I can’t go to Cuenca if I’m feeling like this and am so dependent on a bathroom that I can hardly stand to be 10 feet away at any given time. And if I do not need the bathroom, I need a bed…something’s not right here. Something’s amiss. If this doesn’t turn around soon, it might mean worse than missing a trip to Cuenca. Well, I’ll just keep hydrating and resting until Alisa wakes up. I wonder what time it is. What time could it be? It’s still dark out. Bathroom. I can’t believe with all of my movement that I haven’t wrestled Alisa from her sleep yet. Oh yeah: she has ear plugs.

Alisa wakes up. I rest some more. I curl up and tell her I think I need some attention – some medical attention. She goes to the front desk of the hostel and returns to the room with news that the doctor is on his way. The doctor arrives with his locked, silver case that could be for fishing, drug deals, dj-ing, or apparently for being a doctor in Baños. He opens it and takes out his stethoscope. I’m examined. Rather, my ankles are viewed and touched, my mouth is opened, and my stomach and intestines region is listened to. I’m also quizzed and ace it. What’s my age? 23. Bam! Next?

Then it’s his turn to tell me things. I have Salmonella poisoning and it’s serious. I’m at Stage 3 dehydration. I ask Alisa to ask him how many stages of dehydration there are. He says three. I’m going to need an IV in my arm that pumps 3 litres – 3 litres – 3 litres – of syrum into my arm, requiring me to lie in bed for the rest of my life. Today, at least.

If I need to go to the bathroom, I need to take the bag of syrum with me and keep it above my head. This is easier if someone else does it for me. Hi, Alisa! Haha. Luckily there’s a hook in the bathroom from which the bag of syrum can hang. And even I can place it there. I feel weak and tired.

The doctor says I have arms like Michael Phelps. I bent the first needle that he tried to put into my vein. As I used to break all of the needles my parents bought for their turntable back in the good old days, I see a pattern emerging. The doctor keeps apologizing because this is the first time this has ever happened to him and it seems to have struck an embarrassed note in his song. This seems funny to me, though: I’m the one that broke the needle, not him! Imagine my parents saying sorry to little three-year-old me every time I smiled and broke their expensive turntable needle and ruined their chances to listen to good music, which they sometimes opted for over a good meal!

The needle’s documents seem legitimate, according to the customs for my second vein. The fluids start coming. The doctor adds a few shots of antibiotics in with the syrum and my conversion into a fish tank pharmacy has begun.

Most of the day involves being checked on by the nurse and Alisa. The highlights of the day were watching Wall-E with Alisa in bed, which she bought for $1.50, and getting better at the end of the day, in time to walk up to the roof and help Alisa make a nice soup of all of the ingredients that I’m actually allowed to eat. I think dirt is on that list?

I felt like I was 90 today, looking out the same window all day, seeing details change but not for me. It was very strange and I don’t think I liked it much.

Back on my feet now with a supermarket of pills in my pocket divided into mealtimes, I’m sure I’ll be better in no time. And hey – Alisa’s feeling good, too. She’s beating some other travelers into oblivion in the card game known to some as “What’s the name of this? We can call it Royal Snap,” but known to Alisa and other card sharks as Egyptian Ratscrew.

I can’t wait to leave the room tomorrow for Cuenca!