We were deep in negotiations. Mark wanted four more months of language classes in South America. I wanted to go home as scheduled. Our Ecuadorian visa was only good for 90 days, and Mark wanted to try out a new town every month, plus bus up through Central America and Mexico on the way home. It stressed me out to think about moving every month. We couldn't legally work in Ecuador. And, the bus ride home sounded like the least appealing of all options, though I will admit, I was interested in volunteering at a hospital or health-related industry, just for the experience.
I agreed to keep an open mind and search out options in Quito, but before Quito, we arrived in Cuenca, where we noticed a large number of retired gringos congregating around the western-looking Coffee Tree. It was an appealing town with a 300,000 population of non- honkers. It felt safe for walking around and had a sprawling historical district with familiar food options and loads of DVD stores. Life in Cuenca carried the possibility for community among English-speakers, and there were ample places such as hospitals and the Red Cross for opportunities to volunteer.
At breakfast, we inquired at the Windhorse, our favorite gringo breakfast cafe and discovered that, in fact, Cuenca was featured on International Living's top places to retire. Though more expensive than other places in S.A., the cost of living is still lower than in the States. It appeared that gringos were inflating the market. Condos were going for $110K+, but there were good reasons to migrate to Cuenca. The weather is pleasant year-round, although the 8,000 foot elevation can be a challenge for some.
While we were chatting, a retired submarine vet/real estate investor, Phil, mentioned to the owner, Craig, that is 80 year old retired lawyer friend, Bob, was in the hospital and needed blood or he would die. Mark and I asked which hospital and offered to donate a pint. Phil was like "Well, hop in a cab, and let's go." Phil had been living in Cuenca for seven months and didn't even attempt the Spanish. "Hospital. Two dollars," and when the driver didn't understand, he repeated himself more insistently in the same English. Mark and I offered to help "Moscoso Hospital Publico, por favor." We were off. At the free public hospital, we met another gringo, Ken, at the emergency exit. He was worried about his friend and happy to see more donors. Inside the maze, near the Banco Sangre (blood bank), we waited for a nurse to appear. Meanwhile, Ken entertained us with stories of carrying around vials of blood like an active participant in Bob's medical care team. He even relayed a story about a nurse who couldn't get the needle in properly, thus she let the blood drip down someone's hand, into the collection bag. We began to wonder what we would be in for. When we were finally called, about an hour later, we entered the nurse's station for the finger prick. I confirmed that the metal pricker was new and Mark wondered why I cringed and laughed- until he felt the old metal can opener type device pry open his middle finger. The nurse spread out three drops of blood onto a glass slide, added chemicals to each pool, swished it around with a toothpick, and sat it over a viewing light to confirm our blood types. We were both A+, and Bob had already received A+; he needed A-. There were already three bodies filling up the donation chairs, so they chased us back out without collecting a pint.
"Sorry we couldn't help, guys." Phil had been offering $10 to passerby-ers in the hallway, but couldn't find any takers. Ken tried to donate but had low blood pressure and was thus rejected. We hoped they'd find someone. We hopped back in a cab bound for the historic district and when we arrived at the Coffee Tree, Phil treated us to a slice of chocolate cake and drinks. We felt like things were maybe coming together for a potential stay in Cuenca. We had met part of the gringo community and found a place where I could inquire about volunteering.
The following morning, I printed my resume and took a cab back to the hospital to inquire about volunteer possibilities. After traipsing around the hospital and meeting with several administrators, it appeared there were no opportunities without medical credentials as a trained Dr. or nurse. I was disappointed, but decided that since I was there, I'd check in on Bob. He was sleeping amongst 5 other cots, so I wrote on a get-well-soon card and left it under a gift bag of biscotti. As I exited, a nurse told me that he needed toilet paper and I'd need to visit with social services to give them Bob's information. I explained that I'd never met the guy, just tried to donate blood, but that I'd buy him some toilet paper and see what I could do to find his contact information. I found a store outside the hospital and returned with a couple of rolls of toilet paper. Although it surprised me that a free clinic wouldn't provide this service, I wasn't going to leave someone without a basic necessity in life. It seemed inhumane, but when there's no money, it's just reality. When I returned, Bob was awake, so I introduced myself and spent the next hour laughing and joking with him. He confessed he wanted to steal the guy's food across from him and begged me to sneak him a glass of water, so I snuck him in a sip of the good stuff. He had an exam later in the day, but was so hungry and thirsty it was driving him crazy. He had tried to eat the biscotti, but the nurse took it away, "No eating or drinking before the exam. The Dr. will decide when you can eat and drink again." I felt stuck between helping him live and giving him whatever he wanted. For crying out loud, the man was 80 years old, living in a hostel in a foreign country with no family members to contact.
We discussed his information for the social worker. He directed me to a plastic bag of clothes in the small metal cabinet next to the bed. "Don't touch anything," he instructed. As I opened the bag, I understood why. His clothes were bloodied and soiled. The whole mess had an unpleasant aroma. He fished around for his pants which contained his wallet, no money inside, just an ID card, which we used to gather his passport number. He confessed he was staying in Ecuador illegally, "but don't tell them that." I felt a little sad inside when I asked if there was anyone he'd like them to contact in case of emergency and he replied, "I suppose, my landlord. I'm staying at a hostel." He'd been there for two years, without family contact. It broke my heart. I don't know his whole story, but the idea of dying at 80 years old, without family, and with a few friends in Cuenca... I realized how much I wanted to live at home, near my friends and family, with my own culture, with healthcare that provided toilet paper and a pint of blood if I was hemoraging internally. I shook Bob's hand and wished him well. Per his request, I took his favorite crime novel with me when I left. I hoped his friends would return with another book from the community book exchange, even though he had already read them all.
I agreed to keep an open mind and search out options in Quito, but before Quito, we arrived in Cuenca, where we noticed a large number of retired gringos congregating around the western-looking Coffee Tree. It was an appealing town with a 300,000 population of non- honkers. It felt safe for walking around and had a sprawling historical district with familiar food options and loads of DVD stores. Life in Cuenca carried the possibility for community among English-speakers, and there were ample places such as hospitals and the Red Cross for opportunities to volunteer.
At breakfast, we inquired at the Windhorse, our favorite gringo breakfast cafe and discovered that, in fact, Cuenca was featured on International Living's top places to retire. Though more expensive than other places in S.A., the cost of living is still lower than in the States. It appeared that gringos were inflating the market. Condos were going for $110K+, but there were good reasons to migrate to Cuenca. The weather is pleasant year-round, although the 8,000 foot elevation can be a challenge for some.
While we were chatting, a retired submarine vet/real estate investor, Phil, mentioned to the owner, Craig, that is 80 year old retired lawyer friend, Bob, was in the hospital and needed blood or he would die. Mark and I asked which hospital and offered to donate a pint. Phil was like "Well, hop in a cab, and let's go." Phil had been living in Cuenca for seven months and didn't even attempt the Spanish. "Hospital. Two dollars," and when the driver didn't understand, he repeated himself more insistently in the same English. Mark and I offered to help "Moscoso Hospital Publico, por favor." We were off. At the free public hospital, we met another gringo, Ken, at the emergency exit. He was worried about his friend and happy to see more donors. Inside the maze, near the Banco Sangre (blood bank), we waited for a nurse to appear. Meanwhile, Ken entertained us with stories of carrying around vials of blood like an active participant in Bob's medical care team. He even relayed a story about a nurse who couldn't get the needle in properly, thus she let the blood drip down someone's hand, into the collection bag. We began to wonder what we would be in for. When we were finally called, about an hour later, we entered the nurse's station for the finger prick. I confirmed that the metal pricker was new and Mark wondered why I cringed and laughed- until he felt the old metal can opener type device pry open his middle finger. The nurse spread out three drops of blood onto a glass slide, added chemicals to each pool, swished it around with a toothpick, and sat it over a viewing light to confirm our blood types. We were both A+, and Bob had already received A+; he needed A-. There were already three bodies filling up the donation chairs, so they chased us back out without collecting a pint.
"Sorry we couldn't help, guys." Phil had been offering $10 to passerby-ers in the hallway, but couldn't find any takers. Ken tried to donate but had low blood pressure and was thus rejected. We hoped they'd find someone. We hopped back in a cab bound for the historic district and when we arrived at the Coffee Tree, Phil treated us to a slice of chocolate cake and drinks. We felt like things were maybe coming together for a potential stay in Cuenca. We had met part of the gringo community and found a place where I could inquire about volunteering.
The following morning, I printed my resume and took a cab back to the hospital to inquire about volunteer possibilities. After traipsing around the hospital and meeting with several administrators, it appeared there were no opportunities without medical credentials as a trained Dr. or nurse. I was disappointed, but decided that since I was there, I'd check in on Bob. He was sleeping amongst 5 other cots, so I wrote on a get-well-soon card and left it under a gift bag of biscotti. As I exited, a nurse told me that he needed toilet paper and I'd need to visit with social services to give them Bob's information. I explained that I'd never met the guy, just tried to donate blood, but that I'd buy him some toilet paper and see what I could do to find his contact information. I found a store outside the hospital and returned with a couple of rolls of toilet paper. Although it surprised me that a free clinic wouldn't provide this service, I wasn't going to leave someone without a basic necessity in life. It seemed inhumane, but when there's no money, it's just reality. When I returned, Bob was awake, so I introduced myself and spent the next hour laughing and joking with him. He confessed he wanted to steal the guy's food across from him and begged me to sneak him a glass of water, so I snuck him in a sip of the good stuff. He had an exam later in the day, but was so hungry and thirsty it was driving him crazy. He had tried to eat the biscotti, but the nurse took it away, "No eating or drinking before the exam. The Dr. will decide when you can eat and drink again." I felt stuck between helping him live and giving him whatever he wanted. For crying out loud, the man was 80 years old, living in a hostel in a foreign country with no family members to contact.
We discussed his information for the social worker. He directed me to a plastic bag of clothes in the small metal cabinet next to the bed. "Don't touch anything," he instructed. As I opened the bag, I understood why. His clothes were bloodied and soiled. The whole mess had an unpleasant aroma. He fished around for his pants which contained his wallet, no money inside, just an ID card, which we used to gather his passport number. He confessed he was staying in Ecuador illegally, "but don't tell them that." I felt a little sad inside when I asked if there was anyone he'd like them to contact in case of emergency and he replied, "I suppose, my landlord. I'm staying at a hostel." He'd been there for two years, without family contact. It broke my heart. I don't know his whole story, but the idea of dying at 80 years old, without family, and with a few friends in Cuenca... I realized how much I wanted to live at home, near my friends and family, with my own culture, with healthcare that provided toilet paper and a pint of blood if I was hemoraging internally. I shook Bob's hand and wished him well. Per his request, I took his favorite crime novel with me when I left. I hoped his friends would return with another book from the community book exchange, even though he had already read them all.
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