Serrano?”
Pause.
She moved a hand in the direction of the dump.
“What’s wrong with your daughter?”
She smiled slowly, looking at the ground. “My daughter? There is something wrong with her.” She laughed in slow motion.
I was baffled.
I put my hand on her forehead; it was dry as a skull, burning.
“I have dysentery,” she said.
Someone coughed behind me. Mr. Serrano had arrived to see who was bothering his family. He was a hearty man with a hat and a drooping mustache. He gripped my hand and pumped it.
“Good to meet you!”
I told him his wife was seriously ill.
“I know it,” he said. “Watch this.” He grabbed her arm and pinched up a section of her skin. When he let it go, it stayed elevated, like clay, or a pinch of Silly Putty. A sign of severe dehydration. They call it “tenting.”
“Está toda seca,”
he said. (She’s all dry.)
“The baby?” I asked.
She laughed.
“Touch it,” Mr. Serrano said.
I put my hand on her stomach. It was hard.
I brought them supplies from the vans: water, a quart of vitamin D milk, a pound of rice, a pound of beans, a large can of tuna, a large can of peaches, a large can of fruit cocktail, one dozen flour tortillas, corn, a can of Veg-All mixed vegetables,bread, a fresh chicken, and doughnuts for the kids. I told Mr. Serrano to keep her in bed and to pour fluids down her, and I’d be back the next day with Dave and a
gringo
doctor.
They both laughed. He kept rubbing his hand over his face, up to the hat, down over the chin.
The next day, when Dave and I returned with the doctor, Mrs. Serrano was sitting in the sun on a broken kitchen chair.
“I’m back,” I said. “Remember I told you I’d come back?”
She didn’t respond.
The doctor crouched before her and felt her stomach. He pulled up her lids, felt her brow, and took her pulse. He shook out his thermometer and put it in her mouth. She submitted to everything.
“Tell her I need a stool sample. Tell her I need to see some stool.”
I told her. She got up and motioned for us to follow her. She led us to the south wall of the shack—the outside of the kitchen wall. The single sheet of plywood was also the wall of the pigpen. And she had been leaning against it to go; bloody ropes and spatters of feces were all over the wall. We were standing in it. Dave cracked, “There’s nothing like really getting into your work!” Our can of tuna simmered about six inches away from this mess.
“Doesn’t she know anything about hygiene?” the doctor asked.
I translated.
“What is it?” she asked.
The doctor handed me a paper cup.
“Sample,” he said.
———
He gave her Lomotil to stop the diarrhea. We gave her several jugs of Gatorade, more jugs of water, and some clothes.
Mr. Serrano, who had stood in the background during all this, came up to me and said, “Don’t leave us a prescription.”
I told him not to worry—we’d pay for it.
“No,” he said. “We can’t read. We won’t know what we’re getting.” The doctor had given him a bottle of antibiotics, and Mr. Serrano held it up to me and said, “And you’d better tell me what this says, too, eh?”
Whatever Mrs. Serrano had, it was cured within a week or two because of one donated hour and some pale capsules the doctor prescribed. Within days, her eyes brightened, her skin turned tender, and her fever vanished. They moved the pigs away from the wall and went out into the weeds beside the dump to relieve themselves. In time, she had a healthy baby.
The Curandera’s Curse
T he Serranos’ accents were peculiar, and I couldn’t place them. After I had gotten to know him better, I asked Mr. Serrano.
He said they’d come from
el sur
(the south).
We had been trying to treat Cervella’s skin, but nothing worked. There were short periods of remission when the skin cleared, then the lumps returned. The scabs soon followed. I stood looking at her arms.
“We have a little Maya in us,” Mr. Serrano said.
Pause.
She moved a hand in the direction of the dump.
“What’s wrong with your daughter?”
She smiled slowly, looking at the ground. “My daughter? There is something wrong with her.” She laughed in slow motion.
I was baffled.
I put my hand on her forehead; it was dry as a skull, burning.
“I have dysentery,” she said.
Someone coughed behind me. Mr. Serrano had arrived to see who was bothering his family. He was a hearty man with a hat and a drooping mustache. He gripped my hand and pumped it.
“Good to meet you!”
I told him his wife was seriously ill.
“I know it,” he said. “Watch this.” He grabbed her arm and pinched up a section of her skin. When he let it go, it stayed elevated, like clay, or a pinch of Silly Putty. A sign of severe dehydration. They call it “tenting.”
“Está toda seca,”
he said. (She’s all dry.)
“The baby?” I asked.
She laughed.
“Touch it,” Mr. Serrano said.
I put my hand on her stomach. It was hard.
I brought them supplies from the vans: water, a quart of vitamin D milk, a pound of rice, a pound of beans, a large can of tuna, a large can of peaches, a large can of fruit cocktail, one dozen flour tortillas, corn, a can of Veg-All mixed vegetables,bread, a fresh chicken, and doughnuts for the kids. I told Mr. Serrano to keep her in bed and to pour fluids down her, and I’d be back the next day with Dave and a
gringo
doctor.
They both laughed. He kept rubbing his hand over his face, up to the hat, down over the chin.
The next day, when Dave and I returned with the doctor, Mrs. Serrano was sitting in the sun on a broken kitchen chair.
“I’m back,” I said. “Remember I told you I’d come back?”
She didn’t respond.
The doctor crouched before her and felt her stomach. He pulled up her lids, felt her brow, and took her pulse. He shook out his thermometer and put it in her mouth. She submitted to everything.
“Tell her I need a stool sample. Tell her I need to see some stool.”
I told her. She got up and motioned for us to follow her. She led us to the south wall of the shack—the outside of the kitchen wall. The single sheet of plywood was also the wall of the pigpen. And she had been leaning against it to go; bloody ropes and spatters of feces were all over the wall. We were standing in it. Dave cracked, “There’s nothing like really getting into your work!” Our can of tuna simmered about six inches away from this mess.
“Doesn’t she know anything about hygiene?” the doctor asked.
I translated.
“What is it?” she asked.
The doctor handed me a paper cup.
“Sample,” he said.
———
He gave her Lomotil to stop the diarrhea. We gave her several jugs of Gatorade, more jugs of water, and some clothes.
Mr. Serrano, who had stood in the background during all this, came up to me and said, “Don’t leave us a prescription.”
I told him not to worry—we’d pay for it.
“No,” he said. “We can’t read. We won’t know what we’re getting.” The doctor had given him a bottle of antibiotics, and Mr. Serrano held it up to me and said, “And you’d better tell me what this says, too, eh?”
Whatever Mrs. Serrano had, it was cured within a week or two because of one donated hour and some pale capsules the doctor prescribed. Within days, her eyes brightened, her skin turned tender, and her fever vanished. They moved the pigs away from the wall and went out into the weeds beside the dump to relieve themselves. In time, she had a healthy baby.
The Curandera’s Curse
T he Serranos’ accents were peculiar, and I couldn’t place them. After I had gotten to know him better, I asked Mr. Serrano.
He said they’d come from
el sur
(the south).
We had been trying to treat Cervella’s skin, but nothing worked. There were short periods of remission when the skin cleared, then the lumps returned. The scabs soon followed. I stood looking at her arms.
“We have a little Maya in us,” Mr. Serrano said.
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