In the Hospital, or The Truth About Cuzco

Before I proceed with my Buenos Aires stories, I need to give them some previously-undisclosed context. But allow me to preface my confession with an assurance that I am FINE. Healthy, fit, all the rest of it. Now that that's out of the way... the big reveal:

One week into my trip I wound up in the hospital. Essentially, after disembarking from the bus I had taken from Lima to Cusco, I felt a powerful cramp in my right leg that would not abate no matter how much I massaged it. I realized that this probably amounted to nothing more than stiffness from the journey, even when combined with some other minor symptoms, most of which could be attributed to adjusting to the altitude, but I had promised my mom that I would be safe rather than sorry, so I called my doctor at home. He said that, although the chance of my having Deep Vein Thrombosis was slim, the D-Dimer test didn't cost much and would be worth getting.

I asked my hostel for a recommendation of a doctor, and they sent me to a clinic where the doctor barely spoke any english, despite claiming otherwise, and he basically laughed me out of the room. He said, in Spanish, that my only risk factor was being on birth control, that I wasn't fat or old, and that therefore, I didn't need the test. So I let my mom know and went on with my day.

The next day I called my doc in the U.S. again. He told me to find another doctor. After consulting my hostel, checking some guidebooks, and calling the U.S. Embassy-- who thought Cuzco was in Bolivia, by the way-- I finally just googled "English-speaking doctor in Cuzco" and found one Dr. Eduardo Luna. I went straight to his office, and fortunately, his secretary let me in for his evening hours, even though they were on a dinner break. When Dr. Luna arrived at the office an hour later, dressed in a dapper ensemble and holding a motorcycle helmet under my arm, I literally sighed with relief at his impeccable English. He assured me that my concerns were valid and that, in fact, he had lost a patient to DVT the week prior. Although I could have done without that information, I appreciated his willingness to do do the test. Sadly, he himself did not perform it, and his assistant proved rather inept at drawing blood, but I gritted my teeth and smiled as she stuck me four times before meeting with success.

Dr. Luna sent his assistant straight off to the lab with the vial and gave me one of his own books, a gorgeous coffee table tome of photographs of Cuzco, to peruse while I awaited the results. When she returned with them an hour and a half later, she took them straight to the doctor. Within two minutes, he emerged from his office, coat in hand, and told me he needed to escort me to the hospital.

That's when my heart started racing. In a daze, I collected my things and followed him out of the office. For a moment, I thought we would be climbing onto the motorcycle that stood at the bottom of the stairs, but he waved at it saying that he couldn't risk taking me on that. He hailed a taxi, and we both got in. Inside, he told me that my results were three times the norm and that he was taking me for an emergency ultrasound with the best cardiologist he knew in a private hospital a few miles away. He advised me against calling my mom until we discovered the results of the ultrasound, and when I asked him timidly what were the chances of me dying, he said as reassuringly as he could, "Let's not think about that." I was not reassured.

We waited half an hour in a hospital hallway outside of the office of the cardiologist, standing because I was too nervous to sit. My mind boggled with thoughts both significant and trivial. I wondered if I might drop dead at any moment, and if not, if I would have to cancel my whole trip only one week into it. I thought of how upset my mom would be if the former happened and I hadn't called her. I thought of how my Aunt Violet had warned me about DVT and the importance of stretching only two weeks before I had left. I wondered if my travel insurance would cover the medical bills.

When Dr. Gonzalez, the cardiologist, was ready for us, he and Dr. Luna discussed my condition in Spanish, as he spoke little English, and then he administered the ultrasound and EKG. He stated early on that I have a heart like a horse's, which I found comforting, and then, finally, that he found no sign of a clot. I almost cried. The possibility of developing a clot still existed, however, so I would have to be admitted to the hospital and kept on heavy blood thinners for three or four days.

The rest of that night is still a bit of a blur. I was taken to a suite, put in bed with my feet elevated, given pills and shots, and submitted to another round of basic diagnostics. Dr. Luna took my passport and insurance information and checked me in while I called my mom and my U.S. doctor to inform them of the situation. Although greatly relieved, I still felt vulnerable and alone. My neuroses kicked in, followed swiftly by Catholic guilt, and I began to question what I could have done to prevent the situation, etc. Then I felt lonely. I woke my mom up in the middle of the night, and she comforted me.

I spent the next day and a half trying to watch television in Spanish, but largely failing to understand because of the rapidity of speech, and ringing up an obscene cell phone bill chatting with my mom and sisters out of loneliness and boredom. Periodically, the nurses would come in to run diagnostics, and we bonded as they looked over the pictures of my family that I had fortunately kept with me in my wallet. Upon seeing my little brother Christian, every single one of them exclaimed, "Ahhh! Ron de Harry Potter!"

My Spanish served me fairly well in the hospital, and only periodically did a problem arise. On one particular occasion, a nurse came to ask me about how much water I had drank and how much I had slept. She then asked, "Urin?" That I understood, and told her how many times I had gone. But I was unable to decipher the next question. I shrugged and told her I didn't understand. She squinted and shook her head, trying to come up with a way to explain, when suddenly her eyes lit up as the universal word came to mind: "Poo!" It was the laugh I needed.

Dr. Luna stopped by once to say hello, that I was in good hands, and that I should contact him if I needed anything. Dr. Gonzalez, my cardiologist, popped in once in the morning and again in the evening, when he told me that my marked improvement meant that I would most likely be released the following day. Fantastic. Carmen, the insurance handler, checked in with me periodically to let me know that she was working on getting the payment and that it shouldn't be a problem. I asked her what the cost of the hospital would be if my insurance couldn't pay. The answer: $84. God love Peruvian healthcare.

This price-tag staggered me even more because of the quality of the institution. I had been given my own suite with a couch, flat-screen TV, and jacuzzi tub, with an adjoining sitting room, not that I had anyone to sit in it considering that I had arrived in Cuzco only the day prior. And I had an incredible view through floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall windows!


The only caveat lay in the fact that, despite the amenities, patients are expected to supply their own clothes and toiletries, which I could not. I asked permission to take a cab to my hostel to retrieve my thing but was informed that I could only go in an ambulance and accompanied by a nurse. This seemed extravagant, so I declined and spent my whole stay alternating between my jeans and just my underwear and stinking to high heaven. I took one shower and one bath and attempted to wash my hair with hand soap, but that resulted in a tangled mess, and I still didn't have any deodorant.

After my second night, my tests came in just beneath the threshold and I was released that afternoon, essentially 48 hours after checking in. The doctor informed me that I could continue with my travel under certain conditions:

1) No drinking for the first week
2) No dangerous activity-- Inca Trail included-- for two weeks, due to the fact that I was on blood thinners and would bleed to death if injured
3) No travel exceeding 12 hours within a 24-hour period for 2 months
4) Stretching every hour and drinking copious amounts of water while traveling any distance longer than 1 hour

I emerged from the Clinica Mac Salud with a high cell phone bill and a lowered tolerance for alcohol, but otherwise feeling extremely fortunate to have discovered the problem, to have been treated with such excellent care, and to be allowed to continue my trip. I returned for a follow-up appointment the next week, which ran long and which is the real reason I missed my bus to Arequipa, ended up staying in Cuzco an extra night, and started traveling with James, so at least a silver lining emerged. And I needed to see another doctor one month from the date of my release, and that, my friends, returns us to Argentina.

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