Experienced

So, my good friend Jason and I were out surfing the other day. Call it a last hurrah if you will. Jason and Jenn are heading south for Hurricane season and we are heading north. We had a few days to spend with these good friends in Bahia Tenacatita before we broke up and went our separate ways, and the waves in Tenacatita, well, they were calling our names.

I probably don't have to mention that Jason and I are...ahem...older men. And I probably don't have to mention that we are 2 amazingly fit and astonishingly good looking men for being...ahem...older. And just because we are...ahem...older, doesn't mean that we can't tear up some waves like we used to when we were younger.

After having another epic surf session with Jason (AKA the “Big Kahuna”), the trouble all started with one simple phrase. “This is going to be my last wave.” In my...ahem...older age, I should have known better. Never call anything your last. It's way too concrete and final of a statement. What I should have said was, “I'm going to catch one more wave for now.” As you can see, that phrase leaves open the possibility that later on, either today or tomorrow, I may be back for more.

As I was riding my “last” wave, it closed out and the wave came crashing down on me which sent me tumbling in a washing machine of white water. No big deal. Even in my younger days, I've spent a lot of time tumbling. I'm pretty good at holding my breath, and at some point, I always pop up. Well, here is where the problem lies. Somehow, as I was tumbling around during this “last” wave, my surfboard leash got tangled in my toes. The wave spit me out one way and my surfboard went the other. That spitting gave a hard and forceful yank on my leash which went directly to my toes. It was such a hard and forceful yank that before I even surfaced for air, I had to reach down and feel around to make sure my toes were still attached. Luckily they were, but, a couple of them were severely pointing in the wrong direction.

Bahia Tenacatita isn't exactly in a big city with access to a hospital or even a small town doctor. It's a fairly remote bay on Mexico's Pacific coast, which is exactly why we were there. Because there were no medical services, the urgent care came resting on my shoulders. Since 2 of my poor little tosies were pointing in the wrong direction (they looked like the letter “X”) and since I've broken more bones than I would like to admit in my...ahem...many years, I had a pretty good idea of what needed to happen. With a few hard tugs, some crying like a baby, and with Brenda dry heaving in the background, I got my poor little tosies pointing back in a direction that is a close resemblance to the direction they are supposed to be pointing (close being the operative word).

Before I go any farther with this nonsense, let me just say a quick few words to my Mom. Mom, stop freaking out. I'm fine. I've got lots of other toes.

By the next day, my foot swelled up to a black and blue balloon. Because of that, we decided we should probably set sail for a town with a doctor to make sure that the tugging I did to reset my poor little tosies didn't do more damage than good. Since we had already decided to start moving north to avoid the upcoming hurricane season, the best option for us was to set sail for Puerto Vallarta. We had to wait a couple of days for favorable weather and then we had to spend a couple of days at sea, but we made it. The boat is currently tied up to a dock in a marina so I've got easy access to shore and we just left the local hospital's emergency room.

This to me is where the story get's interesting. The last bit was purely the buildup and the fluff. I don't want to get into any sort of political debate about the current state of our health care system back home in the States, because if you are lucky enough to know me well, then you already know where I stand on that issue (and if you know me well, I hope you consider yourself lucky). But what I do want to talk about today is Mexico's health care system. Or at least the care I just received at this hospital in particular.

Without an appointment, we walked into a Mexican Hospital and were directed to the Emergency Room. Actually, I should say that after we were directed, I hobbled into a Mexican Emergency Room. Within 30 seconds of hobbling through the door, I was asked a series of questions about my injury, I filled out some paperwork which took another 30 seconds, and then I was asked to take a seat in the waiting room. I assumed that I would be waiting for a few hours before I saw a nurse or doctor, but no, it took about 3 minutes for a nurse to take me to a room, talk to me about my injury, and take my vitals. After that, she asked me to wait for the doctor. I figured this is where the 4 hour wait would occur. Nope. Maybe 2 minutes later the doctor came in, he talked to me for a few minutes, and then sent me for X-Rays. After the X-Rays, it was back to the waiting room where I was sure hours would be spent. Wrong again. In less than 10 minutes, I was back in the doctor's office where we discussed the fracture (which I'm happy to report I did a fantastic job of setting), I was given instructions for recovery, and fitted with a stylish new Velcro adjustable walking shoe to stabilize my foot. All told, the entire visit to the emergency room took about 30 minutes, and that included the taxi ride to and from. Amazing.

But perhaps the biggest shock was the bill at the end. Before I give the final tally of my Mexican ER visit, just let me say that my last emergency room experience in the good ol' US of A took over 8 hours of waiting, had less than 8 minutes of person to person interaction, and cost me a whopping $2,800 out of pocket after insurance kicked in whatever it was that they paid. It was highway robbery to say the least.

Here in Mexico, the final bill including the ER fees, radiology for the X-Rays, my fancy new Velcro adjustable walking shoe, and even the taxi rides to and from, cost a grand total of $175. Some quick math will tell you that is a difference of $2,675 out of pocket for basically the same injury occurring in the States. Amazing.

You might be thinking that this Mexican hospital was probably a tin roof shack with dirt floors and bars covering the windows. That's probably why there is such a difference in the cost. Well, I hate to tell you that the only difference I could find in this hospital verses one in the States, was the fact that Spanish was the language of choice. Walking through the front door looked exactly like any hospital I've seen back home, if not even a bit nicer. It was clean, orderly, professional, and efficient. The X-Ray machine was exactly the same as the one's I've sat under in the States. The computers, wheel chairs, and hospital beds...all the same. Even the white lab coats and stethoscopes hanging around the doc's neck...the same. Hmmmmmm...very interesting.

I'm not going to make any conclusions about anything for you. All I'm saying is it's very interesting.

But what I liked most about my visit with the doctor, was when he was talking to me about my little injury. When he asked me how it happened (in Spanish), I did my best to explain it all (in Spanish). At the end of my fumbling Spanish speech, I told the doctor, “I used to be a better surfer, but now I'm a little older and fatter.” His response was in English. “In Mexico we have a saying. When you are older and rounder, you are experienced.” I think I like the sound of that. I'm Experienced.