jabs

As anyone who has traveled outside of the "developed" world knows, before the trip a series of vaccines is usually required. Although the village is full of expats, almost all are from the West, so I suspected the local medical center did not receive many requests for typhoid fever innoculations. But before I went traipsing around the coast in search of treatment, I figured it would be worth a shot (pun intended) to see whether I could receive them at the consultorio. So Tuesday bright and early I walk down to the health center. The row of chairs winding around the room is full, the womens' folding fans out and aflutter. I explain to the receptionist-type person what I need. She tells me to come back that evening between 6 and 7 and speak with Rafael, who apparently is the jab man. At 6 on the dot I arrive again at the doctor's office. The chairs are mostly full, and many people seem to be clutching small pieces of paper. A gaggle of older women from the far corner yell over to me, "What's your number?" I sputter, "I don't have one." Their heads drop, and from the huddle I can only hear whisper, whisper, whisper. Hmmm, should I have a number I think to myself. I scan the posters hanging from the walls and bulletin boards looking for any additional information on how this place works. My exposure to the national medical system in Spain has been very limited because I have private health insurance. Finally a door opens and Rafael comes out. He's an easily recognized figure because he has long, curly blond hair, usually tied back, and he's often found outside the consultorio, which I have to pass by every morning on the way to the goat track with the dogs, having a cigarette. I jump up and tell him I was told to see him about my vaccines. He says to come in. I explain my situation, that I am traveling to Pakistan next month and need to get a bunch of vaccines. I pass him the list I have jotted down from the CDC web site, with the Spanish translations. He tells me he can do nothing because he is a nurse, that I first need to see the doctor, for which I need a number (!), then go to the pharmacy to buy the shots, and THEN come back to him and he will give them to me. I ask why the receptionist didn't seem to know the correct procedure. He gives me the typical village response, a shoulder shrug, and tells me to return in the morning to get my number from the receptionist. Err. Which is what I do. I am assigned a 9:15 am appointment (and the number 7) for the next day with the most unfortunately named doctor, translated into English, Dr. Kill. To my relief, there are only a few people in the waiting area when I return; the receptionist hasn't even arrived to work yet. An old man sitting just inside the door immediately asks me my number. Finally in the know, I proudly respond, numero siete. A minute later, Dr. Kill's office door opens, and the old man tells me to go ahead; he is number 8. I explain, again, to Dr. Kill what it is I need. She looks at me perplexed. She asks me, "How do you know these are the correct vaccines?" I tell her I had reviewed the CDC and WHO web sites and that these are the recommended vaccines for visitors to southeast Asia. At the same time, though, I am thinking to myself, well you're the doctor, shouldn't you know whether they are correct. Anyway, my answer apparently satisfied her because she scribbled out the prescription, told me to take it to the pharmacy, and bring the vaccines back the next day between 12 noon and 1 pm. I go straight to the farmacia and hand over Dr. Kill's note. The pharmacist tells me she will do her best to get the vaccines, but that she couldn't make any promises. "Come back this evening, and I will give you an update." Ugh, I am beginning to think I probably should have just made the hour-long trip to Malaga, where I probably could have just received the shots at one of the larger clinics. But to my surprise and delight when I turned up at 6:30 pm, all four vacunas were waiting for me. I shell out 75 euros and practically skip home with my booty, which I have been told to stick in the refrigerator right away. Friday morning I look at the clothes in my closet carefully. I need to select something that will allow Rafael easy access to my bottom and at the same time retain the most of my dignity. I chose a cotton skirt that zips up the back. When I arrive at the medical center, the room is packed. I am happy I have my book with me. I see the evil woman from the supermarket, known for giving the wrong change, is waiting with her son. Soon half the room crowds around a baby carriage that is holding a sleeping 5-day-old little one. Very cute. :-) I return to my book. An older English man comes in and stops at the front desk. He says to the man filling in for the usual woman (who is on vacation---after my many visits this week, I know the score) "prescription". Manbehinddesk responds, "No entiendo." Louder, "PRESCRIPTION". Manbehinddesk again says, "No entiendo." I look around the room and find I am the only other expat waiting. I ask the English guy what exactly he wants. He tells me he dropped off his prescription the week before and is looking for his medicine (retirees get this service as part of the national health program). I translate this to manbehinddesk, who then starts looking for the man's medication. I return to my seat; older English man doesn't even say thank you for my help. I shake my head; couldn't the guy have at least looked up the word for "prescription" in an English/Spanish dictionary? It's not difficult, really. And how does he think the rest of us learn another language. Despite my irritation, I decide I must calm myself. The last thing I want to be when my jab time arrives is tense. Rafael's door opens twice, but both times other folks beat me to the punch. Why he's not on his own number system I do not know, but after three and a half years here I know there are certain questions you just don't ask. The third time the door opens, I am the first person up. I hand over the vaccines to Rafael. He mysteriously sits in front of a computer for awhile, punching away at the keyboard. I have no idea what he is doing, but it seems rude to ask. So I wait, and wait, and then find out he has been making me a nice official-looking certificate for my little blue innoculation booklet, which I have been carrying around since birth. Then the time comes to finally drop trou. I barely had unzippered my skirt, then bam, bam, bam---it was all over. And as in many feared and dreaded life events, I find I hardly felt a thing, the shots themselves proving to be one of the most painless aspects of the entire process....well, and admiring Rafael's insanely long eyelashes. (Oops, sorry, BJ. You too have very nice eyelashes. ;-) Hasta pronto, mylifeinspain