I was at the hospital for half eight in the morning without fail. Zach was still sleeping so I decided to go down to the cafeteria for breakfast. When I came back, the American was awake and I asked him how last night was. He told me if I was referring to whether he had slept well, then yes he had, but it seems there’s no news with regards to anything else and I didn’t really want to push it any further. At around ten, the surgeon on duty drew back the curtains around his bed as if she were a magician coming to give us a surprise. I’m sure I don’t need to clarify that rather than seeing it as a pleasant surprise, Zach was scared shitless, if you’ll excuse the unfortunate pun. A rather attractive female internist came in behind the surgeon. Much to Zach’s disappointment, it was the surgeon and not her who dealt with the required examination. I had to stay, even during the more scatological scenes, so as to translate the doctors’ questions and the American’s answers. If I hadn’t already earned it, I think the Compostela is definitely mine now, even if I do what’s left of the journey carried on the shoulders of half a dozen bearers.
The surgeon said that his abdomen is soft which means that, for the moment, there’s nothing to be too worried about but that he’ll continue to observe him throughout the day in case there are any complications. He also said that we’re going to forget about any tubes because by all indications, the turtle’s head is quite high up so we’re going to try ammunition of a higher calibre: an oral solution that is normally used in patients who are about to undergo a colonoscopy and whose bowels should, in theory, be ready to make some soup in about half an hour or so. The doctor also said that this treatment has to be administered very carefully so as not to perforate the bowel and cause peritonitis, a problem which you don’t have to be a doctor to realise is very serious and can summons you to another world.
I translated for Zach and told him that everything is fine and that it seems that the meteorite is still a long way from earth so they’re going to try and disintegrate it with some oral kryptonite so that when it comes to the surface he’s not left with a sieve-like crater. I think it reassures him every time I explain things to him, that’s what it should do anyway in my point of view, but he’s no idiot and even though he doesn’t speak Spanish, he can sense certain things. “The guy who examined me is a surgeon, right?” asked Zach. I told him that was right but that it was simply a protocol that he came to see him and not because they might be making hamburgers with what’s left of him after slicing him open to get rid of the depleted uranium that must be lodged in his gut by now. He told me it wasn’t a problem and that he’s only asking as it’s just his luck that the female doctor isn’t in charge of the touching part. The poor guy takes things in good humour but it’s clear that he’s freaked out. I get the impression that deep down he thinks he’s going to be made a scapegoat for all the mistakes made by American foreign policy in the world and that he won’t leave this hospital in one piece.
After the doctors on duty came round, they began to give Zach the medicine they promised but with very little results. At around three o’clock in the afternoon the surgeon said he’d give him another drip of the same medicine and stop any food, which wasn’t advisable anyway, until further notice. During this visit Zach wanted to let the doctor know that he’s been taking some anti-inflammatory painkillers for a few days now due to a bad pain in the arch of his left foot and he wanted to know if they would have any side effects when coupled with the new medication. As soon as the doctor saw him pointing to his instep, he took hold of Zach’s foot and began to examine it: “let’s see, where did you say it hurts, here? It seems like nothing but don’t worry, we’ll call the nurse and she’ll massage it, apply some cream and bandage it up for you. We’ll get you out of here looking your best, don’t you worry”. When the surgeon left, Zach asked me what he said and I told him it was nothing important but that he should focus on the matter at hand and stop distracting the doctors with new pains as he might end up leaving here not only without crapping, but without his left foot as well.
Five minutes later, I could hear the nurse from Gijón, the one we met yesterday, who had just started her shift. She started by coming to see the guy beside us, a man of around 45 dosed with some unspecified fever on whom they’re doing tests to try and find out exactly what it is he has. I couldn’t really hear what the patient said as he’s in a bad way and speaks very quietly, but the nurse, who has a higher tone of voice, said “well, God bless you because we don’t earn much in here” which brought a smile to my face. She then drew back our curtain. “Are you still here, son? she said as she saw Zach again. “What the hell are we going to have to do to get rid of whatever it is you have inside you? Just you sit tight, as before I go on holiday to the Norwegian Fjords, and I’m leaving tomorrow by the way, I’m going to leave you in perfect condition for going home to Kentucky. Yes, don’t give me that look; I’m taking charge of this case from now on. It’ll be a professional challenge. We can’t have you being the first constipated person to leave here without your bowels moving at the end of my career”, she added without so much as coming up for air.
I crack up every time the nurse from Gijón opens her mouth. Zach also laughs but only because he sees me laughing and suspects it’s something funny. Then he asks me to translate and we piss ourselves together. She massaged his ankle, applied an anti-inflammatory cream and bandaged it up for him. This nurse in particular, and all the staff in general who are looking after the American, are doing a fantastic job and he doesn’t know how to show his appreciation, which he asks me to pass on every time someone comes over to have a look at him or bring him something.
A little while later I heard the nurse from Gijón say to someone: “please put out the cigarette”, which left me a little bewildered as you don’t expect to hear that in A&E. A few minutes later there was a bit of commotion coming from the area where the nurse from Gijón had asked for the cigarette butt to be put out. The patient there had completely removed his drip which caused an almighty ruckus. One of the nurses that went in to calm him down left looking like she’d just been in a scene from Nightmare on Elm Street, with blood splashed all over her uniform. In the end, they called all available staff to come and help to tie him to the bed, which didn’t go as planned, so they called security. Three big idlers with no neck and shaved heads arrived straight away and, at the mere sight of them, the patient started to calm down as if they had injected an overdose of valium straight into his veins. I gathered that they were dealing with an alcoholic who, after 24 hours without a drink, was starting to get the first symptoms of delirium tremens, even though he was more punch-drunk than a groggy boxer.
Zach was a little alarmed by the commotion because he doesn’t understand anything about what’s going on, so he sat up and peered out into the corridor at where the action was taking place. It was a funny scene because, with the curtain closed, you could only see the legs of nine people around a bed: six with the trousers of a white nurse’s uniform and another three with trousers of a security guard’s uniform. Zach asked me if I knew what was going on and I couldn’t resist telling him that it was nothing, only a patient who was a little constipated who they were using an alternative therapy on as the conventional treatment had failed…
Given that there was no progress to Zach’s situation by late afternoon, the surgeon asked for him to be taken down for more X-rays on his abdomen. Every time he has to be moved, they put him in a wheelchair as he has the drips and everything else, and a porter pushes him. As we were waiting to be called to go to the X-ray room, a young gypsy appeared who was also in a wheelchair with a neck brace on and his arm in a plaster cast. Unlike Zach, who is wearing the hospital’s pyjamas as he is already admitted, the boy was still wearing his own street clothes which meant that the accident must have only happened a short time ago. Another porter was pushing his wheelchair and beside him was the boy’s father, who looked sullen and was cursing under his breath. The young gypsy was sad and a little freaked out. I don’t know if it’s because of the thrashing he’d already received or because of the one his father was going to give him for what he’d done when they got home. They took Zach in to do the X-rays and brought him back out within five minutes. We had to wait another five minutes as there were no porters free to take us back to A&E and, in theory, due to hospital protocol, I couldn’t push him along the corridors myself.
During that time, I watched as the father of the young gypsy couldn’t take his eyes off Zach, as he continued muttering things that I couldn’t make out. When the porter arrived to take us back, we passed by the father who couldn’t help but compose the very sorrowful expression of someone who is about to break into flamenco song, giving Zach a pat on the shoulder as he said: “chin up boy, it’ll get better”. He could have called him a son of a bitch and Zach would have still replied in the same way: gracias, one of the only words he knows in Spanish. I had to hold back the laughter as it’s naturally not a smart idea to laugh in front of a gypsy, and certainly not in that situation. The American asked me to translate what the good man had said and I explained that he must have thought that he’d severed his spinal cord and that he’d never walk again as he told him to keep his chin up and that he’d get through it. Zach laughed with gusto and asked me if this meant that he would indeed go to the bathroom again before departing this world. I assured him that he would, as gypsies can see the future and he would only have said that if he’d seen Zach sitting there on the throne, hard at work, through his crystal ball.
On our way back to Zach’s bed, he said he wanted to buy a little gift for the nurses, especially for the one from Gijón as she’s been treating him with extra care, so we grabbed the drip and went down to the ground floor where there’s a few newsagent type shops selling souvenirs. Zach suggested that we buy them a soft toy chicken so that they’ll remember the “Kentucky fried chicken” they had here with his extra-terrestrial bowels, owing to all the fried chicken he’s eaten in his life. I, of course gave my seal of approval to this excellent idea. One of the shops didn’t have much on offer; a small chicken that looked like it had polio and another feathered animal but I couldn’t even tell what it was. We found what we were looking for in the shop beside it. A battery-operated chicken that sings, dances and jumps around. There was no need to look any further and so we asked for it to be gift-wrapped.
We went back to A&E as Zach wanted to give it to the nurse from Gijón, along with some heartfelt words which he asked me to translate in order to express his gratitude to her, all her colleagues and to the group of doctors who were looking after him and treating him so well. Clearly not expecting all of this, she went bright red and didn’t really know what to say. She turned the chicken on and it started to cause an almighty racket right there in the middle of A&E. “Shit, how the hell do I stop it!” she exclaimed before disappearing off into the nurses’ room.
Given the lack of progress, I asked to speak to the doctors on duty around early evening time. They told me that the latest X-rays showed little bowel movement and a significant blockage in the ascending colon which isn’t budging one little bit, not even with all the dynamite they’ve already administered. They’ve diagnosed it as partial occlusion of the intestine so it seems he’ll have to be kept in, under surveillance and without food until it starts to budge.
I didn’t really know how to break the news to Zach. So I told him that everything is going to plan and that it’s just a question of waiting a little longer for the medicine to take effect, which is why he’ll be kept in for another night. I added that he should bear in mind that now that he’s here, the doctors want to ensure that he only leaves when the problem is resolved and that I’m sure it’s all just a matter of a few more hours. He told me that it was okay and that he’d pretty much resigned himself to having to stay in another night. Not only is he worried about what’s happening to his body, he’s also having to deal with the disappointment that with every day he spends in hospital, his chances of completing the Camino are reduced. I said goodbye to Zach and told him that I’d see him first thing tomorrow. “May the force be with you tonight” I said, even though we both knew that if force was the issue, the problem would be long gone.
I travelled back down to Lugo and stayed in the same hotel as yesterday. After a hot shower, I went for a walk around the wall and afterwards had some dinner in a restaurant in the Old Town. I went for another stroll after to walk off my dinner and to relax. It’s strange, I haven’t been walking the last two days and yet I feel more tired than on any of the days when I’ve put in an obscene amount of kilometres. I’m sure the stress of waiting and not knowing what’s wrong with Zach or how things are going to go is playing a big part. I went back up to my room where, by the light of my reading lamp, I started to jot down everything that had happened today in my notebook and how I’m finding it.
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