I seem to be stuck. There is so much that I want to say, yet the words are evasive. This is such a beautiful day, and I am in such a peaceful place—yet a part of me is resisting, unable to write, unable to find the words to begin discussing this week’s healing journey.
A humble old man slowly makes his way through the park, just ten feet in front of my bench. Even though he stands straight and erect, the top of this man’s white baseball cap cannot be more than five feet above the ground. With every careful step he methodically moves his rusty aluminum cane ahead another six inches. Finally he reaches a light pole, momentarily stabilizes himself, then turns and cautiously sits in a nearby bench. Soon he is engaged in an animated conversation with an older man who was already seated in the other half of the same S-shaped concrete bench.
A strong citrus scent captures my attention as I again glance up to see a three wheeled bicycle—the kind with a two-wheeled cart in front. The ambitious vendor has his blue wooden cart piled high with small, ripe, green limes—presumably off to sell them to nearby neighborhood shops. Momentarily, as he slowly glides by, I crave the taste of a tall glass of fresh-squeezed ‘limonada natural’ (fresh squeezed limes, sugar, and ice-water).
Candelaria Park is especially beautiful on this mostly overcast Saturday afternoon. An ancient tree towers directly above me, creating a huge green canopy—a canopy that provides inviting shade on the usually hot sunny days. But today the surrounding air is slightly breezy and refreshingly cool—being perhaps in the upper sixties or low seventies. The cool air provides a welcome break from the very hot and humid days we have been having all week.
The singing birds above have already been engaging in random target practice. Two feet to my right, a partially eaten berry splatters on the rough concrete by my feet. Already, a great number of berries have landed in my general area, one of which landed on my laptop screen, another which bounced off my left shoulder. As I continue writing, yet another bounces off my left knee, leaving a small damp spot behind before rolling away onto the concrete below.
Even while facing the danger of random incoming projectiles, I choose to sit in this beautiful park. As I face east, the lime-green façade of my favorite Hostel is clearly visible off to my left. To my right, the boundary of the park is lined with beautiful two-story homes, painted in soft pastel hues of salmon, gold, burnt red, pinkish-violet, and green. The soft colors and colonial architecture make me feel as if I am surrounded by an ancient Spanish villa.
An old public library sits straight ahead, directly in front of which is a large outdoor concrete stage. This outdoor stage has been the home of many neighborhood festivals over the past few weeks. This week alone, we have been treated to three Christmas concerts. Last night, groups of darling children performed songs and dances while proud parents crowded the plaza, cheering on their precious children. Earlier in the week, a local band of young teen-age boys performed a few recognizable renditions of several Michael Jackson and Beetles songs, before massacring several traditional English Christmas Carols with sour off-key harmony. But even so, the show was delightful, filled with authentic local flare.
To my rear stands a small but beautiful colonial-style Catholic chapel. I have still not figured out the interesting sequences of bells that ring out from this beautiful structure almost every morning.
At precisely 6:30 a.m., a long single bell sounds, followed by a varying number of short quick bells, terminated again by a long single bell. Then, at 6:45 a.m., the same thing happens, but the sequence of short quick bells is surrounded on both ends by two long slow bells. Finally, at 7:00 a.m., the same pattern manifests, but with three long slow bells at the beginning and end. The interesting part of this bell ringing phenomenon is that the sequences of short quick bells in the middle are never the same, usually ringing somewhere between 60 to 90 times each.
As I continue writing, a sixty-something American couple walk by. The husband pauses ten feet away.
“You don’t look like you are a local?” he proclaims as he begins to walk toward me.
We talk for several minutes about the beautiful surroundings. He and his wife are from San Luis Obispo, California, and are down here for three weeks. They have already spent two weeks at an all-inclusive beach resort near Cancun and are now driving to Mérida to spend their final week before flying back home.
As the couple walks away, the silence is momentarily interrupted by blaring loud speakers mounted on top of a slowly passing car. The music and yelling voices are at such a high decibel level that all other sounds briefly disappear into the jumble. As the noisy advertising car begins to disappear a block or two away, the local background sounds begin to gradually return to awareness—passing cars, motorcycles, distant road construction, and groups of nearby talking people randomly interrupt the occasional brief periods of near-silence.
As I focus on writing about my healing journey of these past six days, I cannot think of a place that I would rather be than right here in this beautiful Candelaria park.
One Day At A Time
If I didn’t know better, I would think someone or something was trying to test my patience. This entire week has been filled with what I like to call ‘opportunities for growth’—any one of which would have been enough to make the old me whine and complain.
But somehow, even in the midst of dealing with an already trying situation, I have managed to remain mostly centered in a state of loving peace and trust through each and every such ‘opportunity.’
In an almost magical way, every time I step into Dr. Gomez’s office, he instills in me a trusting and confident feeling that ‘all is well’ with my foot. His whole demeanor exudes a positive healing energy that resonates deeply with my own. Monday morning, as I rode my bicycle away from Dr. Gomez’s office, a renewed sense of peace and calm had once again taken root in my soul.
On the previous Saturday morning, I had left “Dr. what’s his name’s” office feeling traumatized and in a state of near panic. After explaining my treatment concerns to Dr. Gomez on Monday, he came up with a perfect solution. By the end of the week, Dr. Gomez would complete the surgical removal of all of my burn-destroyed tissue. Then, after training me in the procedures of cleansing and treating my own wounds, Dr. Gomez would provide me with all of the supplies and ointments that he uses.
It was all so simple. During the eight days that Dr. Gomez will be out of town for Christmas, I will be able to care for myself. Fear of having to deal with “Dr. what’s his name” had almost driven me to leave Valladolid in search of a different medical provider. But instead, by simply remaining centered in the present moment, the situation had completely and effortlessly resolved itself. An old fear had easily been replaced with loving trust.
Monday afternoon, however, did not pass nearly as smoothly.
After three full weeks of living in Valladolid, lunchtime had become a memorized routine. However, as I chained my bicycle up at the city center bazaar, something was quite different this time around. My stomach was beginning to enter a state of full mutiny as the thought of eating began to sound repulsive.
As I momentarily sat at one of the dark wooden tables in the center food-court area, I struggled to decide what, if anything, I might possibly be able to eat and keep down. Five minutes later, I was back on my bicycle returning to the hostel. In that moment, Mexican fast food was about as appealing as the thought of eating pure lard.
It took a while, but I finally realized that my body was craving yogurt and bananas. As I pondered my cravings, the whole experience began to make sense. Having been on antibiotics for three full weeks was taking a physical toll on my body. Eating yogurt would be a great nutritional way to help alleviate some of those anti-bacterial effects.
The yogurt was yummy, but my body was already struggling. For two and a half days, while eating nothing but yogurt, bananas, apples, and bread, I explored the realities of intermittent diarrhea, bloating gas, and a very weak stomach. Thoughts of writing or pursuing any other productive endeavors were the last things on my mind. Except for continued daily doctor visits, sleeping and television became my only activities.
It was after my doctor visit on Wednesday that I began to enter a state of brief panic. Dr. Gomez had already removed part of my dead skin tissue on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, he showed me how we need to gently irritate the raw white growing tissues below, causing them to bleed. Apparently, making them bleed tricks the newly-forming cells into continuing to grow thicker before they begin to form new skin over the wound.
As I visited with Connie on Wednesday afternoon, I expressed great concern.
“I don’t know if I can do that to myself.” I nervously told Connie. “Maybe I will need to go see ‘Dr. what’s-his-name’ … maybe I am not strong enough to treat myself while Dr. Gomez is on vacation.”
Connie just smiled at me and reminded me to quit worrying and to return to the present moment.
Immediately a feeling of peace resurfaced as I realized that “Yes … she is right … today, everything is still wonderful and peaceful. I can put off that fear until the actual event happens. I do not need to worry about it right now.”
How quickly I had forgotten to remain present!
Thursday morning brought a whole new form of excitement.
While chatting with Ewout and Connie, I was thoroughly enjoying my baguette roll, cut in half, toasted, and topped with butter and honey.
“Crunch.” My jaw stopped mid-chew as I carefully began to evaluate what had just happened.
“There is something hard in the bread.” I mumbled to Ewout as I continued searching for the source of the crunch, being somewhat nervous about continuing my chewing.
Seconds later, I almost laughed at the irony as I realized what had just taken place.
“A tiny chunk of my tooth just broke off.” I exclaimed with a look of surprise. “I can feel the sharp edges with both my finger and with my tongue.”
Throughout the day, I could only laugh at the bizarre events that seemed to be happening to me—first the mild food poisoning, and now the broken tooth. To my amazement, I felt no feeling of frustration or upset. I continued to find the situation quite humorous, considering it as just another opportunity to practice the art of remaining centered.
A quick glance in a mirror confirmed that a tiny corner on the inside of one of my molars had broken off. The molar on my lower right jaw has a large silver filling in the center that has been in place for possibly twenty five years or longer. Intuition gently reassured me that the damage was not serious, just slightly annoying. I felt no pain whatsoever, and the filling did not appear to be otherwise damaged.
By that evening, the problem was easily solved. Tania generously volunteered to take me to her family dentist—a dental surgeon that her parents have been going to for over fifteen years.
Again, I had to laugh. As Tania and I sat in the waiting room, a television in the upper left corner of the room was tuned to a professional wrestling program, and the volume was turned up quite loud. Everyone in the room, including the young receptionist, appeared to be glued to the television set with great interest. The whole scene seemed so out of place for a dentist’s waiting room.
After a thirty minute delightful visit with Tania, my turn finally arrived. With Tania as my translator, we entered the dentist’s back room, where his television was also tuned in to the same professional wrestling program.
As I tried to speak, I realized just how non-existent my Spanish dental vocabulary really was. I soon experienced a feeling of deep gratitude for Tania’s assistance with translation. In no time at all, I learned that my old filling seemed to be intact and secure, and that I would only require a small amount of what the dentist called “resin” to replace and smooth the area where the tooth had cracked.
Twenty minutes and 250 pesos ($20 US) later, my dental work was complete, and another unexpected experience was completely behind me.
In some strange way, my bizarre week had kept my mind occupied by helping me to avoid thinking about my minor upcoming surgery on Friday morning—a painful experience that I was not eagerly anticipating. The thought of needles and cutting in an area that was already so traumatized was not a pleasant one.
Good News and Bad News
Soon, Friday morning became a reality as I found myself sitting in Dr. Gomez’s office.
“Are you feeling strong today?” He lovingly inquired.
“Yes, I can handle whatever you are about to do.” I replied confidently.
Soon, I was sitting on a treatment bed with my left leg stretched out in front of me. After thoroughly scrubbing me with brown Betadine solution, Dr. Gomez covered my foot and lower leg with blue surgical drapes, leaving a small opening right over the burn area on the inside of my left foot.
The next thirty minutes proved to be a huge test of internal strength and will.
“Do you want to lie down?” Dr. Gomez asked.
“No. If it is OK, I would like to watch.” I reply.
Just watching Dr. Gomez fill up his syringe with some type of liquid anesthesia was enough to make me question my decision. Then, as he attached the long needle, I found myself turning my head. Needles have always freaked me out, and this one had a way of looking excessively intimidating and frightening.
As each needle poke sent shivers of pain through the local surrounding tissues, I somehow remained strong. In many ways, the pain of the numbing needle was every bit as piercing and traumatizing as the original burning process had been in the jungles of Ek’Balam exactly four Fridays earlier.
Once or twice, I coaxed myself into taking a quick glance as Dr. Gomez prodded the area with his needle. With the doctor’s permission, I even captured one quick photo. Strange as it may seem, a part of me wants to document and remember everything that I am going through.
What came next proved to be more difficult than I had previously imagined, pushing me to the very limits of my emotional strength and willpower.
Dr. Gomez had previously removed about one third of the dead skin on Tuesday. That skin was already beginning to curl at the edges and was relatively easy to remove using a tiny sterile knife and tweezers. While I was somehow hoping that the remaining two thirds would be just as easy, I already knew this would likely not be the case.
I deeply apologize if my writing is too explicit. The traumatic images will forever be engrained in my visual and sensory memories. I will spare you the gory details of this minor surgery. Suffice it to say that I forced myself to sit up and watch the entire procedure as the remaining circular area – perhaps 1.5 inches wide and 1 inch tall was cleared of the remaining, tough, beef-jerky-like, skin that still remained.
While I am glad that I watched, the experience proved to be very difficult indeed.
With the dead skin now completely removed, what remains is now an open wound, slightly oval in shape, perhaps 1.5 inches in diameter. From here on out, my daily task is to keep the wound sterile, while encouraging my body to regenerate new tissue and skin. If anyone back home wants to remotely contribute your healing energy and love to join with my own positive efforts, your assistance would be greatly appreciated.
Throughout the surgery, I was totally unprepared for the pain. For four weeks, much of the burn area had been greatly lacking in nerve sensitivity. Yesterday, this proved to no longer be the case. As I slowly pedaled my bicycle home back toward the hostel, my ankle seemed to be aching and throbbing all the way.
As I entered the garden area at my hostel, I asked Connie, “Which do you want first … the good news or the bad news?”
“Give me the bad news first.” Connie answered, while quietly grimacing, wondering what I was about to share with her.
“The bad news is that it really, really hurts.” I told her. Then I continued, “And the good news is that it really, really hurts.”
Yes, the pain was indeed a good and welcome sign—a powerful signal that my nerves are in fact functioning and that my body can and will continue the healing process.
Continued Gratitude
With Christmas only six days away, I am deeply grateful. I would never wish my present painful path onto anyone—but I am indeed filled with gratitude for the opportunity to pass through such a powerful “living-in-the-moment” experience.
My bandaged ankle is proving to be a huge blessing—a blessing that goes considerably beyond the loving relationships that continue to develop with Tania, Ewout, Connie, and others—relationships that would never have developed had I not remained here in Valladolid.
My pain and trauma serve as powerful and constant reminders of my need to remain deeply centered in a present-moment state of love and peace
On a moment-by-moment basis, my mind is continuously tempted to wander into fears and projections regarding the future—not only during the past four weeks, but likely for many weeks to come.
The act of facing these fears on a daily basis is teaching me a great deal about myself, about my capacity to remain focused and centered, and about my ability to love unconditionally.
But most of all, I am gradually learning to trust my internal peaceful promptings at a much more profound level—trusting them even when bombarded with constant ego thoughts that attempt to convince me I am insane for still being here in Valladolid … still living in the peaceful trust and confidence of each and every beautiful present moment.
Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved