Life of Hardin Vol. III, No. 2

Open a Vein and Say, “Ah”

I dislike going to the doctor for a variety of reasons, chief among them my suspicion that they are kin to vampires. Whatever my ailment, they stick me and take blood. But in order for me to stay in Paraguay, I had to be given an exam by a Paraguayan doctor. My health report from a doctor in the States wouldn’t do. Neither would my statement that I am healthier than they can stand. So I went to the doctor.

The picture in my mind was of a cinder block examining room where I would be given a tetanus shot with a rusty needle and bled with leeches. However, the hospital I visited was brand new. It was even devoid of that distinct hospital smell of old sickness.

First the doctor grilled me about my health history. I translated by his facial expressions. If he frowned, I replied, “No, never." If he pursed his lips and cocked his head I replied, “I exercise and eat green vegetables." The questions ended and he handed me orders for three lab tests. I read them, in Spanish, and recognized one word: "sangre." Blood. I saw fangs lengthen past his lips.

The receptionist said the lab could do the chest x-ray and EKG that night. The blood work would have to wait until morning. I imagined this was so they could convene the coven.

A short, dark-haired nurse with thick glasses and a scowl took me into the EKG room. She threw a sentence at me in Spanish so fast that I knew she wanted to raise my blood pressure and ruin my test results. I didn't move. She scowled some more, then spoke even faster and motioned for me to take my shirt off.

I pulled it off. The instant I lay on the table, she jumped me with four battery cables. Two pinned my ankles. The other two held my wrists. Then she slammed six little blue balls with cold silver suction cups all over my pectoral region. I wondered if there wasn't a better way to study my heart than to stop it with electric current and then suck it out through my chest.

The machine whirred and spewed its readout. The nurse read a few sheets, scowled, wadded them up, and tossed them on the floor. This went on for five minutes. Read, scowl, toss. I asked, "¿Voy a morir?" which means, "Am I going to die?"

She spat the word, "No," scowled harder, and folded up the last few sheets of readout. Then she scowled me from the room with a wave of her arm.

Before I could check my ankles for burns, a male nurse hustled me to the x-ray room. "Take off your shirt," he said in Spanish. I didn't understand and told him so. He made the hand motion of pulling off his shirt. He took two x-rays of my chest, then came back in the room and said I should have breathed in. He took two new shots and left.

He returned moments later. “Take off your shirt,” he said. He took the same shots a third time, then snuck out the door. Five minutes later another guy came in. He had, "Take your shirt off," on his tongue when he saw I was bare-chested. My shirt smoldered in a small pile on the floor. He placed me against the x-ray table and measured with a tape just where to aim the camera.

The next morning I returned for the blood test. A nurse walked up to me, pulled me in a room, and stuck me, shirt on and all. I was all done in fifteen minutes.

I saw the doctor again the next week. He read my results and said I was so healthy he couldn't stand it, which is what I'd been telling them all along.

Life of Hardin Vol. III, No. 1

"Fuerza, Paraguay!"

fuerza. A Spanish word meaning strength or force, in context. Shouted at the top of the lungs during soccer matches, especially during the hysteria of the World Cup.

Although books have been written on how to improve it and wives have complained for centuries that their husbands suffer from a complete ignorance of it, communication is not a difficult task. Even in a foreign country, it can be accomplished with the least bit of exertion. You simply have to speak the other person's language . . . even if you don't speak their language.

Take my own example. The 2006 World Cup was in full swing, and I was in the midst of my first day out and about by myself in Asuncion, the capital city of Paraguay. I had a list of errands to run. These included a trip to the grocery and a stop downtown to pick up the official translations of my visa documentation. The latter I attempted first because it was nearly siesta time and I needed my papers before the translator closed. I entered the bottom floor of the office building. The guard barked the command to stop before I had taken two steps. His inky dark eyes scowled at me from below his beetling brow. Did I have business in the building? I saw over his shoulder the tiny black-and-white television set. Rabbit ears poked from its top and sent to the screen a snowy picture of the just begun Paraguay World Cup match. The guard glowered. I pointed to the name of the translator on the big building registry on the wall. The guard grunted and spun back to the game.

Up the elevator I went. The office door stood closed and forbidding. I entered without knocking. Three men sat behind desks, all focused on the tiny color TV against the far wall. Rabbit ears poked from its top and sent a snowy picture to the screen. No one turned to me. I asked, in English, for my paperwork. The oldest man grumbled in a German accent, rifled through a folder, and handed me my papers. I paid him 130,000 Guaranies, and he spun back to the game. I mumbled thanks and headed for the door. No answer. I had one dejected foot in the hallway when genius struck me. I spun back around.

"Fuerza!" I shouted.

The clouds lifted! Light shone down from above! All eyes turned to me and three fists shot up into the air. "Fuerza Paraguay!"

I passed the guard downstairs. His beady eyes glanced to the side at me.

"Fuerza!" I yelled.

He leapt from his chair. "Fuerza Paraguay!" He beamed upon me as though at the return of the prodigal.

I walked down the street back to the car. The sidewalk vendors all watched their wares with one eye. The other stayed glued to the televisions behind the big glass walls of the stores on the street. I caught a glimpse of a Paraguayan player as he fell to the ground, the ball stolen from him.

"Fuerza!" I shouted.

"Fuerza Paraguay!” erupted the chorus.

At the grocery I bought a bag of fresh bread, two bags of skim milk, onions, tomatoes, apples, and eggs. The cashier told me the price. I understood not one word, so I cheated by looking at the price on the register screen. Who really needs to know the language anyway? The bag boy packed my things up and started to lift them. I stopped him.

Feeling confident, I told him: "Yo puedo lo." He stared at me. The sound of money changing stopped. The back of my neck froze under the icy glares of 50 Paraguayans. I heard the milk curdle in my bag.

"Fuerza?" I squeaked and snuck out the door.

I don't know why God bothered at Babel. I didn't want to talk to anybody anyway.