A Foot in Two Campos

Seriously.  There are no words.

When I walked (staggered) into the village health centre on Thursday morning I didn’t need any words.  I stood swaying in the doorway and three waiting patients grabbed me and guided me to a seat, while two doctors and two nurses rushed to my side.  For a smallish village we are lucky to have a 24-hour “Urgencias” onsite and our own ambulance, and it wasn’t long before I was strapped in and the siren sounded and we headed for Málaga.

My doctor said they thought I’d had a heart attack.  A few miles down the road the ambulance pulled over to run another ECG, and the nurse phoned the results through as we continued the journey under our flashing amber lights.

It was just like on the telly.  My trolley crashed through swing-doors and whizzed straight into the operating theatre at Málaga’s Carlos Haya Hospital.  The operating room was awaiting me, fifteen people all at their stations, already reading my obs and stats, already knowing exactly their role.  They didn’t need any words.  They were trained, they were the experts.  I was in the safest of hands.

The surgeon explained everything as we went along.  A tiny hole in my wrist.  A blood-thinning liquid coursed along the main artery towards the heart and began to loosen theclot.  Then they sent a tiny balloon in, and with everyone glued to their screens, they manipulated it into position and inflated it to widen the artery.  Hardly any words.  Numbers being called out softly by three different technicians.  I didn’t know to what they were referring.  I didn’t care.  I had no shadow of doubt that this was the best possible place to be.  The surgeon’s calming voice talked me through everything, constantly checking that I had understood.

Then, and I still cannot work out how, a stent went in, was floated into position, and now maintains the artery open.  Many medical terms get pinched from other languages, so the official Castiliano word for stent is “estent”, but the local Malagueña word is “muelle”, which can also mean a quay where large boats tie up, but in this instance comes from the word for the spring inside a biro, which looks not dissimilar to a stent!
 

The operation took fifteen minutes, and fifteen people.  I have no words with which to thank those people.  For choosing their career in medicine, for working in the public health system, and for being at work last Thursday to fix me and care for me.
 

Then UCI (which is ICU – intensive care).  And gosh, thatis intensive care.  Eight nurses around the clock, for four patients.  I think I was connected to ten machines, and everything was monitored constantly.  You know what?  I have no words.  Although monitoring in ICU is a high-tech process, here it was done with humanity and care.  We were people, never bed numbers.  Even when they were speaking between themselves, we were always referred to by name, or occasionally “la señora”.  Never “Cama 8”.
 

Three of the nurses there during my two days in ICU had sisters or cousins working in the British NHS.  Trained at Spain’s expense, now helping save lives in the UK, all had reported uncertainty over their futures there since June 24th.  One had just bought a house and was scared as to what would happen if she were forced to leave.  One had been passed over for a permanent contract and was back on agency work.  Two had been asked why they hadn’t gone “home” (including one whose husband and three children are English).  Weakly, I apologised, but really, I had no words.
 

Wonderful friends formed a not-too-orderly queue to visit.  A charabanc came down from my street the first night, English and Spanish friends mingled at the bedside, thoughtful people brought books, magazines, puzzles, fruit, a rose, slippers, a toothbrush, and finally (thanks Leticia!) chocolate.
 

Two days on the “normal” ward and then the doctor came to give me “el alta”, permission to go home.  I thanked him profusely, the words spilling out, even though there were no words to say all that I wanted to say.

My neighbours collected me and whizzed me home to Colmenar.  It feels as though I am their new puppy – they feed me and take me for walks twice a day!  My friend next door went shopping and bought me supplies of healthy food.  My friend opposite made chicken soup and filled my saucepan.  Today my friend next door’s mother made me soup.  When I am with one of these kind and big-hearted women I assure her that her soup is the best I have ever tasted.  When I am with the other I am equally sincere.  If they ever ask me when they are together I will just have to kill myself.  Their magnificent care and delicious cookery could turn into that Christmas episode of “The Vicar of Dibley” where Geraldine has to eat four entire Christmas lunches to avoid offending anyone.

Today I went for my first proper circuit of the village.  It was time-consuming.  People I didn’t know were pressing my hands and wishing me well.  I’d had to give a bit of a speech at a village summer school thing a few weeks ago, since which more people have recognised me, but not I them.  But word was out that “la guiri” had had a heart attack, and the good wishes were overwhelming.  I thanked people, of course, but in truth I had no words.

 

My feet followed their usual route to the Enchanted Place.  There’s a view back to the village that never fails to make the heart swell.  This morning it almost burst.  Not with pain, or stress, or anything bad.  It just burst with love – for life, for my village, for the friends I have around me who care for me, and for the strangers who choose to work long hard hours in hospitals everywhere, just to be there when we need them.

 

It’s September.  Summer turns to autumn and so do I.  In our autumn years we must think about things like salt intake and cholesterol.  We carry a multitude of strips of pills wherever we go.  We check the app on the phone to make sure we have walked enough steps each day.  We compare brands of yoghurt to find the best balance between healthy and tasty.  We become aware that the body has its limits.  We move into that next season of our lives.
 

Never mind.  I’ve always loved autumn. 

Life is good.

©  Tamara  Essex  2016                                          http://www.twocampos.com

And finally the rain came.  Not enough, but it rained.  Across Andalucía farmers breathed a sigh of relief along with the bomberos (firefighters), the dryish leaves on my patio treeslifted their faces and cheered up a little, and everyone gratefully flung open all the doors and windows to allow the cool air into the houses.  I pottered outside for half an hour, moving plants to the centre so they would catch more of the precious drops, enjoying standing in the cool, gentle drizzle. It’s refreshing.

My neighbour Rafael is happy.  The almonds were all harvested, and now the rain is good for his forthcoming harvests of grapes and chestnuts, and during the winter the water will plump up the avocados that he relies on in March.  His almonds, filling the garage opposite my study, seemed to me to be a good crop.  But no farmer has ever admitted to a good crop … “Regular” replies Rafa, not too bad.

The rain refreshes the land and marks the beginning of the end of the summer.  It makes a quick trip to Cördoba possible (a stunning city, but completely unbearable in July and August), to catch up with another Rafa and try out a couple of new restaurants and a couple of old favourites.

But before escaping to Cördoba there’s an important administrative hurdle to be surmounted.  I needed to sign up for the new year at La Escuela Oficial de Idiomas.  Should be easy enough, as a returning student, but they have made it just about as difficult as they possibly could.  Even with reasonable Spanish it is almost impossible to follow the web instructions.  How beginners find their way through the maze, I do not know.

This is my third course at La Escuela Oficial de Idiomas and I was in B2.2 last year (the upper intermediate level).  Sadly, this is the highest level available in Spanish, though English and other levels are offered at C1 and C2.  So I didn’t take the exams in June, nor the re-takes in September, in order to be allowed to repeat the year.  The system therefore required that I wait till after the September exams before signing up for the forthcoming year.  But until a few days ago, the “system” kept everything secret.  Not a word on the EOI website.  Then suddenly the timetable for signing-up was released.  There would be a three-day window, during which we would have a list of administrative tasks to complete as only a Spanish state-run establishment could concoct.

First of all we would have to log onto the live section of the website to choose the days and times of our classes.  I say “choose”, although my course only has one option, unlike the students taking English, who have a dozen options.  But the rest of the process cannot be completed without this step.  Then there is the matriculation form.  Note for English speakers – in Spanish, you “matriculate” at the start of a course, not the end.  It means “sign up” rather than “graduate”.  Cue many confused Brits at reception being asked if they want to matriculate, saying “well yes, next year”, and being told to come back next year.

Then comes the payment.  Fill in another form online, which cleverly converts to a 3-page document to print out and take to the bank.  Pay 50.13€, get two copies back (stamped), and then start collating all the papers ready to be taken to the school.  The website said that all these documents would only be accessible online during the 3-day window, so it was obvious that thousands of students would be logging on at 10am – especially those with jobs, for example, who need to get a timetable that suits them.

Doing simultaneous WhatsApp chat with two Spanish friends and another Brit, we were all poised at our computers at 9.55am.  Internet connection checked.  Printer connected.  Copy of the instructions open in another tab.

9.57 – Try opening the webpage.  “La página abrirá a las diez”.  The page will open at 10am.

9.59 – Try again.  “La página abrirá …”  Yeah, alright, we know.

10.01 – Try again.  Page busy.

10.03 – Refresh.

10.05 – Refresh.

10.07 – Refresh.

I keep refreshing the page.  At 10.20 I go and make tea.  Refresh page.

At 10.30 we compare notes via WhatsApp.  A Spanish friend who REALLY needed her first choice of timings has got through and got the time she wanted.  Refresh page.

Finish the mug of tea.  Refresh page.

Another friend is still waiting and refreshing and waiting and refreshing.

Barely looking at the computer, I hit Refresh.  Suddenly the screen bursts into life and lets me through to the list of timetables.  I hit B2.2 and it offers … umm … just the one “option”.  I click on it, enter my ID number, and the printer spews out the precious confirmation form.

Rapidly on to the matriculation form and the bank forms.  All goes smoothly and I sprint down to the bank to pay and get the forms stamped.

Finally, I check the website for the detailed instructions for submitting the papers.  The EOI website has no fewer than SEVEN pages of instructions for this process, including one entire page covering how to staple the papers.  Clutching my carefully-stapled documents, checked and re-checked, all that is left is to drive down from Colmenar to Málaga, park at the school, and deliver the application.  The foyer is full of students looking for the rightbox, finding their compañeros from the previous year, and comparing date stamps on that timetable document.  “¡Mira!  Look at mine, I got it at 10.02” boasts one.  My teacher from last year grabs me for a bearhug, before a group of Spaniards studying English drag me off to the cafetería.

Back outside in the September sun students are milling around.  On the little lawn the sprinkler swivels and sprays us.

Nice.  Refreshing.

©  Tamara  Essex  2016                                          
 http://www.twocampos.com

She’s not at all an unpleasant woman.  Not as far as I’ve seen, and nor does anyone mention they’ve found her difficult.  A bit grumpy at times, but then this is not the life she had imagined.  Perhaps a bit judgemental, not really willing or able to see that nobody else wanted to be there either.  Doesn’t participate in group activities, seems to sneer slightly at the art and craft workshops.  But pleasant enough, a nice smile, easy to chat to.
 

So how can it be?  How can someone reach their sixties, and be completely alone in the world?  My innocent question as to whether she uses Facebook (as so many homeless people do), later seemed at best unthinking, at worst a tad callous.  Facebook, fundamentally is all about friends.  Keeping in touch, sharing photos, describing good days and bad days, communicating with friends.  I wanted to bite back the question, but it wastoo late.  Later, as we got to know each other a bit better, it slipped out – she has no friends.  Not one.  Not in the UK (she is British) nor in Spain, where she has lived for twenty years in a town not far from Málaga.  So no, she doesn’t use Facebook.  Facebook is not about you, it is about your friends and your networks and keeping in touch.

We walked seven kilometres together that day.  From the city homelessness shelter, in to the centre to visit a branch of her bank.  She hadn’t been there for years.  Not to her own branch, not to any branch.  The absence of any ID documents stalled us.  The bank could do nothing without a passport.  I bought her a bacon roll and a coffee and we planned thenext steps.   Clearly she needed to go to the British Consulate to organise a passport.  She looked a bit worried.  She seems a capable woman – up to a point.  I glanced at my watch.  “Shall we go now?” I offered.  We drained our coffee and set off back across to the other side of Málaga’s dry river.  The sat nav on my phone guided us there, until up on the first floor I had to hand it in nervously to security before we could go in.

Whether staff, like the wonderful team at RAÍS Fundación, working at the day centre beside the city-run shelter, or volunteers like me, the one thing we know is that there will always be things we don’t know.  There is a sort of reason she doesn’t have a passport.  Just as there is a sort of reason why she was on the streets.  There’s a sort of reason she never went to her bank.  There’s a sort of reason why she has not one single bit of official identification.  And, I suppose, there’s a sort of reason why she has no friends.  Some of the pieces of the jigsaw may become clearer, may fit into place.  But I suspect, like that jigsaw you buy at a charity shop, there will always be a couple of pieces missing, and the picture will never be complete.

So we do the bits we can, and we lean on the social workers at the shelter to do the bits for which they are responsible.  More importantly, we try to help the people in the shelter and the people on the street who come into the day centre, to see the bits that THEY can do, the parts of their lives that THEY can take charge of and be in the driving seat.  And most importantly of all, mostly, we do nothing more than be there, and listen, respectfully, giving dignity to people often treated as though they were less worthy of respect.

But we can’t truly give friendship.  Our role is different.  Friendship is one of the greatest gifts there is, because it is given freely, usually reciprocated, and provides a connection, a network, a safety, a comfort.  So many things.

So we nudge a few things forward, a couple of steps towards sorting her passport, which in turn should unblock the bank, which in turn should unlock her future.  I gave her a bar of soap, just a little hotel freebie, because she had said she didn’t have any.  She thanked me for being her friend.  I smiled but said nothing.  I’m not her friend, I’m her volunteer.  She has no friends, not anywhere.

Back at home I turn the phone back on.  It erupts with the usual hundred messages, WhatsApps and notifications that came in while it was turned off.  A friend arranges a cinema trip.  Another suggests lunch.  Then, in the street, a neighbour knocks with fresh eggs from her chicken.  Another shouts to me that she has just made coffee and asks me to go round.  Things we take for granted.

Homelessness.  Friendlessness.  Loneliness.  For most of us, it’s impossible to imagine.

Fortunately.

©  Tamara  Essex  2016                              http://www.twocampos.com