Salvadoran lunch

My morning at the free clinic ended on time this morning, giving me time to actually stop for lunch. I had heard about a new Salvadoran restaurant in the neighborhood, and ever since then I have had a hankering for that Central American food that is so simple tasty and a bit too greasy. I bounded over the snow drifts, looking down the street. Right next to the sign advertising "Deep massages -- American girls" was a little blue and white sign Salvadoran Restaurant. Despite the grungy facade with neighboring store fronts falling in on themselves, I was greeted by an impeccably clean, newly painted restaurant. The tables and floor were glistening. On the wall was a 20 foot long mural of a busy Salvadoran market. Juan Carlos bounded over to my table. "Don't I know you?" he asked me in Spanish?" It's possible I've been your doctor at some time I admitted, playing the odds. Oh, yes I had treated him in the past. I submitted the order and soon I had a plate of steaming pupusas, tamales, fried banana and yucca in front of me. Pupusas are made of masa, like the corn meal that is used for corn tortillas, but thick, moist and with a cheese and bean filling. They melt in your mouth. New immigrants bring some problems, but no one seems to recognize their hopeful, entrepreneurial spirit that brings new life to neighborhoods long ago abandoned to drugs and decay by Americans who have long ago fled to the suburbs and beyond.

Reality show?

Marta came in for her physical today at the free clinic. She left her children with their grandparents 8 years ago in order to come to the US to try to make enough money to support them. Since then she has been working in our town in a factory and sending a chunk of her income back every month. "Have you seen your children since then?," I asked. No, she's afraid she would not make it back in the country without any documents. But she does talk with them every few days. She's also been stressed because she finally decided to leave her abusive alcoholic husband. She's on her own now and feels stronger. She's happy that her children will have enough to make it. I can not imagine leaving one's children in order to help them. It's a calculation that the benefits will outweigh the anger and resentment those children feel of being left behind. But it's a calculus that is worked out every day by desperate parents who can not make it where they are. I don't expect to see a reality show about this very soon.

Toxic waste

Dinh, a Vietnamese father of 2 was in for vomiting and diarrhea. He was already improving after about 1 day of symptoms. I was nearly knocked over, though, when I entered the room. It was the strongest ripest diaper smell possible. My nurses usually impressed with my fortitude of ignoring unpleasant smells, but this was over the top. I looked around the room at the 2 and 3 year olds toddling around the room, and asked, "Does someone have a poopy diaper?" The man, barely functional in English, finally got the message. He looked into the diaper of little Tran. Oh, I guess she needs a change. "I have a stuffy nose so I couldn't smell anything, he explained." He changed the diaper in the bathroom and left the diaper in the trash there. Nursing drew straws for a toxic emergency swat team to remove the offending trash bag to the outdoor dumpster. After a few sprays of air freshener, and a laugh, we were back to normal operations. Several women I know have wondered out loud whether the 'Y' chromosome confers an ability to ignore all needs of the house and children. Now I can understand their comment!