A Brief Encounter with the Spanish Medical Establishment

It’s been a strange weekend. My husband has contracted some mysterious virus, and I’ve been playing nurse and trying not to catch what the doctor called, “very contagious”. I will find out soon enough if I have it. It’s kind of like buying a lottery ticket and hoping your number doesn’t come up.

Let me back up. On Thursday, I was lugging the 900+ page tome Ulysses around Dublin, stopping occasionally to sink into plush oversized chairs in some cafe, and melting into the text for a few blissful hours. The key with Joyce is to relax your mind. It’s written mostly in stream of consciousness, and the effect is that you must inhabit the characters thoughts, to allow the quick impressions to wash over you. If you try to grab hold of any detail, you lose it, and the lighter your touch, the easier it is to hang onto the narrative.

At this point, my husband calls, and warns me that his “jaw is really swollen”. To be honest, I was groggy from reading and I didn’t think much of it. I just reassured him that it’s probably just a slight allergic reaction or swollen lymph nodes from an oncoming cold. He agreed. No big deal.

The next day I fly home to Madrid, and meet my husband in the street. As he approaches, I notice something different. My mouth drops open. My husband’s face is comically swollen, with a good 2 inches of bulging flesh on either side. He looks like a 500 lb man from the neck up. Oh My God. I touch the sides of his jaw, and there are hard golf ball sized lumps. I cringe. It’s hard not to internalize pain when your loved one is hurt. I feel icy pins in my body and suck in my breath. Baby, you are going to the hospital right now. I’m making a scene now–little old ladies are watching me. We are walking back to the house and you’re calling work and we are going. Are you on a deadline? Yes. Well too bad. They will have to deal. Is it really that bad? Honey, it’s horrible. I’m really nervous.

Later, we’re walking to the Clinica Universal, which is 2 blocks away. By now, my initial shock has worn off and we’re laughing because my husband is notoriously bad at medical self care. He avoids doctors like the plague. I wonder if that’s what he has. You’re never allowed to be alone! I know, he says.  We laugh. I researched online before we left and feared it was lymphoma, a type of cancer. My husband doesn’t know this, but I’ve always been afraid something horrible like this would happen. Still we’re laughing. Bubonic plague has similar symptoms. Hahahaha.

At the clinic, we’re plunged into a Spanish only world, where we don’t have the vocabulary to express ourselves. Swollen, jaw, lymph nodes, health insurance and so on. We find out that this clinic is privado. 300 euros to see a doctor. We asked the receptionist for another place, un hospital, si? After an hour of bad directions and phantom hospitals (no one has heard of the Hospital Princessa that the receptionist mentioned) we find the emergency room in Moncloa. They take our insurance. I translate for Drew. Why have you come here today. When is your birth date? Did you eat something? Go wait and we will call your name. When it comes time for Drew to go in, they tell me no family members. He’s whisked away. I learn later that his doctor spoke perfect English, so it was fine. 20 minutes later he texts me:

MUMPS. VERY CONTAGIOUS.

What!  Nobody gets mumps anymore.  It’s like finding out you have Small Pox or Polo.  They gave us a regiment of antibiotics and sent us home.  I think he’s been misdiagnosed.  My husband thinks this is hilarious.

It’s been 48 hours and the swelling is almost gone.  He’s been resting, and watching bad movies (Rambo IV, Blade 3 and 88 minutes).  And I’ve been cooking all of his favorite foods.  Whatever mysterious virus this is, the antibiotics worked.  But I’m still convinced it’s not mumps but more likely tonsillitis or some other infection.  I’ve made a mental note to schedule an appointment with his GP when we get home in a week.

My husband thinks that my misdiagnosis theory is ruining a perfectly good story.  How often can you site an obscure affliction during your travels?  Either way, I suspect he’ll still get plenty of mileage out of the How I Got Mumps in Madrid story for years to come…  and I’ll play my part, nodding, yes, he really did.