Just another day in paradise

So it was a school day like any other last Tuesday (Ashley was here for a 5 day visit, so I’m a wee bit behind in my blogging). I got to school and headed to my 8 am (BLEH) first grade class. It wasn’t terrible, but my right leg started bugging me a bit. This would be a good time to let the cat out of the bag. Since there are a few stories over the course of the next few days that are dependent on your knowing some facts, I’ll just go ahead and spill it.
I burned my right calf. On a motorcycle. Wearing shorts.
Yep, I’m the idiot gringa. Although, you’ll notice later that I’m not as much of an idiot as it might seem. Or else idiocy is popular in Mexico.
So the burn looked pretty much AWFUL. But it didn’t feel bad. As a matter of fact, the day it happened and the following day, I was fast and often with the Neosporin, and I think I saved myself a terrible injury.Tuesday, though, in hopes of keeping the wound clean from Mexican dirt as well as out of sight of, well, everyone, I caked it in Neosporin and put on my jeans. Off to school I went. I guess the irritation of almost constant contact with my jeans was more than I could handle. Mind you, I was tired and I had taught my very least favorite group of kiddos (oops, I think that’s unprofessional to admit), but my leg was really bugging. I went to the computer room between classes for a break (a minute or two), and Sandra was in there with Guille (6th grade). I asked them where a medical clinic was so I could stop on my way home. I had been in denial for the past two days about it and just thought I had miraculously cured myself with Neosporin. (Coming from the girl who gets Strep Throat annually, yet still refuses to go to the doctor, this is no surprise since my medical choices were all, well, Mexican. Call me a spade, but I was just a bit uneasy about the thought.) Sandra and Guille wanted to see the wound to help assess where I should go. I lifted my pant leg and there was a collective gasp. Sandra took me by the hand, drug me to the office where 1st grade registration was going on in a room the size of a decent walk in closet. She poked her head into the principal’s door and said that she would be taking me with her to the Red Cross and would be back shortly.
Love that woman.
Off we went.
We arrived at the Red Cross and Sandra did all the talking at the payment window. I paid my 30 pesos (about 2 bucks) and they gave me a cardboard number to wait my turn. Nice. They called my number (siete) and Sandra started walking me to the curación room (bandaging). The nurse stopped her. She explained that I was on an exchange and had no one, but Nurse No Way wouldn’t let her pass. It’s cool. I’m a big girl. I mean, I hate blood, needless, pain, and doctors’ offices, but I’m a big girl.
I went in, my nurse (There were two because it was one medium sized room for anyone who needed bandaging; forget privacy!) asked me to lie down face down, and she went to work cleaning and wrapping. She asked me when it had happened and said, “¿Moto, no?” She was the first of many to assume it was a moto accident.
She cleaned it, told me it was a superficial wound and had only tiny blisters (new word of the week: ampoyas), which she popped quickly, easily and painlessly with (I’m guessing since it took my by surprise) a sterilized needle. The bubbles were few and far between, and really small. Again, I was patting myself on the back for my quick first aid care. She made it seem like no big deal. I had a thousand questions. How to care for it, how long to wear a bandage around it, what to clean it with, etc.
When I walked out, Sandra asked a few questions and off we went. We stopped by her house to pick up some gauze (her sister is a nurse, so she had plenty) and pain reliever. And back to school we went.
At this point, I had missed my precious group of first graders and half of second grade. By the time you miss half of a class, it almost isn’t worth it. So I got myself ready for my post-recreo classes.
In both of my afternoon classes (I call it afternoon because it’s after recess, but it’s the 11-12:20 block), the kids asked me what was wrong with my leg (I still had my pant leg pulled up, exposing my bandage). When I would answer that I had burned myself, immediately they would say, “on a moto?” Then they would all have a story to share about their cousin’s uncle’s dog that burned his leg on a motorcycle. I felt a little better about my bout with moronia, but still was embarrassed every time I had to answer the dreaded question.
Wednesday was much the same, only I was rockin’ a skirt, so it was seriously evident that I had a wound. The bandage I had was a disposable one, so it was terrible quality. It was held up by tape and since it had a tendency to fall, I wanted to have easy access to it.