Chapter 1: Surrendering to the Hot Nurse

Gabriela was the name of the hot Brazilian nurse, standing sculpturally by me in the bathroom. I rested on my knees. Mouth open. She spoke "cara, voce tem que ter coragem... vamos a fazer algo um pouquinho ruin mais tem que simplemente deixar isto feito oe mesmo e amanha tudo estara bem". In English this read close to: "brother, you have to have courage, we are about to perform a nasty intrusion and tomorrow you will be fine."

The medical procedure advanced. I was monopolizing the room for four that had been assigned to me, Joao Pedro [farmer from the North of Brazil who had some form of cancer his daughters did not want to disclose to me] and the two unoccupied beds. This was the Hospital das Clinicas, top ranked, massive clinical city, in the center of Sao Paolo. This was to be my new home for the coming weeks.

This is the largest public hospital in Latin America. In a country where more than 380million people flock to receive treatment. Unique doctors perform operations day in and night. The very department where I was "surgirized" performed more operations in a day than the comparable hospitals in Ecuador, where I am from. I was privileged to be there. Was told Brazilian doctors are pioneers in the field and their touch is second to none. I surrendered. Fully gave myself away.

The place was unique. Clean as hell. Pristine and shining old marble and tiles. The windows were wired and fenced as if one of us would dare scape this 8th floor hospital room. I was in lock-down. All for a cause that was not known.

Gabriela falaba with the people in the reception. I was by this point wearing the universally stale and light blue robe with a lovely opening in the behind. At least I was given pijama pants. My mother was not allowed in. Visiting hours had ended. The oesophagus scrub I was about to receive was meant to be my first date with lovely Gabi.

And so Gabi proceeded to introduce softly a large tube. Borderline 5cm in diameter, the tube went down my throat and starting pushing my upper stomach. Gagging started. Of course, this was meant to happen. I stupidly kept trying to show off my "pristine Portuguese" to Gabi and show all my "coragem." Courageous I was. Vomiting in between the introductions of some lemon water that shot in, stayed there for a bit, and then was shot out after Gaby moved the tube up and down. In and out. The scene was lovely. She must have been impressed.

After fifteen minutes of intense cleansing, it was proclaimed that I was free to stand up, have some water, and spit it out. X, your oesophagus is clean. We are done.

This moment officially and auspiciously marked the beginning and ending of two journeys. My body felt clean and I was able to tie well my light hospital hipster robe and go back to bed. Joao Pedro starred at me, smilingly. I reciprocated. The television was all white noise and he was blasting it in the hopes of hearing some coverage of the World Cup. It was off hours, the television did not work, him and I had been abandoned. No family member around. No nurse in the room. No other roommates. Only the night. The Brazilian night in a massive public hospital.

Joao Pedro looked at me. And asked questions. He became perplexed. On and off. He would ask frequently, "where are you from?" And then ask "was that your mother and your sister" When I replied yes, he said, they are beautiful. I agreed. He asked, you speak with a suntaqui that I do not understand. I explained patiently, of course me educated former investment banker from Spanish speaking Latin America, the patient privileged idiot, explained "Joao Pedro, eu seu de Ecuador". That did not ring a bell. Sounded like a part of Brazil he did not hear off before. I told him it was remote. There, at that moment, it indeed felt remote.

The night sunk in. The gratitude to be immersed in this process for some reason felt overwhelming. For months and months, I had been looking to retreat. To go into an experience where I had to pay nothing. To go into something without financing an ultimate motive. And I wanted, I craved, I needed the chance to be be cleansed. To be taken away and shown my humanity. To remove the velocity. And this felt like it.

My insides were just violated by the hot nurse. My eyes had watered as in every gagging movement. And I was told that for the coming 10 days I was to observe full fasting. No food. My stomach needed to be cleansed. The oesophagus was just a first start. After that, the Doctor had explained to me and my mother and my sister who flew with me, the patient, that the surgery would take place in that time span, 10-15 days, according to my cleansing. Once the surgery took place, I was to remain in scrutiny, under observation, and fasting. When my body showed signs of recover, I would be allowed to leave the hospital, go to the apartment we had sorted out for our stay, and the sooner I would leave Brazil would be a month or two after the operation. Lovely, I thought. You wanted cleansing, here you mother hellling go brother.

I surrendered to this process. But as usual, there were practicalities in my mind that first night.

First, I realised my mother and sister put their lives on hold. My father, steadfast, pillar, back in Ecuador, waiting. It was not fair to them. What a privilege and how powerful to realise I counted on these beings. On this unconditionality. I had to heal quickly for them. No other recourse. Absolutely no other. Heal by following every instruction. And do so quickly.

Second, I had irresponsibly been travelling before this. I had left Ecuador abruptly six months before and the time to heal was further constrained by the fact that I had left this operation to last minute. I had applied to Masters programmes two years and then deferred that acceptance by a year given the advent of the financial crisis. In that period, I felt supper human. The surgery had not mattered much while I was in a spiritual journey in India; exploring entrepreneurship opportunities in China; or working and volunteering in an orphanage in Northern Brazil. That night, I realised, I had less than 7 weeks to fast, get surgerized, heal, and be let out of Brazil only to go back, apply for a study Visa and make my way to my new Masters student life in London. Anxiety arose. Stupid me. Deep down, I only knew, there was no regret. I surrendered.

Third, weddings of dear ones where happening back at home. I was requested at the side of two brides. Women of the soul. They were to marry without me. For some reason, I felt integral to those ceremonies. I never thought I would miss those. Yet, I surrendered.

Surrendering proved efficient. I had nothing to complain about. Joao Pedro was the one who had it coming. He was the one in real need. He had been waiting for this surgery for years, I believe 4 overall. And his transplant had not been sorted out. He lived in extreme poverty and missed drinking. He drank a bit too much. That is what led him there, his daughters said to me. At some level, I could identify myself with that. I felt that my six year tenure in New York, veered to that often. A dear friend had died. Drink. I felt lonely. Drink. Life was fast. Drink. I had no time. Drink. And drink I did. And it was all financed. It was all paid for. The emotions were needed. The thrill was wanted. The escape was efficient. The hangovers, pre 27, are generous. It was only recently that I started realising how intoxified I felt. And thus, the need for cleansing. For surrendering.

Gabriela did not peak again into our room. We were left to our own devices. I felt asleep. Feeling as though I arrived into my new Ashram. My new healing place.

I am not and have had the luck of never have been a hospital animal. Hospitals are places I visited randomly. And luckily, for positive reasons. I had been there to carry my nieces. Perhaps clear, and definable "happiest moments in my life." I also was there to witness my cousin, her mother, her sister survive from a plane accident. But these women were touched with a zest for life that made those days filled with light. In spite of their burns, and them loosing their husband and incredible father, their smiles filled my heart with perpetual reverence and admiration. Hospitals, thanks to these moments, signified places for new, more eternal beginnings. And so I surrendered.

Until... and that is until the nurse visits starting happening hourly. No hot Gabi this time. But furious Gilma. Who did the rounds with a thermometer. Every visit felt like it was inserted up my bum, not my arm. Every visit started descending, and I gradually developed this sense of being cripple, and of being sick. But I did not feel so. I felt reluctant to think I was indeed there because my health was faltering, it felt as though it was for some other reason. But the hospital, wisely, started introducing me to reality. Helping me observe it, for what it was.

Me, at age 27 and thirteen months [I refused to think I was 28] was not invincible. This crazy condition somehow founds its way to me over a span of four years. And I had no other option but to be surgerized. "Bring it on," I thought. I do not think Gilma was impressed.