So the other night I stumbled upon this note I wrote in December of 2007, about two months after we first moved to Mexico City. That night, I wrote the note long after Brendan had gone to sleep, and I left it for him on the dining room table to read in the morning.
As I re-read it for the first time since writing it the other night, I started laughing hysterically, and ran out to show to Brendan.
“Remember this? Good times.” He started giggling, too.
If you can’t read my scrawl, it starts out romantically enough:
But quickly goes downhill.
“I am very ill right now. Wednesday morning, can you please do me several favors?
1) Don’t wake me if I’m somehow asleep.
2) Plz get me several Gatorades.
3) Can you ask co-workers about a doctor I can see ASAP?
4) At this point, I am too sick — shitting water every 10 minutes — to travel.”
The note basically says it all, don’t it? It was my second bout of food poisoning, and since then, I’ve suffered about three more incidences of it, each of varying severity. The note I wrote above was during a bad incident, but not the worst. The worst involved projectile vomiting before I could make it to the toilet, an injection of medicine into my flanks to stop the nausea, and severe dehydration.
Of course, Montezuma’s revenge is a frequent topic of discussion of Americans living here, from the practical (how to live through it without breaking down, mentally) to the philosophical (should it be accepted a fact of life here, or do Mexicans deserve to live with clean water, too?) Let’s just say, while there are many things I love about Mexico, and many other things I’ve learned to accept (like those obnoxious men who sell propane gas by shouting “Hay GAS!!!!!” up and down the street at 7 in the morning, or even the frequent earthquakes), the constant threat of food poisoning is not something I’ll ever learn to live with. Although it does make for a good laugh to find a note chronicling my nights of hell — many months after it happened.