The floral arrangement

In November, 2016, I left China and came to Mexico.  My introduction to my new life included a breather, a time out to regroup.  I immediately began a week-long retreat with my Canadian friend Jhampa Shaneman, and his students.  We were in the beautiful city of Morelia, at a countryside resort hotel.  There I met Rudy.

At the end of the retreat I planned to visit my friend Catherine, at Lake Chapala in Jalisco.  Jhamps was also going to Jalisco, and so we go by bus.  Rudy, however, over breakfast volunteered to drive us.  Extraordinary!  I came to learn that he is a semi-retired medical doctor, who admired Jhampa and just wanted some stimulating conversation.  He agreed that when I returned to Durango, he would meet me at the airport.  He offered his home for a brief visit.

Rudy and his wife turned out to be two classy people.   Rudy still had his private practice, though he had given up his University gig.  His wife was very active in a group of ladies who were in a guild and focused on helping underprivileged women.

I grew very fond of them.  Unfortunately, I was not a very good guest.  Still, they suffered me when I returned in June for eye surgery; they put me up for pre and post-surgery days.  I was living at the time out in the countryside, in the Luz de Compasion compound in Pozole.

At the time I was painfully aware that I had a duty as a guest to bring hostess gifts.  This is a skill I am woefully bad at.  There seemed no grace to my state as a guest.  I could not regulate my schedule to theirs.  I would eat at noon, as is my custom, only to find that at 2 pm the servant would prepare a meal for them.  It took me a while to realize this was not random.  I longed to think of what I could do to show them my appreciation.

For months I have been thinking that when I returned to Durango, flush with the sale of the Florida house, I would buy a huge flower arrangement for Rudy and his wife.  I finally got to do that Monday, late in the day.  I got a call from the florist, saying it could not be delivered.  No one was home. 

I picked up the bouquet and drove to the house.  I saw that both cars were in the garage, and a white car was parked at the curb by their door.  I surmised they had taken a plane trip.

Salvo, their large schnauzer, was roused after I rang the bell.  I spoke with him some through the barriers, until he went up to the roof so we could talk.  I stood in the street and we had a happy reunion, but mostly he wanted me to take him with me.  I couldn’t believe they would leave him alone, but what else could they do.  No doubt someone came to add to his kibble bowl.  There was enough rain falling each day to fill his water bowl naturally.  He was used to peeing and pooping on the roof; that was not different.  But I wondered how often he got to go outside.  His usual routine would be to go out early every morning and check out the neighborhood, going far down to the corner on a regular route of his own, to meet and greet, to sniff and suss.  He was crying in distress, and I felt so helpless.

I put the bouquet in my car and brought it to my tiny room at the motel.  When I occupied the room initially it held the overpowering smell of camphor.  I removed the camphor from the toilet bowl and put it outside.  The dominating smell then was from the bouquet.  Knowing I wouldn’t keep the bouquet there, I also bought an air freshener for use in subsequent days.

On Monday I drove by Dr. Carrillo’s office, before seeking out the florist.  Dr. Carillo was just pulling up as I was leaving, I having made an appointment for the following day.  He came to my car, saying oh what a miracle, Rudy said he hadn’t heard from you.  Gee, it would have been nice if at that moment he had gossiped just a tad and mentioned that oh, by the way have you heard they are on a trip to the Vatican?

I only learned that tidbit on Tuesday, when I arrived for the appointment.  By then I had spent a large chunk of change on a gorgeous and fragrant bouquet.  I told him that I would bring it to his office, so that he and his patients could enjoy it.  He said oh no, no, no need, don’t do that.  I said well then, would you prefer I threw the arrangement in the garbage?  My tiny room is too small, it overwhelms the room.

Gosh, I can’t imagine myself ever spending that kind of money just to have a nice bouquet in my recluse’s home.

This eye clinic is on a very short one-way street on a hill, with extremely limited parking.  Earlier that same day, planning for a 12 o’clock appointment, I left my house at 11:15 to make sure I found it okay.  I got lost again on the way, got into traffic, and when I thought I was minutes away I hopped into a shop to get a gordito to go.  But still I arrived just minutes before 12 noon.  There was no parking space.  He keeps one space in front of the clinic marked clearly for his clinic only; it was occupied, although the office was empty of patients.  I parked behind that car, in a driveway clearly marked for no parking.  The receptionist came out and said I had to move.

Fifteen minutes later I returned to the office, out of breath.  The receptionist tried to usher me into the office, but there was an elderly lady sitting there waiting for her 12:15.  I insisted that she go, not wanting to appear like the pushy American. 

Eventually I saw Dr. Carrillo.  He looked into the eye and pronounced it sound.  Apparently, he did not see the folds that the other ophthalmologists had seen.  He recommended ending the medication.

I felt a little puzzled by this, but perhaps I have been focusing too much on the eye and imagining the pains that I’ve been feeling.  So we are off the drops.  The last time I tried that, just about three weeks ago now, my eye turned deep red and light hurt like a knife through the brain. [two days later:  sans medicine, the eye is once again red and painful.  It is evening now; in the morning I expect pain upon seeing the sun]

I caught him up a bit on my travels, anchored by visits to ophthalmologists.  Then I finally enquired about Dr. Rudy and his wife.  That is when I learned they were on a trip to Europe.  Dr. Carrillo could not say how long they would be away.  So I told him he must enjoy the flowers in their stead.

As I left the doctor’s office I said to the receptionist, please doni’t leave until I get back.  I knew she had a penitent for keeping her hours to the absolute minimum. I don’t know what her deal is, no doubt it works for the doctor, but it has caught me up short a few times.  So I purposely said, please don’t leave!  I’ll be back right away.

Well, of course I got totally lost on the way home. I found myself on a new very wide connector road, it didn’t match the map, and I was utterly lost.  I pulled over to the side of the road, tears of frustration streaming down my face, the large map I had just bought stretched across the wheel.  I heard a tap tap on my window.  A very nice man, who reminded me a bit of a young Uncle Tony (Dad’s brother), smiled and said hello.  He had obviously noticed my Florida plates, and wanted to be of assistance.  It turns out that I was on a new road, the 3-year old map was inaccurate.  He handled my teary story with class, and helped me back on my way.

I finally found the motel, grabbed the flowers and headed back to the doctor’s office. 

By this time I knew by heart the direct route to the doctor’s office; I was unthwarted by the jumble of one-way streets. 

The car that had been parked outside the clinic, in the parking spot clearly marked reserved for the clinic, was still parked there.  Without hesitation I parked in front of a garage.  At the top of the hill I saw what looked like a homeless guy waving his arms and screaming at me, No! No! No!  I ignored the madman.  I was still in my car getting ready to open the door.  He banged on my window!  I, still in my Zoloft-deprived state, fierce face swollen from the recent tears of frustration, banged back at him.

I carefully lifted the flower arrangement out of the back seat, noting signs of wilting, a rose petal fluttering down.  I tried the door of the office.  It was locked!  I set the flowers right down at the entrance, and left it.  If it stayed there all night, if the crazy man came back and helped himself, it was no concern of mine.  I was done with this good deed.

As I pulled away from the curb, it occurred to me that perhaps this homeless-looking guy was actually employed by the homeowners on that hill to protect their garage entrances from cars like mine.

Once back home, I tried the office number.  It was hooked up for fax reception.  I could not leave a message.

I called again the next day, asking if they enjoyed the flowers.  The receptionist smiled an affirmative.  They were received, I did not ask at what hour.