The Reports of My Death Are Greatly Exaggerated!

Life down here has been quite pleasant. The house overlooks the 14th hole of the local golf course. Not being a golfer, I can only conjecture on the accuracy of the following events. The green appears to be in pretty good condition, the fairway is in fair condition, until it gradually fades out and turns to mostly dirt. The rest of the course consists of what I will refer to as “the rough”, which is where most of the balls go. It is a pleasure to watch the “golfers” tee off then spend the next 10 minutes scouring the rocks and bushes for their balls. Based on the success of finding your own ball in all the carnage, I am guessing that they end up finding someone else’s, decide that it is a better drive than theirs, and sneak it back onto the fairway. Unfortunately their house is out of ear shot, so I miss most of the colorful commentary.

One day we journeyed to Empalme, a nearby town, to do some quality shopping at the local flea market. Between the four of us, we had an extensive shopping list that no self respecting home owner should be without — a dustpan, cast iron skillet, binoculars, and a jig saw. We scored everything except the saw, so procured a few other unnecessary items to make up for it.


The following day we chartered a boat to do some deep-sea fishing. With an empty ice chest and a basket full of hope and good cheer we boarded the En Sueno. We were all like Ralphie in “A Christmas Story” waiting to see Santa, smiles plastered across our faces and knowing the fish would all but jump into the boat until our cooler could hold no more. The ocean was great, with waves just high enough to make for a cheap carnival ride, the sky blue, dolphins swimming along with the boat, and fish nowhere to be seen. We think we might have hooked a sailfish (pez vela), but the nasty booger just ate our bait and swam someplace else to digest. By the end of the day we departed En Sueno with happy memories, semi-established sea legs, and an empty ice chest.

The major incident, and thus the name for this segment of the blog, is my (Larry’s) near death experience. As some of you may know, 20 months ago I had open-heart surgery to replace some leaky valves. I literally went in for a valve job. Because of an abnormally slow heartbeat, I also had a pacemaker implanted to make sure my pulse rate never drops below 60. That said, now for the rest of the story.

I had been feeling a little tired lately, but thought it was all the snorkeling, shopping, and alcohol consumption. I laid down for a small power nap and was awakened by Anita saying, “you look like shit”, or something of that nature. I was laying in a pool of sweat unable to figure out where I was, so Sue immediately called the local EMT’s, to haul my ass to the Rescate, a community supported clinic. My sugar level had dropped to 43 (I think you become a zombie at 40) and my oxygen level was 81 (you become a zombie at 70). As soon as they hooked me up to oxygen I began improving. I was in the clinic for about two hours, on oxygen and an IV to replace the fluids I had left pooled in the sheets back at the house. The doc said everything that had just happened was all due to low oxygen levels. I am pretty sure his discharge orders were to no longer do any strenuous activities, such as cleaning and other household chores. One important thing to mention at this point is the quality of Mexico’s healthcare. Although it quite often takes days for workers to show up for scheduled appointments, it literally took five (5, cinco, half of 10) minutes for the ambulance to arrive at our doorstep. The care provided was quick and professional. The only drawback was the attending doctor was out shopping at Home Depot in Guaymas when he got the call, but was only minutes away from the clinic. The doctor, who spoke excellent English, and actually had a sense of humor, was not only a physician, but a surgeon as well, so he had a profound understanding of pacemakers and heart issues. He compared me to a ’49 Studebaker; old, still running, but hard to get spare parts for. The clinic has no billing guidelines, so you just give donations for services rendered, possibly live chickens, mothers-in-law, pesos, or whatnot.

5 thoughts on “The Reports of My Death Are Greatly Exaggerated!

  1. Forget Studebaker more like a Timex. Takes a lickin and keeps on ticking. Seriously, glad you are ok. How about everyone else besides scared and stressed?


    • We are all good. Larry saw the doc again this afternoon who told him his episode wasn’t life threatening, and to eat, drink and merry. We are helping him do so.


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