During our initial days in Yocón, we settled into a rented adobe house in the town center. It hadn’t been occupied for years, resulting in holes in the walls and floor from rainwater seeping through broken roof tiles. I was hesitant to rent it because of its poor condition, but James convinced me that it could be easily repaired. I arranged my belongings in a back room, while James and his family stayed in the rest of the house. As I began sweeping the dirt floor, a cloud of dust arose. Laughter echoed outside. James’s wife took the broom, sprinkled water, and showed me how to sweep only the debris, not the earth. The wall and floor holes could be patched with wet clay blobs and smoothed by hand. A special, soaked clay was applied to the walls, turning snow white or light blue when dry, depending on the clay used. By the end of the day, the house looked much cleaner and more livable.
On the second day, as I began unpacking the medical boxes, someone brought a child in with a machete cut on his arm. It was bleeding profusely, but when I applied pressure, it stopped, and the wound only required a bandage. There was a problem, however: James’s wife could not stand the sight of blood, and I realized that having the clinic in the house would not work. I asked James to ask around, and he found a neighbor who offered me a small room where I could set up my clinic. By the third day, everything was ready, and when I went to the clinic on the fourth day, three ladies were waiting for me. I believe I saw seven or eight more people that first day—nothing very serious; however, the gratitude of the people receiving a free examination and ten aspirin from a “western doctor” was exhilarating for me, especially after having spent several months feeling useless.
“¡Espera, por favor!” I heard a child call as I was about to close the door. I had no idea what he was saying, but as I turned, I saw a boy and a man following him, carrying an older child in his arms. I called for James and reopened the clinic so that the man could lay the boy down on the table. I could see that the child was very sick, so I took his temperature. It was 105 degrees. I immediately put cold towels on him and checked for appendicitis, but other than the fever, I could find nothing wrong with him. I told James to instruct them to put him to bed with only a light covering and to give him plenty of water through the night. “Find out where they live, and we will go to see him in the morning.”
James did as I instructed and helped the boy off the table. The boy was feeling better and went running back down the hill with his brother. The father, however, stayed and asked to have his Blood Pressure checked. I took it and found it within the normal range. “Tell him he is fine.”
“Y entonces, ¿puedo tomar una copa esta noche?” he inquired.
“What did he say?” I asked James.
“He wants to know if he can have a drink tonight?” he responded, jokingly.
“Tell him that a drink never hurt anyone,” I answered carelessly as I locked the clinic door.
I slept well that night, feeling that I had finally found a place to belong again after months of searching. I awoke to the sounds of hands rhythmically patting and of roosters crowing, which I didn’t understand until I smelled the tortillas roasting on the open fire stove. There was also a faint scent of pine trees, making it feel like Christmas.
“Let’s go see the boy with the high fever,” I told James after breakfast. I grabbed my medical bag, and we headed downhill toward the location they provided. As we neared, I saw the boy outside the house, which disappointed me since they hadn’t followed my instructions. “Please tell him to return to his room so I can examine him,” I requested, somewhat sternly.
I followed them into the house and was surprised to see pine needles spread over the floor and what looked like a coffin in the corner of the room. “What is this all about?” I asked.
“Their father died last night,” James explained.
“Well, if he was sick, why didn’t they come for me?” I asked, feeling suddenly unessential.
“He did, and you told him it was okay to have a drink, when all of the other doctors told him another drink would kill him because of his liver.”
I felt really bad about it and tried to apologize, but no one seemed to blame me for causing his death. Still, here was a mother and five children with no means of support, all because he trusted my advice. For the remainder of my time in Yocón, I employed her as my washing lady and assisted her children when I could.
Christmas was not celebrated the same way I was used to. They stayed up until late on Christmas Eve, shooting off fireworks and guns as the clock struck midnight, much the same as New Year’s. There was also a tradition of having close friends over for the evening meal, and every Christmas, I was invited to the family’s home as a special guest. On my first visit, I was given a large bowl of Dried Fish Soup, a delicacy that even the world’s best chef could not make edible. I thought it strange that no one else was eating the soup with me, but if this were tradition, I would go along with it. I nearly gagged, but forced it down and told their mother how much I enjoyed the meal. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.
For several years, I was invited to their house on Christmas Eve for the exact same meal, and each time I lied and said how much I enjoyed it. In the eighth year, however, I “accidentally” dropped a large piece of the fish to the floor, hoping the dog would eat it, but he didn’t, and when she noticed I had dropped it, she offered me another piece.
“I am sorry, but I lied,” I blurted out. I put the bowl down on the table and confessed. “The truth is I can’t stand it.”
The whole room broke out in laughter, “We were wondering why you liked it so much because none of us like it either.”
For the rest of my time in Honduras, I looked forward to celebrating Christmas Eve activities once more, free from the fear of that awful meal. I have stayed in touch with some of the children, now adults, who are thriving outside Honduras—in Spain, Canada, and the United States.