ENGLISH COURSEWORK
FICTION PIECE-JACK CHAMBERS
1st April 2009
I’d never been to Mexico before. The scorching sun and side winding streets charms are starting to overcome my slightly medieval preconceptions. This morning a staggered journey lead me into stumbling through a conversation with the aged fishmonger in the market, the very same foreboding market that daunted me to the point of fear some days ago.
Sammi seems just as excited as me. I can already hear the local accent enticing her heavy British tongue, and I’m currently watching her attempt to play football with the local orphans, as much to their amusement as it is mine.
None of this felt real until Sunday. Stepping off the plane felt like stepping off of a building. The raw, dolorous pain that engulfed me as I took the plunge into the unknown had lulled me into thinking the figures of Mexico City’s were elements of a nightmare. Ironic that weeks before I was using every and any paper-thin reason I could to persuade Sammi that this was the right idea. She eventually succumbed, love providing a stronger bond than reason. I still haven’t told her the real turning point that made me want to do this. I suppose I felt it better unsaid. My father is the true reason we’re here.
Throughout my last year at Cambridge he would constantly announce his “overwhelming sense of pride” at the fact that his son was following him into the world of medicine, at every opportunity he could grasp, then choke. Be it at a dinner party or during forced interaction over a supermarket till, he would unashamedly divulge into tales of me graduating and taking a place by his side controlling the NHS Cancer Commission.
One tenebrous, somber day, I found myself shackled to my father in an equally dreary university outfitter in search of a graduation gown. As my father browsed through the gowns and I browsed through the insides of my eyelids, the door swung open, quickly followed by the unmistakably exuberant cackle of Cambridge’s Vice Chancellor, Leszek Borysiewicz, or Professor Sir Leszek Borysiewicz for his full title.
Not only did my father work alongside Borysiewicz for many years, but also they have been close friends for a lifetime, and if anyone knew of my father’s dreams of family success, it was he. The laugh had ignited a flame in my father as he instantly dropped a gown like a child dropping a pen as the break time bell went. In the few seconds it took for my father to greet Borysiewicz, his eyes had erupted with sheer elation. He grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously, as men of honour do. He soon began to bombast of the ever-nearing, ever-repeating story of my graduation day, but this that day’s depiction was different. “I’m just glad my son has done all of this. We all knew he would’ve amounted to nothing if he hadn’t followed my footsteps”. I turned, sparks flying from my mouth. I had visions of myself storming from the shop enraged and allowing the confrontation to occur at home, but as I walked by, my father must’ve noticed the look in my eyes as he grabbed my be the wrist. I exploded. Abhorrence and revulsion began to pour like bile from my now boisterous throat. I lost track of my own onslaught of language, yet the words “How can you be proud when all I feel is malevolence?!” and “betrayal of my own will by being dragged into yours” stuck firmly in my mind for the remainder of the week. On the Friday I finally decided what I wanted to do. I booked a ticket for Mexico, and enrolled myself as an Aid Worker.
With hope in my heart,
William.
William failed to close his eyes for the entirety of that night. After finishing the journal entry, waves of remorse washed over him as he brood over the consequences of his actions. He told himself that he would not regret any of his doings, but as the waves became more merciless, he was only left with a sense of contrition.
After beginning their work at Hospital Angeles De Mexico, a well-known hospital in the centre of Mexico, William and Sammi focused on diagnosing symptoms in the young and elderly. They enjoyed their work; William wrote of their rapport with the locals, the festive meals, they even became relatively fluent in Spanish. William reluctantly wrote to his Father, to let him know of his gratifying relief. He would later wish he had written more.
On the 13th of April, William treated a 39 year-old woman suffering from seemed to be an abnormal case of pneumonia. William focused his energy on her, as he had become close friends with her family living in the area. He spent six hours searching for the source of the problem, tests and senior staff provided no answers.
She died later that day.
25th April 2009
Abelinda Chavez. She would pick us mangoes every morning before we went to the hospital. We never asked her, but we always thanked her. “Have a good day señor”. Every morning…“Have a good day señor”. Doesn’t seem right leaving without her voice resonating through my ears. I’ve started picking my own mangoes. Not just to remember Abelinda, but simply to remember a time before all this.
Abelinda’s death was a tragedy. She was too young. Whether it was more than pneumonia, I could not be sure, until now. Twenty more people have died, all suffering very similar symptoms, shortness of breath, low temperature, occasional vomiting. A few men died in the hospital. That, I can cope with. I knew I would encounter death in my time here; I was prepared, but not entirely. Yesterday a small girl was brought in with shortness of breath, low temperature and occasional vomiting. It broke me. No child should die like that, trapped in cold, desolate walls, surrounded by masked strangers poking and prodding away.
They’re calling it Swine Flu. Whispers of the gripe de cerdo have stalked the streets, only to be followed by fear.
