In Sickness and Health

I picked the chupon (pacifier) up off the floor and quickly shoved it back in my son’s mouth, while casually scanning the waiting area in front of our gate to see if my glance would be met with any disapproving eyes. Certainly, the five-second rule applied in a situation like this. If these fellow passengers only knew the filth we endured living in the capital city of a third world country, they would undoubtedly understand that my standards of hygiene had been knocked down a peg or two since leaving the United States some five years earlier.

It makes me shudder to think about the quantity of germs that my kids were exposed to in Venezuela during their most formative years. Like any large metropolis, Caracas exudes a toxic cocktail of dirt, foul odors, and viruses. I remember being ill most of my first year there as my body slowly became accustomed to all the new pathogens. Since the water that flowed from the faucets in our apartment was not potable, the simple act of washing fresh produce or brushing my teeth caused alarm. And during the spring drought when water rationing was routine, the tap water turned cloudy and brown. Imagine my horror when my young children made a habit of drinking their bath water! I wonder if that early practice kept them immune to stomach bugs and other illnesses today.

As the youngest of five children, I had to be near death to warrant a trip to the emergency room. My busy parents simply didn’t have the resources – financial or time – to make a fuss over every injury and illness. They were very practical and frugal, and our home was certainly a “no drama” zone. As a child, I don’t remember getting sick that often. I’ve never had allergies or been stung by a bee, and aside from an eye injury at the age of 7, I’ve never endured a hospital stay.

I do recall, though, that the summer following my high school graduation, I hurt my thumb while joking around with my boyfriend. After arriving home in so much pain, I begged my mother to take me to see a doctor, but seeing as it was “after hours” she assured me that I was fine. When I awoke the next morning with a swollen and throbbing digit, she urged me to go to my data entry job and work through the pain. “After all,” she said, “you don’t really use your left thumb when typing on a computer.” She figured that I could certainly muddle through and, like an obedient daughter, I tried to do just that. By quitting time, I was in agony and pleaded with my mother to take me to a doctor. Just hearing the diagnosis of a “clean fracture” was medicine enough for me. I milked the “I told you so’s” for the rest of that summer.

I suppose that my mother learned her tough love stance from her mother, who in my memory was a fearless woman. After all, she caught and killed bees with her bare hands. Grandma would berate us for crying over minor aches and pains, like the horrible sunburn I would get each year when vacationing at her home on Florida’s Gulf Coast. She would aggressively slather fresh aloe (thorns and all!) onto my blistered skin and scold me for flinching in pain. If I complained about her tugging on my tangled, knotted hair as she brushed it, she would hit me with the hairbrush and tell me to “hush up.” Legend had it that Grandma Maisch once stuck her scalp with a hatpin and left for church with blood streaming down her forehead. Ouch! She was not a cruel woman by any stretch of the imagination, but one who was short on pity and patience for the tearful.

Why is it that the simple application of a bandaid has a way of making a boo boo feel so much better?

Given my family history, I take a pretty no-nonsense approach to health and well-being in my own home. As long as there is no blood or broken bones, I figure that my kids can survive any ailment with a few loving caresses, healing kisses, and a hearty sip of water. Not unlike the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, who believed that Windex was a cure for everything that ails you – I tend to be calm in a crisis and certain that everything is going to be alright. The human body has the amazing ability to heal itself if we would just let it work its magic. During my world travels, however, I encountered a number of health myths and home remedies that were counter to my inherited, commonsensical view.

I encountered similarly puzzling wives’ tales in Venezuela as well. When my firstborn was just hours from being delivered, my mother-in-law informed me that it was recommended to wait at least 40 days postpartum before bathing because it could endanger my health. Furthermore, during this period of “stench,” as I imagined it, the new mother was expected to subsist on a diet of soup. “Qué?!” I asked and then proceeded to promptly take a shower as soon as I was able.

The next culture clash came when my son was a newborn. Among the disposable diapers, wipes, and burp clothes assembled in the nursery was a virtual buffet of food stuffs that my mother-in-law was convinced would keep my child clean and healthy. Gone were the handy baby wipes that I so cherished and in their place was a cup of chamomile tea, which she applied with cotton balls when cleaning my baby’s bottom. While it was meant to have a calming affect on his skin, this tepid tea seemed to prompt little Pete to urinate all over everything in the nursery. To make matters worse, his Venezuelan grandmother would then sprinkle my poor baby’s bottom with yucca flour to absorb any excess moisture in his diaper. Hadn’t she heard that P&G had invested millions in R&D to improve the absorbency of its Pampers line?

Yet another conflict occurred when my children wanted to play in the rain one afternoon despite protests from both family and friends. They reasoned that these gringo children would surely contract a horrible cold by morning from the soaking, but in the land of perpetual spring that is Caracas, I failed to understand the alarm over playing in the warm downpour. How was this any different than taking a shower in a steamy bathroom in Maracaibo and then stepping into a cold, air conditioned room to get dressed? This tropical city where my mother-in-law lives is considered one of the coldest places on earth because of the powerful AC and yet when visiting North Carolina in winter, she avoids washing her hair when sick because she is convinced that it will worsen her cold. If this were true, then the entire northern hemisphere would spend at least four months of the year sniffling and sneezing.

Whether you say “Salud,” “Gezundheit,” or “Bless You” – you subscribe to certain health practices that have most likely been passed down from generation to generation. Things can often get tricky, though, when crossing cultures and encountering different standards of cleanliness, perceptions of wellness, and kooky home remedies. As with any intercultural encounter, I urge the traveler to come with an open mind and an adventurous spirit. And when all else fails, you might try a spritz of Windex!