My first visit to Antigua introduced me to Guatemala’s contrasting beauty and the struggles of a sweet, resilient people. That weeklong mission trip challenged my spoiledness.
On January 9, 2024, my husband convinced me to return with him to Antigua, Guatemala for five weeks while he resumed Spanish classes. He’d traveled back and forth several times and wished I’d come along.
For months, I resisted his pleas to accompany him on a longer trip. Then one day his, “You can spend the day writing and the host family will spoil you,” sank in.
“Okay,” came out of my mouth. “I’ll try it once.” I planned to make progress on a Cozy Mystery novel while he was in class.
I reflected on this life-changing trip in journal format.
January 21
The day before our six-a.m. flight to DFW, I made these Apple Oatmeal my snacks, so I’d have something in my stomach. No added sugar and gluten-free. They were dry and kind of bland but came in handy on the trip and a few days after.
CLICK HERE for the original recipe on YouTube recipe using metric measurements.
January 22
Our morning started at 3:30, and we arrived in Guatemala City at four in the afternoon. Yay, for the snacks. It was a two-hour drive in traffic to reach Antigua.
January 23
It was a beautiful morning on our host family’s terrace. James left for school, and I found a perfect writing space. I had a clear view of both the dormant Volcan de Agua and the active, but calm, Volcan de Fuego. I sat at a round table with my laptop, but soon learned my terrace retreat was the family’s laundry area. A few minutes later, Fuego released a puff of smoke.
We enjoyed walking, enjoying the food, the park, and the people.
On the morning of January 26, I thought my husband shook me awake. I heard rattling and realized we’d experienced our first earthquake. The 5.7 shaking came from the coastal area several miles south of Antigua. We found a piece of tile on the floor of the bathroom but no other damage. Our unsettled nervous and slight dizzy feelings subsided and we carried on with our day, never feeling aftershocks.
January 29
Vacation plot twist!
I lost my footing on this narrow, jagged sidewalk. I remember reaching for my husband in front of me and calling his name. But my knee landed on a broken corner of concrete with a loud pop. Horrible pain prevented standing.
While my husband ran to find a Tuk Tuk driver, I fussed at God. “Where was my angel?” Then I realized—I only landed on my knee and not my chest, face, shoulder or arm. I stopped complaining and thanked God it wasn’t worse.
I had ruled out riding in a dangerous Tuk Tuk—but my husband flagged one down. I counted it as a blessing, but prayed for safety. The men stood me up, but I couldn’t even hop. Suddenly, my husband swooped me up like Superman and placed me in the back seat.
The driver carefully transported us to our family’s house for help. My husband propped me against a car and rushed inside. Our host’s daughter, Rosie, drove us to a trusted emergency clinic and my husband found a wheelchair. She had to park the car out of the way while my husband rolled me inside the crowed lobby. Rosie returned and translated the problem.
I used the travel documents on my phone for identification because I had left my passport in my room. We waited a moment for an X-ray, which was paid for at the time of service. Thankfully, they allowed credit cards. I was in extreme pain while they helped me up on the table. When finished, we filled out more paperwork.
The X-ray confirmed my kneecap broke and the admitting nurse said it required surgery. Then she said something about morphine. I nodded and said, “Yes, I want some of that.” She turned a confused look toward Rosie, who laughed and explained, “The surgeon’s name is Dr. Morfin.” We laughed at the ironic name.
They scheduled surgery for the next morning. I really wanted morphine by then. My husband wheeled me across the hall to a small private room. It had concrete walls painted dark teal on the bottom half and white at the top. The quilted golden bedspread and pillows added more shock as I wrestled with pain, fear, and disbelief.
Is this really happening?
I battled emotions—not wanting to add more worry to my husband. He was in shock, too. We had planned more sightseeing and activities. But recovering took priority. I had four weeks to bend my knee enough for the flight home.
Nurses came in with a gown and a bag for my street clothes. Once in the bed, I told my husband to go on back with the family, eat and get some rest so he can come back in the morning for my surgery. He reluctantly left and closed the door. Then I released tears and asked Daddy God for peace.
January 30
One of the worst nights of my life! The pain meds didn’t last long, and I’ve never been able to pee lying on a bedpan.
I dozed until an infant wailed unconsolably in the next room. It broke my heart, and I prayed for the family. When several adult voices spoke Spanish in loud, joyous voices, I realized the infant was a newborn. They celebrated for hours. I expected “bombas” any minute. Why would a hospital allow loud visitors? l thanked God for the new life, then asked him to send the family home.
The night shift nurses don’t speak English. One fussed at me for calling as she turned something off behind my bed. Then she rushed away before I could tell her the previous nurse gave this time for more pain meds. It was several hours before I called again. A nice nurse entered, and I remembered to use my translation app. Finally comfortable, I slept.
When my husband came in the morning, I told him about the wild night. He didn’t look rested, either.
When the anesthesiologist entered and spoke English, I rejoiced. She explained the need for an epidural to deaden my lower extremities. I panicked. I’d heard of women being paralyzed by epidurals and purposely had my three babies naturally with controlled breathing. Having one for this surgery made sense, but in a foreign country? With no other options, I asked God to calm my fears and protect me from injury. She said the surgery should only take thirty minutes, depending on what the surgeon finds.
The pain from the needle in my spine reinforced my belief in natural childbirth. Seconds later, the doctor walked in, and I drifted asleep. That is—until Spanish music played and a man sang along.
Curiosity stirred. I opened my eyes to the white ceiling. My surgery was still in progress. A shocking realization, but no pain. I was thankful for the shot and remained calm and amused. I heard drilling, hammering, and felt a few painless tugs before what sounded like a staple gun. A green barrier blocked my view of what the singing surgeon was doing.
I heard him say, “Oh, she’s awake,” before the singing ended.
The anesthesiologist told me the surgery took an hour and a half because Dr. Morfin pieced six cracks back together. Then the team lifted me to another bed and orderlies rolled me to my room. The epidural wore off and soon my leg pulsed. A nurse came in with a syringe of pain medicine and said I’d have more later. Then the surgeon entered and strapped a brace around my throbbing leg.
I dozed off in between visits with my husband and different friends.
January 31, 2024
I slept well, and the pain was better. I still hate bedpans. My breakfast was French toast, half of a plantain, and what I think was an oatmeal smoothie in a cup.
The surgeon came in and after looking at everything; he released me to finish recovering at our host family’s house! I had another X-ray before leaving.
Read my recovery story from the link below
phyllisastill.com 