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The Ballad of Lucia
The Ballad of Lucia
by squidflakes
Mon Aug 24, 2009 at 03:31:04 PM PDT
I work in a smallish office that nestled between another non-descript office building to the right, an apartment complex to the left, and a combination farm and workshop to the rear. For Houston this is a pretty normal configuration as mention of zoning laws gets you an odd look and shake of the head. However, that’s a diary for another time.
Working in this building, in addition to the normal office denizens, is a crew of six cleaning personnel who each put in about 10 hours a night at this building alone. Most of them also have day jobs, starting around 7am and they can expect to climb in to bed on the lower side of 2am. Of the six, none of them speak English well enough to hold a conversation and have to rely on instructions from their bilingual jefe. El Jefe it should be noted; who spends about thirty minutes on the job site and is home by 5:30 every afternoon. I know this because of a strange little coincidence that makes him my neighbor.
One of the members of this crew is a wonderfully cheerful woman who I’ll call Lucia. We’re six months apart in age (to the day) and our children eerily share birthdays. (The 14th on September for the boys, and the 14th of March for the girls, just different years) We’re both divorced (on the same date, same year) and our fathers are the same age. With such a build up of coincidence, I figure it was only natural that we started talking.
We’re both outgoing people, and while the language barrier is pretty steep I’ve decided that learning Spanish will have some benefits beyond causal flirting with the cleaning lady.
About a month an a half ago, Lucia’s usually cheerful disposition was clouded and I couldn’t figure out why. She said her back hurt, and rubbing it only seemed to make it worse. I suggested she go to the doctor but she just shook her head and continued vacuuming. I haven’t asked about her documentation status, as I honestly don’t care, but it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to say she’s here illegally. However, I care about her health and wanted her to see someone, no matter what the cost. She wouldn’t.
As time passed, she got worse and worse. She got to the point where she couldn’t stand up straight due to the pain, and while getting a soda from the machine I found her crying in the broom closet, unable to move. Her biggest fear wasn’t for her life or her health; it was that her jefe would find her and fire her for not working. My command of Spanish still being Plaza Sésamo, I really didn’t get what the consequences of her being fired would be, but I would imagine it would involve being stranded in the country with no money, no car, and nowhere to stay. Not an attractive option and I’m pretty sure that’s the stick El Jefe uses to keep his people in line.
At least in this particular situation, I could force matters a bit. I scooped her up and held her while I called an ambulance. I informed the dispatcher of the language problem and both EMTs who showed up were fluent, bilingual, and awesome. Later on, I visited her in the hospital to find out she had a massive infection in both kidneys and was being monitored for organ failure. If you’ve ever had a urinary tract or kidney infection, you know how much it hurts. Now, imagine working 16-18 hour days that involve a lot of lifting, bending, stooping, and walking for two weeks before getting any sort of medical treatment.
On top of this, there was no one who could pay her medical bills and no one to help with after-care. Not wanting to leave her in this position, I took up a collection at the office and was able to talk the hospital down from their original estimate of 38 thousand dollars to a slightly more manageable twelve thousand.
As of this moment, Lucia has just emptied my trash can and asked how I’m feeling. I’m usually a little tired by the time she makes it to my cube so my answers tend not to change. I respond and inquire about her, and she’s doing just fine.
For me, this is about as close to a happy ending as its going to get. My Spanish is improving slowly but still too slow for my own liking. I’m still about eight grand in the hole from picking up the hospital tab, but I’ve contacted some local pro-immigrant groups for help with that. My neighbor, El Jefe, thanked me one time but did it in such a way that made me want to hit him in the testicles with a rusty chainsaw. Simultaneously reducing Lucia to a piece of furniture and hinting that there were cheaper ways to score some sweet brown Mexican trim.
The events are still fresh in my mind, so I guess its not out of the ordinary that my thinking on the subject of illegal immigration and health care has been radically altered. I remember the times when I heard some stuffed shirt on TV talking about those filthy illegals cluttering up our Emergency Rooms and driving up prices and am ashamed that I once agreed. I would be willing to bet that there are a hundreds of thousands of Lucias employed by men like El Jefe who work for the wealthy and well-connected (and even the middle-class) as cooks, housekeepers, nannies, and entertainment who are in similar situations; letting their bodies be ravaged by easily treatable infections and diseases because of fear and this country’s insistence on denying basic human health services in the name of maximization of profit. I would also be willing to bet that more than a few of them weren’t rescued in time, and died alone, crying, miserable, in a closet in the world’s wealthiest nation.
What shames me more is that it took an event like this to open my eyes, and I don't know how to yell loud enough to make others pay attention.
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