Neto’s Knee

It started when Neto was running to catch a bus to go home after work. His phone was in his pocket and fell out as he was climbing the steps. The bus took off while Neto was still climbing aboard. Just like that, the bus ran over Neto’s cell phone. What happened since then is a typical Mexican nightmare.

I learned that Neto no longer had a cell phone because he called me from a phone booth two days later. I knew something must be wrong when I didn’t hear from him. Usually he calls me twice a day.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called but the bus ran over my cell phone. Don’t worry. I get paid today. I’ll buy a new phone tomorrow.”

Weeks went by. Neto called me every couple of days from the same pay phone. He could only afford to talk for one minute.

Finally I said, “Do you need me to send you money to buy a new phone?”

“Yes, if you could, please. I ran out of propane and I had to spend my whole paycheck on gas and electricity.”

Here is where the story takes a bad turn for the worse. Some of you will shake your head and believe that Neto is just plagued with bad luck. But this is not a story about luck. It’s a story about life in Mexico, away from the sun and fun of tourists and the resorts.

Neto called to say thank you for sending him money to buy a new phone. Then I didn’t hear from him for five more days. I prayed that he was in jail. It was better than the alternatives.

Sure enough, five days later Neto called me. He was still calling from the same pay phone to tell me he had been in jail. When he went to the phone store to buy a new phone, he was approached by two Mexican policemen. They demanded to know where he had gotten the money to buy a new phone.

“My friend sent it to me from the U.S,” he told them.

“Prove it,” they said. “Or we’re taking you to jail.”

Neto knew they were asking for a bribe. But he didn’t have any money to pay them. He had just spent all the money he had to buy a new phone. So the policemen took him to jail. He left the phone in the store to be set up with a SIM card while he was away.

Without a phone, there was no way Neto could call anyone to ask for help. When he finally saw a judge and was released, Neto again called me from a pay phone. His knee, which was giving him trouble before he went to jail, was now so sore, he couldn’t walk.

Neto hobbled around on the bad knee for a week, not able to go to his job as a night watchman. When he went to a clinic, the doctor told Neto that he needed to have surgery immediately, or he would never walk again. He would never swim or surf. 

“They said I have a ruptured ligament in my knee,” Neto told me. 

Do I know that’s what was really wrong with Neto’s knee? I don’t know anything at all, except that I don’t trust Mexican doctors. Some people swear by the Mexican medical system. I don’t. Unless they have been trained in the U.S. I have no confidence that Mexican doctors know what that are doing. They just make stuff up and convince themselves it’s true.

Neto had surgery that same night. He still had no phone. There was no way for me to get in touch with him. I was frantic, bordering on hysteria.  By now I was praying that the doctors hadn’t cut off his leg. 

Neto was in the clinic for five days. Every couple of days someone would push him in a wheelchair out to the street, where he would call me from another pay phone. Sometimes the calls went through. Often the phone would disconnect as soon as I answered. He kept reassuring me that someone was going to go to the phone store and pick up his phone “tomorrow.”

This past Monday, i was getting worked up again. I hadn’t heard from Neto for days. I didn’t know if he was home or still in the surgery center. I found Neto’s friend, Publio, on Facebook and sent him a private message. I explained that I needed him to find Neto. Publio agreed to go right away.

This week I finally heard from Neto. He is at home and has a cell phone that he’s borrowing from someone. He still hopes to have his own phone “tomorrow.” Because it isn’t an iPhone, I can text Neto but I can’t call him. I’m happy that he is able to call me. 

Here is what Neto is telling me now:

• The doctor used a laser to fix his knee. Neto is in a lot of pain but the doctors tell him everything is going to be fine.
• He’s still using a wheelchair and won’t be able to walk “for a couple more weeks.” 
• He went back to the clinic Wednesday for a check-up. They gave him a shot of something in his ass. He went back yesterday for another shot and will have the final shot on Monday. He doesn’t know if the shot is for osteoporosis or for a yeast infection. Does Neto really need a shot of something every three days? Probably not. But Mexican doctors love to give shots and patients love to get them. They make everyone feel better
• I pray that Neto will eventually get his job back. I pray that he will surf again.

The moral of this story is this: Being a poor man in a poor country is a curse. That is true, wherever you are. It’s true in Mexico. Let’s not fool ourselves. It’s, likewise, true in the United States.