I had an UTI in Sinaloa.
While this is certainly true, I’m pretty sure the only thing a UTI and the state of Sinaloa have in common is that they are both scary.
At first, I wasn’t quite sure about the UTI part.
I think the last time I felt the majorly unpleasant sensation was over to 30 years ago — interestingly enough, also on a long road trip — so I had to go back in my memory before assessing that yup, that was it — and it wasn’t not going to get better on its own.
Being me, I immediately wanted to take a hot bath but because I have only seen one bath tub since moving to Mexico, I knew that wasn’t a likely option. A hot shower would be my next best hope and having just checked out of the motel, we were told that we would have to pay for another night if we wanted our room key back.
I didn’t like that idea, especially since I knew that while the hot water would relax me, it would not heal what ailed me — and was ailing me more by the second.
Pharmacy. We must find a pharmacy.
Which we did.
I walked in and asked for medicine, learning a whole new batch of Spanish vocabulary in the process. Something to cure this and something to take away the pain while I waited for the relief to arrive. I was handed two small boxes of pills and popped a dose before getting to the car.
It was getting bad.
Stopping to get a juice, I searched on my phone and learned that while the meds I had been given would help, they would not cure the infection.
I needed antibiotics.
Other pharmacy.
This time I asked for antibiotics using my fancy new vocabulary about what-was-wrong-with-me. I also did a little dance to emphasize how uncomfortable I was and the nice señora behind the counter graced me with a sisterly wince. Then she told me that she could only give me antibiotics with a prescription, which needed to be written by a doctor.
A doctor.
My mood sank.
We were about 20 hours from home with a big chunk of desert to cross. I didn’t know anyone in this whole darn state, nor the next, who could write me a prescription. How would…
